The thing to understand about the monks of the Nine Kingdoms is that there is no centralized authority, and as such, there are many authorities: as many as can be followed. Monks move like water: some, like Rose from the River, are quick-moving streams, pilgrims who move where the Way directs them, impositions on what it means to be a monk on the rest of the world, while others congregate in the pools of monasteries, under the insight and spiritual leadership of a monk with an Idea. There is no church, there is no Arch-Abbot, there is only the transcendent search for what is right and good.

Which means, in practical terms, that one of the [i]old[/i] monks got wind of Chen’s plan to release the foxes and disliked it. Foxes are impious creatures who cause mischief and tempt people away from austerity, towards possessions, and above all, towards desire. Desire is a trap, a beautiful golden trap, and Rosepetal is so deep in it that she doesn’t want to come out.

And so this monk went to the groupchat with her old friends, and her old rivals, and informed them that the young heiress to the twin shards, you know the one, she’s going to break all of the foxes out of cutie jail, where they’re quarantined for everyone’s good. I’m going to see about correcting her error as kindly as she lets me. And enough of them nodded and got their good traveling clothes on and told the gods to come and join them if they liked, but they’re going anyway.

(Again, there is no central authority: the fashion of the monks is austere but diverse. Some wear the traditional saffron robes, but others, like Rose from the River once did, wear simple black workout clothes, all tank tops and sensible pants and staves. Some drape themselves in dark shrouds to drown out the world’s temptations all around them, so they can hear the Way’s quiet urgings all the better, and carry canes to tap along their path. Yin’s former cult wear unitards with heavy glass plates sewn on, to reflect the world back at itself, and carry swords in honor of the one they thought the Bodhisattva. There’s Mina the Computer in her heavy jacket, each stud an old plastic key, carrying a club wrapped in cables, counting her way to eudaemonia. And, yes, there’s Aoi the Pilgrim Mendicant, wearing a thriftstore babydoll tee and worn-out Burrows sneakers, thoughtfully hefting what was once an umbrella.)

And most of them have come here to pass [i]judgment.[/i] They’re here because they think what Chen is doing is wrong. Not all of them; some are here because they’re friends with someone who does, or because they owe someone a favor. Lalisa of the Black Wind might be here just because she wants a rematch with Rose from the River, actually. But the wall of judgment she’s getting from them is still difficult to bear.

Rose from the River could have managed it. She could have air-jumped into the midst of them and told them that she’s honor-bound to see the foxes reach shore safely, and while they can hunt foxes as much as they like once they arrive, anyone who wanted to stop Chen would have to fight their way through her. She would have been a figure of terrible strength, beating down people she looked up to as clever thinkers, kind aunties, or just annoyingly persistent duelists, inspiring sullen envy in everyone she beat down.

Assuming, of course, that she was not leading the pack. Dueling Chen, disarming her and getting her in a headlock with affected casualness, letting her fellow monks sweep through the decks and shut up the foxes in their cabins, turning the ship around and taking them all back to cutie jail where they belonged. And maybe she’d leave Chen with them, too, to learn a lesson about trusting foxes. The thought makes her palms sweaty and her body off-kilter, like it’s not fitting into the space apportioned to it correctly.

She takes one more look back up at those cliffs. Then she turns, walks back into the ship. The deck is cleared. The ship is a ghost, for a moment, cutting smoothly through the water.

She comes back out with a mop, a bucket with a prickly yellow rope tied to its handle, and a custodial apron, her braids tied up in a bun. She sits in the lotus position, mop across her lap, bucket by her side, apron old and stained. She drapes herself in a different sort of humility and waits. She will not go out and challenge them, bombastic and grinning, but she will not let them stop her Chen. So come, then. Try, if you dare.

The Princess’s maid is waiting to see if you are worthy to even face her.