Chapter 24
As the young Crown Prince led his retinue into the vast estate of Mordawin Monastery, hundreds of citizens lined the path, scattering flower petals before them.
Gareth raised a hand in acknowledgment of the welcome. The cheers swelled even louder. It was a spectacle he had repeated to the point of tedium over the past few days, yet it remained a ceremony he never truly tired of. He lifted his chin higher, spurring his horse forward with triumphant pride.
Once they cleared the crowded, bustling streets, a wide courtyard and a magnificent temple came into view. He brought the knights to a halt before a grand building that appeared to be the main prayer hall.
“You have traveled far and endured great hardship to reach us.”
A moment later, a man clad in snow-white monastic robes stepped forward to greet him.
Gareth appraised him from the saddle. The man had features as sharp as an arrowhead and pale silver hair touched with a faint bluish cast.
It soon became apparent that the young monk was not entirely human. His complexion was unnervingly pale, and his ears tapered to subtle points. He was likely a half-elf or a quarter-elf.
It was hardly an uncommon sight. Throughout the northeastern territories of the former Kingdom of Osiria, finding those carrying elven or dwarven blood in their veins was not difficult.
Suppressing his instinctive revulsion toward those unlike his own kind, Gareth addressed him with measured authority.
“Are you the Abbot here?”
“I am, Your Imperial Highness. My name is Basilis, and I oversee the affairs of this monastery.”
A mild smile touched the Abbot’s lips.
“I offer you my most sincere welcome to Mordawin.”
“This sacred land marks where my ancestor, the Great Emperor Dorian, claimed his first victory over the North and received the divine revelation to unite the nations. I am pleased to set foot upon it,” Gareth said, dismounting with the customary arrogance of imperial nobility.
“In accordance with imperial tradition, I wish to receive the blessing of the saints. Pray that divine favor shines upon the path ahead for both myself and my sister.”
“I shall fulfill your wish with great joy.”
The Abbot gave a polite bow, then ventured with cautious warmth.
“For now, perhaps Your Highness would retire to my private residence to recover from the rigors of your journey? We have prepared a grand banquet over several days in your honor.”
Gareth hesitated.
By custom, they were meant to stay within the lodgings reserved for pilgrims. Accepting the Abbot’s private residence could be perceived as soliciting or granting political favor.
Gareth glanced back at Varkas, who lingered behind him like a shadow. Unwilling to draw unnecessary attention, Varkas had pulled a deep hood over the upper half of his face.
After quietly sweeping his gaze over the monastic grounds as though weighing the matter, Varkas gave a slight nod.
“Do as Your Highness sees fit.”
“Very well. We shall stay at the Abbot’s residence tonight.”
With his consent given, the waiting servants descended the stairs in orderly succession to attend to the party. Gareth surrendered his reins to them and turned to Varkas with an instruction.
“See that Ayla is well cared for. This is her first time traveling so far from home; everything will feel unfamiliar and difficult for her.”
Varkas, who had been patting his horse’s neck, offered a brief nod.
Gareth’s brow furrowed slightly. He wished Varkas would show even half as much devotion to his sister as he lavished on his beast.
Muttering under his breath, Gareth moved to follow the monks, only for an ornate carriage at the edge of the clearing to draw his eye.
He glared toward the carriage window, veiled behind heavy curtains, his scowl deepening. Whether out of fear or a sudden grasp of her station, Talia Roem Guirta had remained shuttered inside through the entire journey, never once showing her face. Her silence made his earlier resolve to snap her slender neck at the slightest provocation feel almost wasted.
‘It would be best if she stayed this quiet, but…’
There was no chance Talia Roem Guirta would remain harmless. She had forced her way into this pilgrimage with malice from the start. There was no telling when or where she might stir up trouble.
Fixing his hard gaze on the carriage, Gareth called out sharply to Varkas.
“And make sure that girl understands: she is to stay quiet as the grave and remain out of my sight, just as she has been doing.”
Varkas’s eyes narrowed by a fraction. He appeared displeased that Gareth was openly displaying hostility toward his half-sister. Come to think of it, Varkas had recently uncharacteristically cautioned him to guard his conduct for the sake of his reputation.
