The Forgotten Field Novel - Chapter 23, 24
## Chapter 23
Contrary to her expectations, the journey passed without incident. Night after night, a thick, tar-like darkness returned, but each dawn arrived without a single drop of blood being spilled. By the time the sun was high in the sky, they packed their belongings and set out once more. The soldiers, exhausted by the relentless heat, began to lag behind, slowing the progress a bit. Even so, the pilgrimage continued without any serious interruption.
On the fifth day after leaving the imperial palace, the procession led by Gareth and his royal guard arrived at the small northwestern town of Sortica. After spending the night there, they resumed the journey, heading north. During that time, Talia kept a close watch on the servants sent by Senebier. They wore masks of exaggerated loyalty, but Talia never lowered her guard for a single instant. They were just waiting for the right opportunity. It was obvious that something terrible would happen soon; as sure as day follows night. Wherever Senebier’s hand was involved, a sinister intrigue always lurked nearby. If not today, tomorrow; if not tomorrow, the next day… Soon, something dreadful would unfold before their eyes.
Talia did not know if she feared that moment or if she secretly longed for it. Every time she saw Varkas—the man who treated her with such icy indifference—being infinitely tender with Aila, she found herself wishing that a catastrophe would occur at that very moment. If both were reduced to something unrecognizable, perhaps then she could breathe easy. Seeing his corpse would be a hundred times better than seeing him by Aila’s side. But when night fell, a suffocating fear crept into her. No matter how many times she told herself that she did not care if that man died, it never relieved her heart.
Restless and trembling throughout the night, Talia ran out of her tent before dawn. Guided solely by the dim gray light of the morning, she went to look for him. Only upon seeing Varkas alive and breathing could she finally breathe too. She hurried along a narrow path overgrown with brush, until she froze upon hearing the snort of a horse. Pushing her way through the thick foliage, she saw a gray stallion with a black mane. Varkas was there, guiding the powerful beast toward a spring. Kneeling on one knee, he pulled the reins so the horse would lower its head to drink. Then, with his other hand, he scooped up a handful of water and gently poured it over the animal’s long, muscular neck. The sunlight, filtering through the dense leaves, turned his hair into a soft silver. Seeing that scene, Talia closed her eyes in despair. No matter how many times she excised it, her love for Varkas grew back like a tumor, consuming her from within. She saw no way out of that mire.
How could she rid herself of this feeling? Leaning her back against a large tree, she stared blankly at the sky, then turned weakly to leave—and stopped upon seeing Aila walking down the same path. Talia quickly hid behind the tree. Aila must have come straight from bed. She wore only a thin robe over her dress, with her long hair falling loose over her shoulders. She looked just as disheveled as—no, even more disheveled than—Talia herself. And yet, Aila still looked elegant and refined. Talia thought with bitterness that perhaps there was something in that woman’s blood that she herself would never have, not even in death.
—There you are —Aila said softly, her cheeks tinged with a warm pink tone as she approached him. She sat lightly on a flat rock by the spring. Varkas’s gaze turned to her. Aila’s eyes curved sweetly, as if that silent gaze alone made her happy. Cautiously, she took off her shoes and dipped her feet into the water, splashing lightly. The sound of the horse’s snort, the rippling water, and Aila’s bright, bird-like laughter blended with the fresh morning air.
Talia had to fight the urge to run out and grab her half-sister by the hair. She wanted to tear apart those smiling lips that turned toward him, rip out the tongue that chattered to him—but she held back. She could not bear to see Varkas trying to protect Aila from her. Shortly after, when Aila had played enough in the water, she extended her hand to him. Instead of taking it to help her up, Varkas knelt down and dried her feet. Then, like a devoted servant, he carefully put her shoes back on.
The scene pierced Talia’s chest like a knife. She turned around and ran. Branches and leaves scratched her arms and legs, but she felt no pain. It was as if all her senses had shattered. With her breath coming in gasps, she tore through the winding forest path like a racehorse, until her foot caught on the prominent root of a tree and she fell forward. Buried among the weeds, her chest heaving, Talia suddenly burst into laughter.
What would Senebier say if he saw her like this? He would probably wrinkle his perfect forehead and shake his head. Talia could almost hear his mocking voice whispering from somewhere nearby: “You have two options, my dear. One: catch the man you want by any means necessary. Or two: lose him, but at least lose with an ounce of dignity.” It was as if he wanted Talia to become a seductress and conquer him. But Talia could never become like Senebier, not even in death. Senebier would have stopped at nothing to claim what he desired. But Talia… Talia could only pray that this torment would end soon, unable to think of anything else to do.
