The Princess Knight (The Scarred Earth Saga Book 2) Read online

  Also by G.A. Aiken

  The Dragon Kin series:

  Dragon Actually

  About a Dragon

  What a Dragon Should Know

  Last Dragon Standing

  The Dragon Who Loved Me

  How to Drive a Dragon Crazy

  Light My Fire

  Bring the Heat

  Can’t Get Enough (ebook novella)

  Dragon on Top (ebook novella)

  The Scarred Earth series:

  The Blacksmith Queen

  THE PRINCESS KNIGHT

  G. A. AIKEN

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  PART 1

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  EPILOGUE

  Teaser chapter

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by G.A. Aiken

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2127-3 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2127-6 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2125-9

  PART 1

  PROLOGUE

  As soon as Brother Gemma led her platoon of monk-knights into the monastery courtyard of the Order of Righteous Valor, she knew she was in for some horseshit.

  Not hard to figure out. When one was part of a brotherhood of vicious, violent, and war god–loving warriors, one learned to sense when the winds of change had shifted.

  She stopped her horse in the middle of the courtyard and examined the area. Her squire, Samuel, stopped next to her.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Is there something I should be panicking about? I’m very good at panicking.”

  She already realized that, but at least the boy knew himself well.

  “I don’t think there’s a reason to panic.” At least not yet.

  She dismounted from her horse and handed the reins to Samuel.

  “Dagger did well, didn’t he?” the boy asked, petting her horse’s muzzle.

  Gemma had been forced to replace her beloved mare just two months back. She still missed Kriegszorn, but Dagger had proven his worth in battle.

  “Dagger has done very well. Your suggestion was a good one.”

  “Thank you, Brother.”

  The small, tentative smile on Samuel’s face suddenly faded and Gemma knew that, yes, those winds of change had definitely shifted.

  She turned and saw Master Sergeant Alesandro walking up to her.

  “Brother Gemma.”

  “Brother Alesandro.”

  “Your presence has been requested in the Chamber of Valor.”

  “Why?”

  It amused her to see Alesandro’s left eye twitch simply because she insisted on asking “why.” That’s why she asked “why.” Just to watch that left eye twitch.

  “Because it’s an order,” he told her.

  “But you said request. A request is not an order. An order is an order. A request is more of an option, so I ask why to find out if it’s something I really want to do. And quite honestly it’s—”

  “Brother Gemma!”

  Gemma blinked. Twice. “Yes, sir?”

  He pointed at the monastery.

  “So it is an order? Fair enough.”

  She faced Samuel. “Bed down Dagger for the night, would you, Samuel?”

  “Of course, Brother.”

  She gave him a wink so he wouldn’t worry—even though she knew he would anyway—and headed toward the monastery.

  Alesandro followed right behind, which didn’t concern her. He always acted as if she was about to make a wild run for it. He seemed to continually expect the worst from her. She wasn’t quite sure why, other than he simply didn’t like her. But that was his choice. She knew that not everyone was going to like her. She was fine with that. She was a war monk. She rode into battle and cut down her enemies without a thought. She and the platoon she led had just cut down an entire band of thieves that had been attacking undefended villages. She still had blood on her face and hands. With that going on in the world, why would she care if the master sergeant of her monastery liked her or not? She was more concerned about whether she’d managed to keep her knights alive.

  She had. What else mattered?

  They arrived at the Chamber of Valor, one of their most important rooms in the monastery, and Gemma walked in. She immediately assessed what she saw before her.

  Grand elders were in attendance. Monks who worked directly with the grand master of their order on important decisions. Also waiting were her three battle-cohorts, Katla, Kir, and Shona. Bound together from day one, the four of them had trained together since they were novitiates, had experienced their first battles together, had risen through the ranks together, and to this day were as close as four people could be after washing pieces of their enemy’s brains out of one another’s hair.

  Last of those awaiting Gemma’s arrival were several generals, including the dreaded Lady Ragna. The monk-knights called her “Lady” Ragna because she was not a lady and they all hated her. Not exactly a joke that played well but few cared. Whenever the woman walked by, the area cleared like rats running from a burning forest. The only ones who didn’t run were the monk-knights chosen for Ragna’s army. She had her own legion, used only when called upon by the grand master and elders.

