Welcome to Mordawin
As the young Crown Prince led his retinue into the vast estate of Mordawin Monastery, hundreds of citizens lined the road and scattered flower petals in his path.
Gareth raised one hand in answer to their welcome, and the cheers swelled louder still. He had repeated the same ritual for days on end until it should have grown tiresome, yet somehow it never did. Chin held higher than ever, he rode on in triumph.
Once they had left the crowded streets behind, a broad courtyard and a magnificent temple came into view. He brought the knights to a halt before a building that appeared to be a house of prayer.
"You must be weary from so long a journey."
A moment later, a man in pure white monastic robes stepped forward to meet him.
Gareth remained in the saddle and studied him with care. The man possessed a face as sharp as an arrowhead and pale silver hair touched with a bluish sheen.
He realized almost at once that this young monk was not human. His complexion was unnaturally pallid, and the tips of his ears rose to distinct points. Half-elf or quarter-elf, most likely.
It was nothing remarkable. In the northeastern reaches of the old Kingdom of Osiria, folk of mixed elven or dwarven blood were not difficult to find.
Gareth suppressed the instinctive revulsion he felt toward any species other than his own and put the question in a tone of measured dignity.
"Are you the abbot of this place?"
"I am, Your Highness the Crown Prince. I am Basiliss, charged with the administration of this monastery."
A gentle smile touched the man's lips.
"I bid you a heartfelt welcome to Mordawin."
"This land is where my ancestor, the Great Emperor Darian, won his first victory against the north—and where he received the divine revelation of his mission to unify the nations. I, too, am truly glad to have come here."
Gareth swung down from the saddle in a single fluid motion and spoke with the arrogant cadence peculiar to the imperial blood.
"In keeping with the traditions of the Imperial House, I wish to receive blessings in the names of the saints. Pray that divine grace may rest upon the futures of myself and my sister."
"It would be my joy to oblige."
The abbot answered with perfect courtesy, then added carefully:
"For the present, would Your Highness care to retire to my residence and rest from the journey? We have prepared a grand banquet these past several days in anticipation of your arrival."
Gareth hesitated.
By rights they ought to have lodged in the quarters set aside for pilgrims. To accept the abbot's own house risked the appearance of political favor-seeking.
He glanced back at Barcas, who stood like a shadow at his heels. The man had drawn a heavy hood halfway across his face, as though he had no wish to attract notice.
After surveying the monastery at length, as if weighing every stone, Barcas finally gave a single nod.
"As Your Highness prefers."
"Very well. Then we shall spend this night at the abbot's residence."
At his word, the servants who had been waiting came down the stairs in perfect order to receive their guests. Gareth handed over the reins and issued a quiet instruction to Barcas.
"Look after Ayla well. This is her first journey so far from home; everything will feel strange and uncomfortable."
Barcas, who had been stroking his own horse, inclined his head lightly in acknowledgment.
Gareth's brow tightened. If only he would show my sister even half the care he lavishes on that animal.
Still muttering under his breath, he started after the monks—only for a lavish carriage at the far edge of the open ground to snag his eye.
He glared at the window hung with thick curtains, a crease forming between his brows. Whether she had grown cautious at last or had finally grasped her place, Talia Roem Guerta had remained shut inside that carriage for the entire journey, never once showing her face. It almost rendered pointless the firm resolve he had carried—to twist that slender throat of hers the moment she tried any nonsense.
It would be convenient if she stayed quiet like this…
But Talia Roem Guerta would never do that. She was a woman who had attached herself to this party with filthy designs from the start. There was no telling when, where, or what sort of trouble she might stir.
Still staring hard at the carriage, Gareth barked savagely toward Barcas.
"And make this perfectly clear to that woman. Tell her to stay as quiet as a dead mouse, just as she has until now—never to cross my sight."
Barcas's eyes narrowed by the barest fraction. He seemed displeased that Gareth would display such open hostility toward his half-sister. Come to think of it, the man had uncharacteristically lectured him once already—to mind his words and conduct for the sake of his reputation.
