Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(60)

“Isabelle,” William whispers now. It’s the first thing he’s dared to utter since their capture, and her name itself sounds forbidden to her, foreign. Isabelle is a stranger, a woman being held hostage in a war that’s only just beginning, her role in it uncertain and out of her hands. Isbe is not that woman.

“Isabelle,” he repeats, more urgently. “If we’re parted, or . . . if I don’t get another chance to tell you this . . .” He wraps his hand around hers and squeezes it.

She feels a small, unexpected shock, like a piece of flint sparking in her chest. A wish, maybe.

But nothing ever comes of wishing, Isbe reminds herself.

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

Instead, there is a loud swishing rush of wind, like a flock of enormous birds converging nearby. Isbe and William simultaneously tense. There’s the startled cry of one soldier, followed quickly by a gargling gasp, as though his partner is choking on his own spit. Then a few swift swipes of fabric through the air, the thump of a skull coming into contact with a rock, and two thuds.

There’s a breathy voice, unpeeling the dark like a snake shedding its skin: “Hurry up before the rest of ’em come out.”

Isbe knows that voice.

It’s Sister Genevieve.

Isbe shuffles along the dirt road that leads out of the village, under the hasty cover of the spare habit Sister Genevieve gave her. William too is wearing one. Under different circumstances, the disguise might be comical. As it is, the reality of the situation has begun to sink in. They were nearly killed. Nearly shipped off as bait in a larger conflict. She hadn’t been afraid—hadn’t allowed herself to be—but now her body won’t stop shaking.

“Where are you leading us?” William asks.

Sister Genevieve—and Sister Katherine—are guiding them rapidly through the darkened countryside.

“Somewhere ’ats a bit more fit than where we found ya,” Sister Katherine replies.

Isbe’s mind is reeling. “But why, how, when . . .” She doesn’t even know where to begin. The shock of being rescued by the nuns has yet to fade. “What did you do to the soldiers?”

“Knocked out, but they’ll be comin’ to shortly,” Sister Katherine explains, a note of pride in her voice.

William is obviously just as baffled as Isbe is. “Those men were twice your size.”

“She keeps us in good shape, Mother Hilde—”

“Sister Katherine!” Genevieve whispers.

Sister Katherine huffs. “You were the one who insisted on rescuing ’em. Said it weren’t fair to sell ’em off like a pound o’ lambs’ meat at market.”

“Sell us off?” William asks. Isbe hears the knife’s edge in his voice. She is feeling something similar too, down in her gut, like she’s been stabbed.

Sister Genevieve sighs. “I suppose you may as well know the truth. The prioress felt we could garner much-needed funds by offering you two up to the enemy. And she was right—we did get a healthy sum.”

The invisible knife in Isbe’s gut twists. Mother Hildegarde gave them away. “But how did she know who we are?”

Sister Genevieve snorts. “We had our suspicions from the start. Catching you snooping around in the scriptorium didn’t help. But it was really Hildegarde herself who recognized you, Isabelle.”

“Said you got the same look as your mother,” Sister Katherine adds.

Isbe gasps, a strangled sound. “She knew my mother? What did she say?”

“Only that much and nothin’ more,” says Katherine.

“No need to slow down. We’ve still got a long way to go and back before morning lauds, or we’ll be missed,” Sister Genevieve says, pulling Isbe along by the elbow.

“So the prioress has been, what? Training you to defend yourselves against soldiers,” William says, something like stunned amusement in his voice.

“’Mong other things,” says Katherine.

And then it occurs to Isbe. “Last night—the granary. You weren’t checking for vermin at all, were you?”

Sister Genevieve answers. “We were practicing. Every night a group of us stays awake, learning our stances, exercising our skills, handling new weapons. Granary’s the perfect spot—big enough, empty enough, and the thick walls hide any sound.”

It all begins to unfold in Isbe’s mind. “You keep the weapons buried in the graveyard during the day.”

There’s a silence. “Yes,” Katherine answers, clearly impressed that she has pieced it together. “Can’t risk anyone discoverin’ we’re in possession of stolen royal weapons.”

Stolen. Isbe feels a flood of victory. She was right about one thing: the convent was not harboring or protecting William’s brothers’ murderers—they were hiding the weapons and the weapons only. And Hildegarde may have betrayed them, but it was in the interest of supporting a convent full of orphan girls, educating them about the world, and training them to be able to protect themselves in the event of war. The surprise of it is quickly replaced by awe. Isbe would rather be betrayed a thousand times by such a woman than allied to one less brave and interesting.

“We’re almost there now,” Katherine says.

“Why are you helping us?” Isbe asks quietly.