She looked up at the fragments of sky through the branches, and then slowly stood up. When she emerged from the gloomy forest, fatigued and dragging her feet, she saw several knights moving around in confusion. Passing them by, she approached her carriage, only for one of the imperial guards, Rubon or whatever his name was, to quickly block her path.
—Where on earth have you been, Your Highness, without saying a word? I have told you repeatedly that you must not wander off alone without an escort— The arrogant lecture cut off abruptly when the knight finally noticed her disheveled state. —What… what happened to you? Were you attacked somewhere? Talia pushed past him and stepped onto the carriage footboard. But the man did not stop talking. Holding firmly to the door frame, he continued in a harsh voice: —It is my duty to protect you, Your Highness. Therefore— —Anyone listening would think you actually care about me —Talia interrupted him with a mocking smile—. Did someone order you to keep your eyes on the crazy princess every second of the day? If you’re going to spy on me, at least do it right. Don’t blame me for what you miss while you’re standing there like an idiot.
The knight shut his mouth tight, unable to respond. Talia slammed the door in his face. He let out a loud curse as his fingers got caught in the crack. The gauntlet had prevented a real injury, but judging by his complaints, it had still hurt quite a bit.
As always, Talia ignored the complaints and the noise from the outside. If she had ever truly listened to all the words spoken around her, she would have gone mad a long time ago. After becoming a princess, the first thing she learned was to let words pass right through her ears. She drew the thick curtains over the glass window that glowed dimly with the morning light and curled up tightly, like a hedgehog.
—
## Chapter 24
When the young crown prince guided his companions toward the vast grounds of the Mor’dawin Monastery, hundreds of citizens scattered flower petals along the path.
Gareth raised a hand in acknowledgment of their welcome. The cheers of the citizens grew even louder. It was something that had been repeated in a tedious manner for days, but it was a ceremony he never grew tired of. He raised his chin even higher and spurred his horse forward with pride.
After crossing the busy streets of the city, packed with people, a wide courtyard and a large temple appeared before his sight. He stopped his knights in front of the building that appeared to be the priory.
—You have endured many hardships to reach this place.
A moment later, a man in monastic robes of pure white stepped forward to receive him.
Still mounted on his horse, Gareth studied the man intently. He had a face as sharp as an arrow’s point and pale silver hair with bluish undertones. Gareth realized immediately that this young monk was not entirely human. His complexion was supernaturally pale and the tips of his ears ended in a pointed shape. He must be a half-elf, or perhaps a quarter-elf.
It was not something strange. In the northeastern regions of the ancient Kingdom of Osiria, it was not difficult to find mixed races carrying the lineage of elves or dwarves.
Repressing 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 person in charge of managing this monastery. —The man smiled slightly with the corner of his lips—. I give you a sincere welcome to Mor’dawin.
—This land —Gareth said with the haughty tone characteristic of royalty— is the place where my ancestor, the Great Emperor Darian, obtained 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 mine.
—It will be an honor for me to obey such a request —the abbot replied politely, and then added cautiously—: For today, would it not be better for Your Highness to rest in my residence? We have prepared a grand banquet for your welcome during these past few days.
Gareth hesitated for a moment.
Originally, they were supposed to stay in the pilgrims’ quarters. Staying in the abbot’s own residence could easily be seen as a political favor.
Gareth glanced sideways at Varkas, who remained behind him like a shadow. The man, wishing not to draw attention, wore his face half-covered with a long, drooping hood.
After silently examining the monastery for a moment, Varkas finally nodded.
—Do as Your Highness wishes.
—Good. Then, tonight we will stay at the abbot’s residence.
Once permission was granted, the servants who had been waiting quickly walked down the steps to receive the guests. Gareth handed over his reins and gave an instruction to Varkas.
—Make sure to take care of Ayla. It is the first time she has traveled so far; everything must feel strange and uncomfortable to her.
Varkas nodded softly while stroking his horse.
Gareth frowned slightly. If only he showed the same care with my sister as he gives to his horse.
Grumbling in that manner, he began to follow the guidance of the monks. Just at that moment, a splendid carriage on the edge of the open courtyard caught his attention.
He frowned, staring fixedly at the curtained window. Whether because she was being cautious now, or because she had finally understood her place, Talia Roem Guirta had remained hidden in that carriage during the entire journey, never showing herself. He had been so determined to wring that slender neck of hers at the slightest hint of trouble that now it almost felt disappointing.
