“You were the one who said the monks stole the horses.” Virgil stared at Kolby, frustrated. The philosopher wasn’t used to walking all night in pouring rain. They had kept him going with the promise of warmth, shelter, and a good meal in the monastery. Now he felt entitled. To him, the closed door had to be a betrayal—as much by Kolby as by the monks.

“When I said that, I was only guessing. A hunch isn’t proof.”

Virgil frowned and folded his arms in disagreement. He obviously had made up his mind.

Spotting the bruised milkmaid, Farilane wasn’t so certain.

She took a breath, moistened her lips, and gave three powerful and very unprincess-like whistles through her front teeth. In reply, they heard a sharp whinny. Farilane smiled. “Mirthlyn.” She set off in search of her horse and found the white stallion trapped in the monk’s corral. “There you are!” she exclaimed as the horse pushed past several others to the edge of the wood fencing to greet her.

“That looks like proof to me,” Virgil declared. “And there!” He pointed. “That’s the horse I rode here on. These monks are not only rude, but they are also horse thieves. You should deal with them.”

“Deal with them?” Kolby asked.

“Isn’t that your job? You keep order, enforce laws, right?”

“Our mission—at this moment—is to protect Princess Farilane. Anything else undermines that priority.”

“Can you at least get our horses back?”

“I can do that,” Farilane said and unslung the corral gate to let Mirthlyn out. “Now where did you put your saddle, big fella?”

“Leave my horses alone,” a very large, very hairy man ordered. He came from the direction of the monastery, walking fast and pulling a furry bear hide up over his naked shoulders as a crude cape. Aside from leather britches and that bear skin, the only other thing the man wore was a sword.

Farilane took an instant dislike to him. Something about the eyes. He had one of those single protruding brows that ran across his face like a shelf, shading his vision and lending him a cruel expression. The absurdly large jaw, decorated by a wild beard that matched his tumultuous hair, did not help. The man impressed her as one step above an actual bear, and an angry beast first thing in the morning was never a welcome sight.

I shouldn’t judge people by how they look, she chided herself. Shouldn’t judge people at all. Can’t help it. The mind forms patterns and sticks to them whether I like it or not. Amazing how annoying one’s own mind can be.

“These are not your horses,” Virgil declared.

“Says who? You, little boy?” The furry man, whose hair matched the hide he wore, had doubled down on his wild-beast attire, which was augmented by a necklace of bear claws. To this ensemble, he now added an ugly frown.