  And then there was Brother Sprenger and a few of his minions. Sprenger hated Gemma, so she was surprised to see him here. Unless he had another complaint to lodge against her. Over the years, he’d had quite a few of those. So many she barely noticed them anymore. They came in scrolls and she had to listen while a general informed her of what she’d done wrong. When it was over, she’d put the scroll in a box. One day she planned to piss on that box, but not yet. She wanted something substantial to piss on. A real tower of piss-scrolls.

  Gemma took her place beside her battle-cohorts, bracing her legs apart, clasping her hands behind her back. She waited while one of the generals began to
drone on about . . . something. She honestly wasn’t paying attention. Life was too short to be this bored.

  Finally, after a good thirty minutes—she hadn’t even had a bath yet! Did they not see she’d just come back from another hard-won battle? Couldn’t all this have waited until she had gotten the blood of her enemies out of her hair? It was so damn sticky! She wanted nothing more than to scratch her scalp with both hands!—the general got to the point.

  “On this day, we brothers are here to advance you cohorts from lieutenants to majors and to grant upon you all the benefits that accompany said advancement.”

  Huh. Look at that. She was getting a promotion. That was nice.

  “Please, Brother Shona, Brother Kir, Brother Gemma, and Brother Katla, repeat after me—”

  “Wait!” a voice rang out.

  Brother Thomassin, an elder, looked up from the important missives he’d been reading during this whole boring ordeal. “Brother Sprenger?”

  Sprenger walked into the center of the chamber and stood there a moment for maximum effect before announcing, “I refuse to sanction this advancement for Brother Gemma.”

  Thomassin stood so fast, his chair skidded back, nearly knocking out his poor assistant, which was actually kind of funny because the man was six-five and nearly three hundred pounds. He’d fought in more wars than Gemma could count. But then so had Thomassin.

  Gemma’s battle-cohorts didn’t hide their annoyance either. They dropped their proper “listening to their superiors” poses and stood ready to argue with anyone and everyone.

  The only one who didn’t react much was Ragna. Although she did smirk. The bitch.

  “She is not ready for such an advancement and if you insist on this course,” Sprenger continued, “I will be forced to take this to the grand master.”

  “Excellent,” Thomassin shot back. “Why don’t we all take it to the grand master this very minute? I’m sure he’d love to hear your reasons as to why—”

  “It’s okay.”

  The brothers stopped arguing and everyone focused on her.

  “What was that, Brother Gemma?” Thomassin asked.

  “I said it’s okay, Brother Thomassin.” She shrugged. “I’ll wait until next time.”

  “No,” Katla pushed. “You will not wait until next time. We all go now or we all wait—”

  “Do not get hysterical.”

  “I am not hysterical. I’m pissed.”

  “If you don’t get the rank now,” Shona reminded her, “you’ll have to wait another five years before you’ll be eligible again.”

  Gemma shrugged. “Those are the rules.”

  “How are you okay with this?” Kir asked. “I’m not okay with this.”

  “But I am okay with it.” And she really was. Of course, the reason she was okay with it was because—

  “How is that possible?” Sprenger asked, now standing right in front of her, leaning in close to ask her the question. “Are you plotting something?”

  That was such a weird, insane question. “Plotting what? What is there to plot?”

  “Your battle-cohorts will be advancing. You will not.”

  “And yet . . . life goes on. Amazing, isn’t it? For example, we had this pig—”

  “Pig?”

  “Yes. And Daddy loved that pig. He didn’t think he’d ever get over the death of it. But the pig had piglets. And soon, he had to go on. Because there were piglets to take care of. You see?”

  Gemma let her smile fade and she began to frown, focusing her gaze on his jaw.

  “Brother Sprenger . . . is that a rash?”

  “What?” he asked, leaning away from her.

  “Yes. Right . . .” She took her middle finger and forefinger and slid them along her own jawline. “Here.”

  He instinctively slapped his hand over the old wound, his glare for her and her alone. When her smile returned, wider and—she was sure—brighter than before, he took that same hand and pulled it back as if to backhand her.

  “Brother Sprenger!” Thomassin barked, stopping Sprenger before he did something he could not come back from.

  “I was just going to suggest a good healer in town who can help with that sort of rash, Brother,” Gemma lied. She shrugged and looked to Brother Thomassin and the other elders. “Since I am no longer needed here . . . ?”

  Angry and frustrated for Gemma but not wanting to turn the situation into a bigger dilemma than it already was, Thomassin dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

  Gemma gave her cohorts a wink and, with a miming action of her hands, a promise of celebratory drinks of ale later that night, she removed herself from the Chamber of Valor.

