Early in the afternoon, they came to a muddy road cutting through the woods. Gaelin recognized it as the Northrun. To avoid Ghoeran patrols, Bull led them to a cart track running between the freesteads and sheep farms. They could see the old highway from time to time, just over a low ridge or knoll, but for the most part they were well out of sight.
After an hour or so, they found the fields taking on the neat, ordered appearance of carefully tended land, plowed and planted with grain just starting to break ground. The track led through a bare apple orchard, winding under the shining white branches, and then ended in a small square of green before a long, low wall of stone. The roofs and domes of the temple glinted in the sunlight, rising up behind the sturdy outer walls.
Bull dismounted and ambled over to a door in the wall. He thumped one meaty fist on the wood. “Hey! Wake up in there! ”
There was a brief delay, and then with a clatter a viewport in the door was drawn back. Gaelin could see the cold steel glint of a crossbow’s arms in the shadows of the doorway.
From the door a voice called, “Go around the front, louts!”
Bull hammered on the door again, doubtless ringing the ears of the fellow standing behind it. “I’m Bull from Sirilmeet, and this is the Mhor Gaelin! Now, open up! Ghoere’s men are all around us!”
“The Mhor Gaelin?”
Gaelin stepped forward, leading Blackbrand. “Prince Gaelin until I stand before the Red Oak,” he said. “I mean to speak with the high prefect as soon as possible.”
After a moment, the door rattled with the working of bolts and locks and opened slowly. A round-faced monk in the militant garb of the Knights Templar appeared and leaned a large crossbow against the door. “I expect the lady’ll want to talk to you, too. Come inside, and quickly – Ghoerans have been about all day, asking after you.”
Leading their horses, they followed the monk into the abbey. The monastery was really a small castle. The walls were capped with stone-faced battlements, and the courtyard presented the appearance of a parade ground. Across the bailey, Haelynite priests in plain brown cassocks practiced with staves and padded cudgels. The door warden bolted and locked the door behind them and then led them into a stable along the inside of the low wall. He ordered a pair of young aspirants to look after the horses and then led Gaelin and his companions to the abbey’s hospice.
Like many monasteries, the Abbey of the Red Oak offered travelers shelter for the night and a hot meal. To his surprise, Gaelin noticed it was empty. He would have thought refugees would be clogging every available sanctuary.
“Where is everyone?” he wondered aloud.
The door warden shrugged. “With the war, most of the travelers and tradesmen have remained in one place,” he said. “After all, who wants to be dragged into one army or the other, or have his goods confiscated? Few roads in Mhoried have been safe for travel for more than a week now.”
“Haven’t any refugees come this way?”
The door warden shook his head. “We’ve been turning them away, on the lady’s orders.” He showed them into a barren dining hall, a long, low room with a roaring fire in the hearth at the far end. “Please have something to eat. I’ll be back soon.”
He ambled off at a dignified pace. Several brothers manned the refectory, and they scraped together a warm haunch of meat and some dry bread for Gaelin and his friends, along with leather jacks of potent ale to wash it all down.
“I’m surprised the prefect wouldn’t open the doors to those in need,” Erin said when they were left to themselves.
“Can’t say I like it,” Bull agreed. “The folk around here have always looked to Haelyn’s priests for protection.”
Gaelin frowned. “We’ll see what Iviena has to say,” he replied. He, too, found it disconcerting.
A few minutes later, the round-faced monk returned, accompanied by a tall, bony man in elegant robes. His pate was shaved, but he wore a jeweled cap of office. With a slight bow, he said, “My apologies for your informal welcome, Prince Gaelin, but I’m sure you appreciate the circumstances. I am Brother Superior Huire, and you already have met Brother Maegus. The high prefect can see you now, my lord.”
Gaelin rose and stepped away from the table. “Erin, will you please join me?”
“Of course, my lord.” Staying a half-pace behind him, Erin followed Gaelin through the twisted, dark halls, limping slightly from her injury. Without Brother Huire to lead the way, they would have become lost in the abbey’s labyrinthine halls. The place was nearly the size of Shieldhaven, but it lacked the castle’s great halls and straight corridors. They passed many militant monks, wearing Haelyn’s robes over their armor.
Brother Superior Huire led them to a reception room, near the main chapel. It was a splendid chamber, richly appointed with tapestries and arras of gold and white. The High Prefect Iviena waited by a table of gleaming maple, her hands folded in her lap. She wore a white robe, her gray hair concealed by a plain habit. Her face was lined with care, but her eyes still sparkled with keen intelligence. “Thank you, Brother Superior, ” she said to Huire. “Prince Gaelin, welcome.”
Gaelin crossed the room and knelt beside the table, kissing her off e red hand. “Lady High Prefect,” he said, “Thank you for your hospitality. I won’t pretend the past few days have gone well for my family.” He stood and gestured to Erin. “This is the minstrel Erin Graysong, master bard of the White Hall.”
Erin stepped forward, knelt, and repeated Gaelin’s greeting.
“Please rise, child,” Iviena said. She looked up at Gaelin.
“What has become of Tiery, then?”
“Baron Tuorel hanged him three days ago,” Gaelin said.
“He was trying to help my father to escape Shieldhaven.”
Iviena’s face fell. “And the Mhor perished as well.”
“You have heard of Shieldhaven’s fall, then?”
“We’ve known for nearly a week now. Haelyn revealed to me the circumstances of your father’s death, Prince Gaelin.”
Her voice softened. “You have my sincerest condolences. The Mhor Daeric was a good man and a fine Mhor. He rests now in Haelyn’s glory, I am certain.” She fell silent for a moment and bowed her head in prayer before lifting her eyes to meet Gaelin’s. “And what happened to you, Prince Gaelin? How did you learn of your father’s death?”
“Lady Iviena, I saw the spirit of my father on the banks of the Stonebyrn four nights ago, as I returned to Mhoried from Endier. He told me Bannier had betrayed House Mhoried.” He found his voice growing thick, but continued. “He also said that Thendiere and Liesele were also dead at Tuorel’s hands.”
“And after that?”
“I… I felt the power of the land, my lady. The divine right passed to me, then and there. I felt my blood singing. I don’t know how else to explain it.” Gaelin gave up with a shrug.
“We rode to Shieldhaven to see what had gone wrong, but Tuorel nearly trapped us there. I made for Dhalsiel to seek Cuille’s aid, but… he was unwilling to help.”
Iviena measured Gaelin’s features, her eyes sharp as swords. Gaelin met her gaze without looking away. “So, as the surviving son of Mhor Daeric, you are a claimant to the throne,” she finally said. “Did you come here to swear the oaths before the Red Oak?”
“I did, High Prefect, although that was not the only reason.
I also hoped to convince you to stand with me against Ghoere.
I will need your aid to drive Tuorel out of my father’s castle, and Haelyn’s temple has always been a staunch ally of Mhoried.”
Iviena sighed, and stood up. She paced away from them, her hands behind her back. “I am not certain you understand what you are asking of me,” she said quietly. “As far as I can tell, House Mhoried is already defeated. If I support you against Ghoere, I place the faith itself in jeopardy. Tuorel is not a man to forgive those who stand against him.” She turned and faced him. “I am sorry, Prince Gaelin, but I will not take the field against Tuorel.”