When the young crown prince led his attendants into the wide estate of the Mor'dawin Monastery, hundreds of citizens scattered flower petals along the roadside.
Gareth raised one hand in acknowledgment of their welcome. The cheers of the citizens grew even louder. It was something that had been repeated tiresomely for days, yet it was a ceremony that he never grew tired of. He lifted his chin even higher and proudly urged his horse forward.
After passing through the crowded city streets teeming with people, a broad courtyard and a grand temple came into view. He stopped his knights before the building that seemed to be the priory.
"You have endured much hardship coming all this way."
A moment later, a man in pure white monastic robes came forward to greet him.
While still seated on his horse, Gareth studied the man carefully. He had a face sharp as an arrowhead and pale silver hair tinged with blue.
Gareth immediately realized that this young monk was not a full human. His complexion was unnaturally pale, and the tips of his ears came to a pointed end. He must be a half-elf, or perhaps a quarter-elf.
It was not a strange thing. In the northeastern regions of the old Kingdom of Osiria, it was not difficult to find mixed-blood races who carried the lineage of elves or dwarves.
Suppressing his instinctive disgust toward those of different blood, Gareth asked in a tone full of authority,
"Are you the abbot of this monastery?"
"Yes, Your Highness the Crown Prince. I am Basilis, the one entrusted with the management of this monastery."
The man smiled gently at the corners of his lips.
"I sincerely welcome you to Mor'dawin."
"This land," Gareth said in the haughty tone peculiar to royalty, "is the place where my ancestor, the Great Emperor Darian, won his first victory against the North, and where he received the divine revelation to unify the nations. I too am sincerely pleased to have come to such a sacred place."
Having dismounted from his horse, he continued,
"In accordance with the tradition of the imperial family, I wish to receive a blessing in the name of the saints, so that divine grace may rest upon the future of my sister and myself."
"It will be my honor to obey such a request," the abbot replied courteously, then added carefully,
"For today, would it not be best if Your Highness rested at my residence? We have prepared a grand feast for your welcome, these past few days."
He hesitated for a moment.
Originally, they were supposed to stay in the lodgings for pilgrims. To stay at the abbot's own residence could easily be seen as a political favor.
Gareth glanced sidelong at Varkas, who stood behind him like a shadow. The man, not wishing to draw attention, had his face half-covered with a long, trailing hood.
After quietly examining the monastery for a while, Varkas finally nodded.
"Do as Your Highness wishes."
"Good. Then tonight, we shall stay at the abbot's residence."
Once permission was granted, the servants who had been waiting came swiftly down the steps to receive their guests. Gareth handed over his reins and spoke a word of instruction to Varkas.
"Make sure to look after Ayla. It's her first time traveling so far; everything must feel strange and uncomfortable."
Varkas gently nodded as he stroked his horse.
Gareth frowned slightly. If only he would show the same care to my sister that he gives to his horse.
Grumbling thus, he began following the monks' lead. Just then, a splendid carriage at the edge of the open yard caught his eye.
He frowned, staring at the curtained window. Whether it was because she was being cautious now, or because she had finally realized her place, Talia Roem Guirta had remained hidden in that carriage the entire journey, never showing herself. He had been so determined to twist that slender neck of hers at the first sign of trouble that it now felt almost disappointing.
If only she'd stay quiet like this…
But no, Talia Roem Guirta would never do that. She was a woman who had joined this journey harboring foul schemes from the start. No one knew when, where, or what sort of disturbance she would cause.
Fixing his gaze on the carriage, Gareth barked fiercely at Varkas.
"And tell that woman this: she'd better keep living like a dead mouse, never showing herself in my sight again."
Varkas's eyes narrowed faintly. He seemed displeased by Gareth's open hostility toward his half-sister. Gareth recalled how the man had once, uncharacteristically, cautioned him to mind his words and reputation.
With a snort of derision, Gareth turned away sharply. Everyone in the Empire already knew that the Crown Prince wanted to tear apart his father's bastard daughter. What point was there in pretending otherwise?
