The Blood of Kings
Kyle Alexander Romines
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kyle Alexander Romines
Copyright © 2019 by Kyle Alexander Romines
Cover by Jeff Brown
Illustration by Matt Forsyth
Copyedit by Katie King
Proofread by Margaret Dean
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Five Kingdoms.
Five Kings and Queens.
One High Queen Sits Above All.
Her Wardens Keep the Peace.
Ard Ruide
Connacht, in the west, is the kingdom of learning and the seat of the greatest and wisest druids and magicians; the men of Connacht are famed for their eloquence, their intellect, and their ability to pronounce true judgment.
Ulster, in the north, is the seat of battle valor, haughtiness, strife, and boasting; the men of Ulster are the fiercest warriors of all Fál, and the queens and goddesses of Ulster are associated with battle and death.
Leinster, the eastern kingdom, is the seat of prosperity, hospitality, and the importing of rich foreign wares like silk or wine; the men of Leinster are noble in speech and their women are exceptionally beautiful.
Munster, in the south, is the kingdom of music and the arts, skilled ficheall players, and horsemen; the fairs of Munster are the greatest in all Fál.
The last kingdom, Meath, is the kingdom of Kingship, stewardship, and bounty in government; in Meath lies the Hill of Tara, the traditional seat of the High King or Queen of Fál.
—Adapted from Old Translation, Author Unknown
Chapter One
It was never a good idea to keep a king waiting—even for a warden.
Berengar ignored the hunger that had been gnawing at him for the better part of two days. He’d ridden practically nonstop since crossing the border into Munster. Were it not for the subtext of urgency contained within the king’s summons, he would have stopped for food or rest along the way. Further complicating matters, King Mór had not disclosed the reason for the summons.
Unlike the High Queen’s other wardens, Berengar rarely ventured so far south—another reason the king’s cryptic message was so surprising. Nevertheless, he had little trouble finding his way on the road. He followed the course of the River Suir where it originated on the slopes of the Devil’s Bit, certain of his destination.
The summer air was warm and pleasant. Munster was the southernmost kingdom on the island of Fál, and its temperate climate made for fair weather throughout the year, in contrast to the harsh winters to the north. Berengar hadn’t seen so much as a cloud for miles.
He passed the first farm just after midday. More sprouted up along the road the farther he traveled. The castle was visible some distance away, looking over the land from atop a lush, green hill. The workers were already coming in from the fields as he approached the city, though sundown remained a healthy span away.
The Rock of Cashel—Munster’s capital—was one of the most impressive cities in all Fál. Munster was the largest of the five kingdoms. In addition to the fair weather and an abundance of natural resources, the southern kingdom’s easy access to the coasts ensured a lucrative maritime trade with Albion, Caledonia, and even Gaul. The music coming from the city reminded the warden that Munster was also the cultural center of the realm, fueled by commerce and monasteries of higher learning.
The city teemed with life, a sign of its booming population. Berengar regarded the masses with a wary eye. The warden greatly preferred the open road to the walls of any city, despite Cashel’s beauty. He was skilled in the art of killing, not conversation. Berengar suspected his manners were as dull as his axe was sharp. All the same, he was looking forward to sleeping in a bed for the first time in recent memory.
As closing approached, the marketplace was seized by a flurry of activity. Blacksmiths and armorers plied their trade near the sculptors and jewelers, just a few of the tradesmen assembled around the city square. Berengar spotted the pointed ears of several half or quarter fairies among the crowd and even noticed a peaceful giant lumbering down the street. Historically, Munster was far more tolerant of magic and nonhuman creatures than the remainder of Fál. Berengar was of a similar disposition. Men were just as likely to try to kill him as monsters, though that didn’t make the latter any less dangerous.
New sights, sounds, and smells awaited wherever he looked. Despite his hunger, Berengar forced himself to turn away from the aroma of freshly baked bread. There was no sense in stopping now that he was so close to his destination. He might as well wait to enjoy King Mór’s hospitality.
The warden deftly guided his stallion away from the marketplace. As the crowd’s ranks thinned, various onlookers began to take note of him. Some stopped what they were doing and stood in silence, watching as he rode by. Others murmured among themselves, likely unsettled by his appearance. Berengar wasn’t surprised. In fact, he was rather used to the reception by now.
It was the same wherever he went, and not without reason. His appearance wasn’t exactly normal by any definition of the word. The right side of the warden’s face was marred by three deep, uneven scars that ran in parallel from his forehead down to his lip. A leather eye patch covered the place where his right eye once sat, partially obscuring the scars where the band wrapped around his head. Berengar’s hair was a blazing red, brighter than the color of an open flame. The sides were flecked with gray, like his beard, which had grown considerably during his time in the wild. He only trimmed the beard before starting on a journey and had not had time to do so before setting off for Munster.
He steered the stallion onto the cobblestone road that led to the castle. A monstrous-looking hound, a wolfhound mix Berengar had raised from a pup, followed. Berengar appropriately named her Faolán, which meant little wolf—though there was nothing remotely little about her.
The castle stood in the heart of the city. The immense fortress was carved from the limestone rock jutting out from the earth beneath it. A wall surrounded the castle on all sides, barring entrance to the uninvited. Though originally constructed because of the site’s defensive advantages, the castle had been improved over the centuries as Munster grew in wealth and power. There was nothing quite like it in all Fál.