Gareth scoffed under his breath and turned away. Did a single soul in the Empire truly doubt that the Crown Prince wished to tear his father’s bastard limb from limb? Why bother disguising it?
Lifting his chin, he followed the clerics toward the grand estate situated behind the main hall.
The Abbot’s residence was furnished with a luxury rivaling any pavilion within the Imperial Palace. A smug smile tugged at Gareth’s lips at the thought that he would spend at least this night in comfort, and he strode through the grand foyer after his guides.
The Abbot escorted him to the most lavish bedchamber in the estate.
Gareth took in the expansive room with a critical eye. It appeared to be the Abbot’s personal quarters; historical canvases depicting holy wars lined the walls, and leather-bound theological treatises and prayer books sat on the desk.
The religious decor was hardly to his taste, but the accommodations were otherwise satisfactory. Shrugging off his horse-scented traveling cloak, he gave curt instructions to the attendants waiting by the entrance.
“I intend to bathe first. Draw a deep tub of fresh water—large enough for me to stretch my legs out properly.”
As the servants scattered to obey, he sank into a high-backed chair by the window and gestured toward his accompanying squires. At the silent command, the two boys set to work unfastening his armor.
Gareth surrendered himself to their care and reached for a crystal wine goblet resting on a side table. A quick servant immediately stepped forward to fill it. Leaning back against the cushions, he took a sip of the chilled vintage. The rich liquid slid smoothly down his throat, filling his mouth with a deep, heady bouquet.
Savoring the lingering notes upon his tongue, he let out a low sigh of contentment. The upcoming feast promised to be worth his time. Despite his familiarity with the finest liquors the capital could offer, the monastery’s vintage suited his palate remarkably well.
‘Operating a holy sanctuary must be a remarkably profitable trade.’
A cynical smirk touched his lips as he peered out the glass window across the sprawling estate. High-ranking churchmen often amassed fortunes that rivaled the old nobility. The Abbot here clearly lived every bit as sumptuously as a great lord.
Freed from his heavy plate and sweat-dampened clothes, Gareth lowered himself into the warm bath prepared by the servants. Hands immediately began working soft bristled brushes across his skin. Resting his head back against the rim of the tub, he finished the rest of his wine.
After lounging in the warm water for some time, the deep exhaustion brought on by half a day’s ride began to loosen its hold. Stepping out, he allowed the servants to dress him in light summer evening wear, followed by a restrained velvet surcoat, before setting out under the guidance of the monks.
“The banquet has been prepared in the reception hall just below,” murmured the monk carrying the lantern as they descended the marble staircase draped in plush carpets.
Gareth responded with only a faint, indifferent nod. A sovereign was meant to speak sparingly. He knew all too well the weight that silence carried, if only because he kept a man who seemed its very embodiment at his flank.
Spotting Varkas standing tall near the hall entrance as though awaiting his arrival, Gareth’s brow tightened.
Whenever he looked upon the man, an unexpected flare of resentment would stir within him. This remained true despite Varkas never once defying a direct command. Was it the strange, oppressive presence the man commanded? Or the impenetrable wall that kept his true thoughts hidden?
Though Gareth had known him since childhood, Varkas had always carried the distant air of a wary outsider. That distance left Gareth persistently uneasy.
Was it truly wise to place his other half into such hands?
“Where is Ayla?”
“Her Highness is resting within the priestesses’ quarters. She requested to be excused from the banquet due to exhaustion.”
“It is understandable she would be weary after days on the open road.”
“I have already provided a tonic to aid her recovery. There is no cause for concern.”
Gareth’s scowl deepened at the detached reply. He knew well enough that Varkas rarely spoke so dryly to Ayla.
Despite being a man in his prime, Varkas Raedgo Shearkan treated women like stone. The cold indifference he showed toward those who pursued him was enough to give Gareth a chill. In that sense, perhaps it was a blessing that he tolerated Ayla’s presence at all.
Even so, Gareth could not stomach the man’s lukewarm demeanor. To have secured the Empire’s greatest prize and yet show not an ounce of gratitude was an insolence he could scarcely endure.
He spoke in a sharp, cutting tone.
“Ayla is your betrothed. Ought you not to put a little more heart into tending to her?”
END