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.”

Gaelin was stunned. “You just acknowledged my claim, not a moment ago! Tuorel is a usurper, a murderer! You can’t allow him to take this land as his own!”

“I acknowledge that you have a claim to the Mhoried, Gaelin.

B a ron Tuorel is no friend of mine. But I have a responsibility to the temple, an entity that exists above and beyond the duchy. We may be your subjects, but we must accept the fact that with the fall of House Mhoried we could become subjects of Ghoere, whether or not we find that a pleasant development.”

Gaelin rose from his seat. “What of Haelyn’s tenets? You owe fealty to the lawful lord of Bevaldruor. If you acknowledge that I am the Mhor, then aid me!”

The dignified priestess flushed, but kept her own temper in check. “You are not yet the Mhor, Prince Gaelin. You may recall you are only a claimant to the throne until you speak the oaths before the Red Oak. As the leader of Haelyn’s temple in Mhoried, I will decide if and when you may do so.” She regarded him with an even gaze. “I will offer you shelter and help you if I can, Prince Gaelin. However, I will not risk the destruction of Haelyn’s faith by setting it in opposition to Baron Tuorel.”

Gaelin drew in a breath to continue, but Erin caught his arm with her hand. “Excuse me, your Grace,” she said, “But will you administer the oaths to Gaelin?”

Iviena frowned. “I have here a letter from Baron Noered Tuorel. He refers to the tragic circumstances of the Mhor’s death and also claims that through a marriage made two hundred years ago he is a legal claimant to the throne of Bevaldruor.”

She picked up a parchment from her writing desk and tapped it against her palm. “While it is customary for the Mhor’s eldest son to be recognized as the foremost claimant, it is not necessarily the law. In fact, there are dozens of nobles throughout Anuire who can lay claim to Mhoried’s throne, just as Gaelin here could lay claim to the throne of Diemed or Alamie through old marriages.”