“Let her go?”

“You cannot kill her. You cannot keep her. So we send her back to the Queen of the Hill Lands with our kind regrets.”

“And that’s it?” Sprenger bellowed. “We don’t even punish her?”

“For what?” Bartholemew wanted to know. “Following the orders of the grand master?”

“Maybe that’s what she did then,” Brother Peters interjected, “but what about now?”

“What about now?” Thomassin asked, unable to keep the aggravation out of his tone. Peters was one of Sprenger’s supporters. He’d always liked “that boy’s connections.”

“She’s been gone two years with no word to anyone. And when she does return, she does not wear her tunic and comes in the company of Amichais and a drunken cousin. She’s no longer one of us. She’s a princess now, as Brother Thomassin kindly pointed out, and the sister of two queens.” His smile was like that of a pleased lizard sitting in the sand. “Strip her of her title and rank among our order. That way you take her power but you won’t make her a martyr. Instead, Grand Master, you make her a cautionary tale for the trainees.”

“Wait.” Thomassin shook his head. “We’re going to punish her because she’s traveling with Amichais—a tribe we have no disagreement with—and a cousin who likes to drink too much ale?”

Sprenger’s laugh was loud. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

* * *

Ainsley had just nodded off when she heard the snort of a horse. By the time she was fully awake, her bow was already in her hands, an arrow nocked, the bowstring pulled, and before she could stop herself . . . she let the arrow fly.

She was about to call out a warning when the rider turned and an arrow was released, slicing through Ainsley’s arrow with ease. Ainsley had only a split second to react and roll out of the way. The metal head of the arrow sliced her cheek open just as she rolled off the branch, out of the tree, and she hit the ground hard.

As she tried to get her breath back, her opponent’s horse slowly walked up to her. The blunt end of a spear jammed her shoulder, pushing her over.

The woman monk staring down at her sighed. “We’re not taking recruits, child. And even if we were, this is not the way to apply.”

“Not . . . recruit . . .” Ainsley panted out. “Wait . . . ing.”

“Waiting? For who?”

“Gemma.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the monk said with a massive eyeroll. “I should have known.”

She slipped the spear back into a holster attached to the horse’s saddle.

“What’s your name?” the monk demanded.

“Ainsley,” she got out in one breath. “My name’s Ainsley.”

“How long have you been out here?”

“Few hours.”

“Are you sure? You smell like you’ve been out here for days.”

“We’ve been on the road for days.”

“This way.” The monk gestured. “You need a bath and I need to treat that wound.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Listen to me, little girl. You can stay here and hide in your tree. But if there’s one thing lonely packs of men that have been riding for weeks can sniff out . . . it’s a young girl. Especially one that hasn’t bathed for a while. And if you don’t treat that wound, you’ll be too weak to fight them off. So you can let me help you, or you can sit here and wait to be a victim. Your choice.”

Ainsley watched the woman ride off, her eyes wide. What kind of thing was that to say to . . . well . . . anyone? But horrified that the monk might be speaking the truth—a female soldier would know that sort of thing, wouldn’t she?—Ainsley ran after her and her horse.

* * *

Gemma had just fallen into a fitful sleep when a hand slapped over her mouth. She had her thumbs against her attacker’s eyes before she realized that it was Brother Thomassin. Thankfully she hadn’t continued to shove her thumbs forward. That would not have ended well for either of them.

Throwing her arms around Thomassin’s shoulders, she hugged the older monk tight.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she whispered.

He pulled away from her and placed his forefinger against his lips. He motioned with a wave of his hand and she watched him climb onto her desk and easily haul himself into a small opening in the stone ceiling. She frowned at the ease with which he disappeared inside, but decided not to think too much on it. She just hoped she still moved like that when she was his age.

Gemma followed him through the narrow air shaft until they landed in a room she had never seen before. It took her a few seconds to realize they were in some part of the library. The most important part of any monastery. Even for war monks.

Once inside, she was happy to see Brothers Bartholemew and Brín. She hugged them both.