If only she would stay quiet like that…
But no, Talia Roem Guirta would never do that. She was a woman who had joined this journey harboring wicked plans from the beginning. No one knew when, where, or what kind of disturbance she would cause.
Fixing his gaze on the carriage, Gareth snapped fiercely at Varkas:
—And tell that woman this: she had better keep living like a dead mouse, without ever appearing before my eyes again.
Varkas’s eyes narrowed slightly. He seemed displeased by Gareth’s open hostility toward his half-sister. Gareth remembered how the man, unusually for him, had once warned him to watch his words and his reputation.
With a snort of mockery, Gareth turned around abruptly. Everyone in the Empire already knew that the crown prince wanted to tear his father’s bastard daughter to pieces. What was the point of pretending otherwise?
With his chin held high, he followed the priests toward the large mansion situated behind the cathedral.
The abbot’s residence was almost as splendid as the annexes of the imperial palace. Thinking that at least tonight he could rest comfortably, Gareth let a smile of satisfaction draw upon his face. He entered the grand entrance hall behind the monks.
The abbot led him to the most luxurious chamber in the house.
Gareth looked around the room, which was quite spacious, as if evaluating it. Paintings depicting the Holy Wars hung on the walls, and prayer books and theological tomes were arranged on the desk; probably because these were the quarters of the abbot himself.
The decoration was not to his liking, but otherwise, it met the standards. He threw his cloak, which smelled of horse, to one side carelessly and ordered the waiting servants:
—I want to wash up first. Bring a large tub filled with clean water; enough for me to stretch my legs.
When the servants dispersed, he sat in a chair by the window and made a silent gesture with his head toward his pages. At his silent command, two boys immediately began to remove his armor.
Leaving his body in their hands, Gareth took a cup from the shelf. A perceptive servant quickly filled it with wine. Leaning back in the chair, Gareth took a sip of the cold liquor. The thick liquid slid down his throat, filling his mouth with a rich and intoxicating aroma.
Savoring the intense flavor that lingered on his tongue, he let out a languid sigh. Perhaps the upcoming banquet really would be worthwhile. The wine prepared by the monastery pleased even his palate, accustomed as he was to the rarest and finest vintages.
It seems the holy lands business is quite profitable.
He sketched a grimace on his lips as he looked out the window at the vast grounds of the monastery. High-ranking clergy often enjoyed wealth that rivaled that of the nobility. This abbot clearly lived in as much luxury as any great lord.
Freed from his heavy armor, Gareth took off his sweat-soaked clothes and submerged himself in the bathwater prepared by the monks. The servants immediately scrubbed his body with soft brushes. He leaned back against the edge of the tub, drinking the rest of his wine.
He did not know how long he remained like that. The exhaustion accumulated from half a day of riding gradually vanished, replaced by a slight renewal of vigor. He came out of the bath and dressed in the light summer formal attire that the servants had prepared. Then, placing over his shoulders a velvet robe with minimal trimmings, he left the room, guided by the monks.
—A meal has been prepared for you in the hall downstairs —a monk said cautiously as they descended the marble stairs covered with soft carpets, holding a lantern.
Gareth simply tilted his head with indifference. A ruler should speak as little as possible; he knew better than anyone how much could be achieved through silence—after all, he kept a man by his side who was the very embodiment of silence.
Upon spotting Varkas standing rigidly by the entrance of the hall, as if waiting for him, Gareth frowned.
Every time he looked at that man, a strange feeling of hostility arose within him, even though Varkas had never disobeyed him even once. Was it due to the man’s peculiar aura? Or because he never revealed what was in his heart?
Although Gareth had observed him since childhood, Varkas always felt like an outsider, someone who should be kept at a distance. That made him even more unsettling.
Can I really trust this man with half of myself?
—Where is Ayla? —he asked.
—Her Highness is resting in the quarters 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 fatigued.
—I have prepared a medicine to help her recover, so there is nothing to worry about.
At the dry and distant reply, Gareth frowned. He knew that this man treated his sister with more gentleness than he showed to any other person.
Despite being in the prime of life, Varkas Raedgo Siorkan attended to women as if they were fragile things that needed to be protected. He was so cold to the women who approached him that even Gareth sometimes felt a chill observing him. At least he opened up a little with Ayla; that, at least, was a fortune.
Even so, Gareth could not look favorably upon the man’s lukewarm attitude. Having claimed the most precious treasure of the Empire, and without showing even a trace of gratitude, only that distant composure!
With a slightly sharper tone, Gareth shot back:
—Ayla is your fiancée. Shouldn’t you show her a little more of your heart?
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