Chin held high, he followed the priests toward the great mansion behind the cathedral.
The abbot's residence was nearly as splendid as the annexes of the imperial palace. Thinking that at least tonight he would be able to rest comfortably, Gareth allowed a satisfied smile to spread across his face. He stepped into the grand hall behind the monks.
The abbot led him to the most luxurious chamber in the house.
Gareth looked around the fairly spacious room as if evaluating it. Paintings depicting the Holy Wars hung on the walls, and prayer books and theological tomes were arranged on the desk — likely because this was the abbot's own quarters.
The decor wasn't to his taste, but otherwise it passed muster. He threw his horse-scented cloak aside carelessly and ordered the waiting servants,
"I want to wash first. Bring a large tub filled with clean water — enough that I can stretch out my legs."
When the servants scattered, he sat down in a chair by the window and gave a silent nod toward his pages. At his unspoken command, two boys immediately began removing his armor.
Leaving his body to their hands, Gareth picked up a goblet from the shelf. A perceptive servant promptly filled it with wine. Leaning back against the chair, Gareth took a sip of the chilled liquor. The thick liquid slid down his throat, filling his mouth with a rich, heady aroma.
Savoring the intense flavor that lingered on his tongue, he let out a languid sigh. The coming banquet might actually be worth looking forward to. The wine prepared by the monastery suited even his palate, accustomed as it was to the rarest and finest vintages.
Seems the business of holy lands is rather profitable.
He curled his lips as he looked out the window at the monastery's vast estate. High-ranking clergy often enjoyed wealth rivaling that of the nobility. This abbot clearly lived as luxuriously as any great lord.
Freed from his heavy armor, Gareth stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes and plunged into the bathwater prepared by the monks. Servants immediately scrubbed his body with soft brushes. He leaned back against the tub's rim, sipping the remainder of his wine.
He didn't know how long he stayed like that. The exhaustion built up from half a day of riding gradually faded, replaced by a faint renewal of vigor. He stepped out of the bath and dressed himself in the light summer formalwear the attendants had prepared. Then, draping a velvet robe with minimal ornamentation over his shoulders, he left the room, guided by the monks.
"A meal has been prepared for you in the hall downstairs," one monk said cautiously as they descended the marble stairs covered with soft carpets, holding up a lantern.
Gareth merely inclined his head indifferently. A ruler should speak as little as possible; he knew better than anyone how much could be achieved through silence — after all, he kept beside him a man who was the very embodiment of silence.
Spotting Varkas standing rigidly by the hall entrance, as if awaiting him, Gareth frowned.
Whenever he looked at that man, an odd sense of hostility welled up within him — even though Varkas had never once disobeyed him. Was it because of the man's peculiar aura? Or because he never revealed what was in his heart?
Though Gareth had watched him since childhood, Varkas always felt like someone foreign — someone who must be kept at a distance. That made it all the more unsettling.
Can I really entrust this man with half of myself?
"Where is Ayla?" he asked.
"Her Highness is resting in the lodgings used by the priestesses," Varkas replied. "She seemed tired and said she would not attend the banquet."
"After several nights of camping, she must be weary."
"I have prepared medicine to help her recover, so there is no need for concern."
At the dry, detached reply, Gareth knit his brows. He knew that this man treated his sister with more gentleness than he showed anyone else.
Despite being in his prime, Varkas Raedgo Siorkan tended to women as if they were fragile things to be protected. He was so cold to the women who approached him that even Gareth sometimes felt a chill watching him. At least he opened himself a little to Ayla — that, at least, was fortunate.
Still, Gareth could not look favorably upon the man's tepid manner. Having claimed the most precious treasure of the Empire, and yet showing not a trace of gratitude — only that aloof composure!
With a slightly sharper tone, Gareth shot out,
"Ayla is your fiancée. Shouldn't you show her a bit more of your heart?"
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