And then, before us, the headlights catch something.
Towers. Stark white and domed. Thin spires with crosses gleaming against the starless sky.
The church.
Then the rest materializes before us: a low stone wall, broad wooden gates. The blaze of light catches a black-robed figure who waves and pulls open the gates as Moroslav downshifts and trundles us in.
“And there we are.” He kills the engine, and we disembark: a courtyard, everything stone and shadow. I take Callahan’s hand to clamber down while Moroslav shouts something in Russian and more figures appear from side doors—the other St. Ignaty fencers, whom I vaguely recognize from however many weeks ago at the meet. He gestures to them, pointing at gear bags and murmuring, and they nod, climbing to the flatbed to unload.
Kai sidles up to me, flipping up the collar of his jacket. “If this place is Finnish, I’m the King of fuckin’ England,” he mutters.
“Kai.” Lanz glares at him. He looks…nervous.
Callahan, meanwhile, is looking at me. “Are you all right, Gwenna?”
“Just tired,” I say. I scan around us, taking in the surroundings. Sturdy, square stone halls surround a courtyard—a cloister. But instead of open to the sky, the cloister is covered over us, glassed over in iron-framed panes and lit with harshwhite electric lights. The floor is hard-packed, dirt, but marked: long white rectangles, with two lines in the middle, drawn as if with chalk.
They’re…strips, I realize. It’s a fencing salle.
Sure enough, Moroslav’s grin is back.
“Here,” he says, “we will fight. But for now—come.”
He nods to the side, gesturing for us to follow to a side door in what must be the main hall.
Inside, it’s whitewashed walls, a vaulted ceiling, murals of flat-faced saints faded with age. A cluster of monks are awaiting, bearded and black-robed, shaking hands with Luther and Kingston. One of them—the youngest, it looks like, and the only one clean-shaven—bows to us.
“Welcome to St. Ignaty Monastery,” he says. “You honor us with your presence. I am Father Maksim, and on behalf of myself and my brothers, I extend our warmest greetings.”
Lanz, Kai, and Callahan nod in greeting, and I follow suit, feeling someone clasp my hand.
Kai.
“The archmandrite wishes to welcome you himself,” Father Maksim goes on, “but he is unwell.”
Something about the way he says the word—unwell—makes my skin prickle.
“He will bless you tomorrow at Vespers, God willing,” Maksim concludes. “But for now—please.”
Tea is offered—strong, dark, in metal-wreathed glasses—and some kind of small, dense cake. Not bad, but I don’t have much appetite.
I don’t want to eat and I don’t want to chat. I want to stay as close to the four of them as I can. Then I want to sleep. Then I want this all to be over so we can leave.
From the side of the room, Moroslav spies me and smiles. “This one—she likes Russian food,” he says, pointing at me. “I know she does.” He winks.
Kai’s grip on my hand tightens. Kingston looks like he wants to kill him. Meanwhile, Father Maksim has started going over the schedule.
“Tomorrow, rest,” he says. “Adjustment, preparation. Whatever you may need—the facilities are yours to use as you please. Until sunset—we gather for Vespers, then dinner. And then, the day following…our tournament.” He smiles. From the corner of my eye, I notice Luther listening intently, nodding. Like he’s taking mental notes—and maybe he is, I realize. For the White Brothers.
That’s why he’s here. Of course.
“Now, we show you to your quarters.” Father Maksim gestures, and Moroslav steps forward, eyebrows raised. “You will show the gentlemen to the dormitory, Aloysha?”
“Da.” Moroslav sweeps an arm to a door in the corner. “Fellows, please.”
Kingston, Lanz, and Callahan nod, stepping to the side. So does Kai—with me.
“Ah…” Moroslav blinks, smiles, throws a look at Father Maksim.