Gareth snorted deliberately and spun on his heel. As if there were a soul among his people who did not already know the Crown Prince longed to tear his father's bastard to pieces. Why bother keeping quiet?
Chin held high, he followed the priests toward the grand mansion prepared behind the main hall.
The abbot's residence was every bit as splendid as any annex of the imperial palace. The thought that he might at least spend this one night in comfort brought a satisfied smile to his lips. He stepped into the magnificent hall in the monks' wake.
The abbot conducted him to the most sumptuous chamber in the house.
Gareth surveyed the rather spacious bedroom as though delivering a judgment. It appeared to be the abbot's own customary quarters—paintings depicting holy wars hung on every wall, and prayer books and theological texts lay upon the desk.
The decorations were hardly to his taste, but otherwise the room earned a passing mark. He flung aside his horse-scented cloak without ceremony and issued orders to the servants waiting by the door.
"I wish to bathe first. Prepare a large tub filled with clean water—large enough that I can stretch my legs."
As the servants scattered, he settled onto a chair by the window and jerked his chin toward the pages who had followed him in. At the silent command, two boys set to work at once, stripping away his armor.
Gareth surrendered himself to their hands and took up a wine glass from the shelf. A quick-witted servant filled it without delay. He leaned back against the chair and drew a mouthful of the chilled wine. The thick liquid slid down his throat, flooding his mouth with a powerful fragrance.
Savoring the intensity that lingered on his tongue, he let out a languid sound of pleasure. The banquet, it seemed, would be worth looking forward to. The wine the monastery had prepared suited even a palate as thoroughly spoiled by rare liquors as his own.
The holy-site trade must be remarkably lucrative.
He twisted his mouth as he gazed out through the glass at the monastery's sprawling estate. High-ranking priests often enjoyed wealth to rival any noble house. This abbot, too, was surely living a life every bit as extravagant as a great lord's.
Freed at last from the heavy armor, Gareth stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes and plunged into the bathwater the monks had prepared. Servants immediately set to work with soft brushes, scrubbing his body clean. He rested his head against the rim of the tub and sipped what remained of the wine.
How long he lounged there he could not have said, but a measure of vitality returned to a body worn thin by half a day of continuous riding. He stepped from the tub and dressed in the summer evening attire the servants had laid out. Then, drawing on a velvet robe of minimal ornament, he left the room under the monks' guidance.
"A meal has been prepared in the hall just downstairs."
A monk bearing a candle spoke carefully as he descended the marble stairs carpeted in soft velvet.
Gareth answered with nothing more than an indifferent nod. A sovereign ought to spare his words as much as possible. He knew, to the marrow of his bones, how much silence could accomplish—for he kept at his side a man who was the very incarnation of it.
He found Barcas standing tall at the entrance to the hall, as though he had been waiting, and his brow drew tight.
Whenever he looked at the man, a strange hostility would rise unbidden. It did so even though Barcas had never once opposed him. Was it the unique presence the man carried? Or the fact that he never revealed what lay within?
Gareth had watched him since childhood, yet Barcas always seemed a stranger to be held at a wary distance. That made him all the more uneasy.
Is it truly wise to entrust half of myself to this man?
"Where is Ayla?"
"Her Highness is resting in the lodging building used by the priestesses. She said she was tired and would not attend the banquet."
"Having had to camp for several days straight, it is only natural she would be exhausted."
"I have sent up medicine to aid her recovery, so there is no great need for concern."
At the dry reply, Gareth's brow furrowed again. He knew well enough that this man at least softened his manner toward his sister.
For all that he was a man in his prime, Barcas Laedgo Seorkan treated women as though they were stones. The coldness with which he cut down any lady who approached him was enough to make even Gareth, merely watching, shudder. That he at least allowed Ayla near him was something to count as fortunate.
Yet Gareth could not look kindly on that lukewarm regard. To have claimed the most precious treasure in the empire, and still display such arrogance without so much as a speck of gratitude—
He snapped in a rather sharp tone.
"Ayla is your fiancée. Shouldn't you be putting more of your heart into her?"