“I thought I’d never see any of you again.”

“We don’t have much time, Gemma,” Thomassin told her.

“They’re coming to execute me, aren’t they?”

The brothers frowned.

“No, silly girl,” Thomassin corrected. “We’re just tired and need to sleep. We’re old men.”

“Oh.”

“But I doubt we’ll get a chance to talk to you again before you meet with Sprenger.”

“He poisoned him, didn’t he? Or tricked him. That’s how he defeated Joshua.”

“Sprenger was always a good fighter. You just never wanted to believe it,” Bartholemew reminded her.

“I beat him. Even before I was trained.”

“He expected no resistance from you that night. You were a sixteen-year-old peasant girl—”

“I was not a peasant.”

“—alone in the stables. The last thing he expected from you was a fight. If he had, things might have been different.”

“They might be different now,” Thomassin said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means let us handle this, Gemma.”

“You’re going to let him get away with this, aren’t you?”

“Gemma—”

“You’re going to let him stay in power,” she accused. “You’re going to let him and his marauding penis terrorize this monastery once more! Well, I won’t have it!”

Thomassin blew out a breath and looked at Brín, who immediately looked at Bartholemew.

“What?” Gemma asked. Then she guessed, “You’re all planning to kill me now.”

The three monks gawked at her until Thomassin admitted, “You are the most paranoid person I’ve ever known . . . and I’ve known kings. Several. But you’re more paranoid than any of them. How is that possible?”

“We’re not going to kill you,” Bartholemew said. “Why would we kill you?”

“Because I won’t fold to your persuasive tactics?” she weakly guessed.

“That’s something.”

After moving a stack of books and scrolls, Thomassin sat down on a chair. “Gemma, no one is planning to kill you. But there’s a lot going on.”

“Tell me. I want to help.”

“You can help by doing what we need you to do.”

“By letting Sprenger remain grand master?”

“It won’t last. Trust me. But you have to play your part.”

“And then?”

Thomassin glanced at his fellow elders. “The gods will do the rest.”

Gemma threw up her hands. “Are you seriously expecting the gods to help us out of this? Seriously?”

“How did you manage to get through training?” Bartholemew asked. “Joshua couldn’t have protected you that much.”

She shrugged. “I mostly got hit a lot.”

The elders nodded in agreement and Brín patted her shoulder. “That makes so much sense.”

* * *

After what turned out to be a bath in a nearby lake that she’d needed more than she realized, Ainsley put on fresh clothes from her saddlebags. The war monk sat on a log a few feet away from the lake. She’d built a very small fire and already had equipment out so she could work on Ainsley’s wound.

“Sit,” she ordered, motioning to another log.

Ainsley moved cautiously toward her until the woman finally reminded her, “I could have killed you in the tree. Or when you’d fallen out of it. Now sit down.”

She dropped onto the log. The monk grabbed her by the chin and turned her face so she could get a look at her cheek.

While watching her pull things out to tend to the wound, Ainsley asked, “How did you move so fast? With your bow, I mean.”

“Training.”

“I thought I was fast.”

“You are. But with training, you could be faster.”

“Faster than you?”

The monk glanced at her. “In time.”

“You know my sister.”

“Yes.”

“Do you like her?”

“I don’t like anyone.” She wet a cloth with liquid from a small bottle and began to wipe it on Ainsley’s cheek. It stung but Ainsley gritted her teeth against the pain. Then it burned, but still she gritted her teeth. She did let out a grunt, though, when the burning turned sharp and her eyes began to tear. But, just as abruptly, the pain stopped.

Able to speak again without screaming, Ainsley asked, “If you don’t like anyone, why are you helping me?”

“I’m a monk.”

“A war monk. It’s not like you help the poor.”

“War monks help the poor by destroying those who exploit them.”

“Yes, I’m sure wiping out whole villages helps the poor who live in them.”

The monk leaned back. “Do you want me to sew up your face or would you rather I let it get infected and ooze?”