  But before she’d taken three steps toward higher floors and the sleeping cells of the brothers, she was picked up by one of the grand master’s assistants and carried to his private study like a sack of rye.

  “Is this necessary?” she asked the man. “I could have walked.”

  The assistant knocked once on the door to the study and brought her inside, placing her in front of the grand master’s desk. He then quickly walked out, closing the door behind him.

  “I’m assuming you wanted to see me?”

  Busy writing on a parchment, he told her to wait by gesturing with a flick of his hand. Gemma went across the room to the small statues standing on one of the many bookshelves and picked up a representation of the war god Morthwyl that one of the monks had created out of stone. Although they respected and called to many war gods in their prayers, it was Morthwyl who was their main deity. It was his name they called when they rode into battle. It was his table they hoped to feast at when they died a death of honor and blood.

  “Stop playing with that.”

  Gemma put the war god she’d been using to attack another war god back in its place on the shelf. “Sorry.”

  “I saw the seer today.”

  “The pretty blond one? Or the old hag? Or the one with the twelve kids? Or the one who said she ate her twin while still in her mother’s womb? Or the one who controls fire?”

  “No. Gary the sorcerer.”

  “Ohhh. Yes, of course.”

  “He has some terrifying information about the future of our brotherhood. Some of which, not surprisingly, involves Brother Sprenger.”

  “But Sprenger started it.”

  The grand master stopped writing and looked up from his parchment. “Sprenger started what?”

  Gemma blinked. “Nothing.”

  “Gemma.”

  “Joshua.”

  In this room, when they were alone . . . she could call the grand master “Joshua.” He’d been her mentor since the beginning. Before he’d become grand master. The one who’d guided her through all the tough times, had been there when she wasn’t sure she could make it through. But mentor and mentee didn’t really describe their relationship; it was deeper even than that. Did that mean she took Joshua for granted? No. She would not ask him for anything she didn’t think she deserved. Nor would she ask him to fight for her over something as ridiculous as rank. They didn’t waste their relationship on horseshit. It was too important to both of them.

  “So what did the seer want to tell you?”

  He motioned to the chair across from his desk and Gemma dropped into it.

  “The Old King will die soon.”

  “Good.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I guess that means one of his idiot sons will replace him?”

  That’s when Joshua stared at her for a long moment.

  “What?” she asked when he didn’t reply.

  “The seer actually sees a different ruler.”

  “Oooh. Interesting. Someone we can fight for? Or someone we’re going to have to kill? I’ll be honest . . . I’m not sure which I hope for. Both sound intriguing.”

  “I honestly don’t know the answer to that question. Because the ruler he sees, Gemma . . . is your sister.”

  Truly confused, she could only ask, “Sister? Which sister? I have a
lot of sisters. And brothers and cousins and aunts, uncles—”

  “Beatrix.”

  She gazed at her mentor for longer than she meant to. She gazed and gazed until it happened all at once. The laughter exploded out of her so hard that she ended up on the floor, rolling around in her blood-covered tunic and chainmail, barely able to stop herself from pissing on it as well. It went on for ages, Gemma unable to stop herself, even as tears streamed down her face and her laughter turned into desperate coughs and struggling for air.

  But, eventually, she noticed that Joshua did not join in with her laughter. Unlike most of the brotherhood, Joshua did enjoy a good laugh from time to time. So when he didn’t this time, she forced herself back into the chair and asked while she wiped her tears and gave a few remaining chuckles, “You are kidding, aren’t you?”

  When he did not reply with a very strong, “Of course I am!” Gemma’s laughter died in her throat, along with a bit of her soul.

  “Beatrix can’t be queen,” she argued. “She’s a child.”

  “To be queen or king, she just has to be out of the womb.”

  “She has no training.”

  “To be a royal? She could be a head in a jar and still be an effective royal.”

  “But I hate her.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t think that fact will come into play.”

  “It should. It should be the most important thing in the universe.”

  “You know we’re monks, yes? Humility and all that.”

  “We’re not just monks,” she reminded him. “We’re war monks. There’s no humility. There’s swords and blood and, if we’re lucky, very good ale. So what do you want me to do about my sister? Have my parents send her to a nunnery, which I have been suggesting since shortly after her birth?”

  Once more, Joshua simply gazed at her without speaking.

  “What is that look on your face? Why do you just keep staring at me like that? What aren’t you telling me?”