“Halt!” a voice rang out as he neared the gate.
Berengar cast his gaze upon the place where two guards stood watch. Four more sentries looked on from the wall above. The warden’s face took on an expression of annoyance but he brought his horse to a stop.
“You will go no farther.”
“I’m expected.” Berengar’s voice was a low growl. He was hungry, tired, and not in the mood for games.
The guard’s hand moved to his sheath. “Identify yourself.” He was a young man, and Berengar doubted he had seen more than twenty summers.
When Berengar swung off his horse, the young man’s companion gre
w pale. The warden was a great beast of a man, towering two heads over the tallest man among them. He wore leather armor and a flowing cloak made from the fur and skin of a bear. Both an axe and a bow were slung behind his back, and a short sword was sheathed at his side. The sight of the warden was enough to intimidate the guards, save for the overenthusiastic young man, and even he flinched when Faolán bared her fangs at the implied threat to her master.
Berengar lazily flashed his ring to the guard. The young man stared at it, puzzled. His defiant expression remained unchanged until the man beside him leaned closer and whispered something into his ear. The young man flushed a deep shade of red and bowed deeply. At the sight of deference, Faolán relaxed and let out a yawn.
“Apologies, Laird Berengar. We were not expecting you so soon.”
“I’m not a lord. I’m a warden.” His voice was deep and gravelly.
“Forgive me, Laird Warden.”
Berengar sighed and shook his head in exasperation. “Take me to the king.”
“Open the gate,” the guard bellowed. “This way, sir.”
Berengar led his horse by the reins and followed the guards beyond the wall.
“Warden Berengar has come to answer the king’s summons,” the older guard said to a messenger who went sprinting uphill to carry the news.
The population inside the castle grounds was by no means modest, even in comparison to the city below. The group made their way across the busy courtyard, encountering nobles, priests, and soldiers engrossed in their own affairs. Their path again turned upward, where the castle waited, promising the end of one journey and the beginning of another. Golden banners waved proudly from a round tower, bearing the image of an eagle, the sigil of the king’s house. Commanding statues of the great kings of old paid tribute to the realm’s storied past.
The guards stopped just short of the castle entrance, and a young squire came running to greet them.
“Take the warden’s horse to the stables,” the older guard instructed as Berengar relinquished the reins to the boy. “And find a place for his hound in the kennels.”
At the mention of the word kennel, Faolán’s ears perked up, and she flashed the guard a toothy warning.
“Leave her here,” Berengar said. “She won’t attack unprovoked.”
The guard looked hesitant but kept his doubts to himself.
Berengar held up the flat of his palm in front of the wolfhound. “Stay. Wait for my return.”
Faolán snorted and trotted off the road, curling up under the shade of a birch tree.
A guard draped in a golden cloak and fine armor waited at the castle entrance, surrounded by a small number of subordinates. “I am Corrin, captain of the guard,” he said by way of introduction. “Your weapons, please. None are to be admitted to his majesty’s presence while armed.”
Berengar glowered but did as requested, surrendering first his bow and then his short sword before entrusting the battleaxe to the young guard who had challenged him initially. “See that you handle these with care.” He said nothing of the dagger concealed within the lining of his boot. Although he had not had dealings with Mór in years, they’d last parted on good terms, and Berengar did not expect treachery from him. Even so, experience dictated it was always better to be prepared.
Corrin nodded to the others, and the massive doors swung open, granting entrance to the castle. “This way, Laird Warden.” He stepped under the detailed doorway arch and gestured for Berengar to follow.
“I’m not a…” Berengar trailed off. “Never mind.”
They walked under a series of interior arcades, bathed in the sunlight that entered through magnificent stained-glass windows. Berengar’s boots echoed on a well-swept floor. A tranquil quiet hung over the castle, where the thick walls provided a respite from the multitude of noises outside. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and chamomile. Rich tapestries and elegant silks adorned painted walls in the great hall, which currently lay abandoned.
The captain came to a stop outside what Berengar assumed was the entrance to the throne room. The door opened, and the captain ushered him across the threshold.
Let’s get this over with, Berengar thought, grouchy from a long ride and an empty stomach.
The throne room was larger and wider than the great hall—larger even than the High Queen’s throne room at Tara. Aside from the throne itself, which lay at the opposite end, the chamber was largely empty. Below the barrel-vaulted roof, there was a single rose window behind the throne. Berengar guessed the chamber was designed with the intent of making most supplicants feel small in the king’s presence.
Mór sat regally on the throne, watching him quietly with the cautious, appraising expression Berengar remembered so well. He looked every inch a king, in keeping with his notable ancestry. Mór’s black curls were heavily streaked with gray, as was his well-trimmed beard. The king was dressed in gold and white, and a white cloak fell to his feet.
A silver crown rested atop the king’s head. Each of the five kings and queens of Fál wore crowns of silver. They were the Rí Ruirech—the overkings. Beneath them were the Rí Tuaithe, the underkings or lords, who wore iron crowns. Only the High Queen wore a crown of gold.
King Mór’s crown was adorned with precious jewels without price, a way of setting Munster apart from the other kingdoms. In the days of old, the line of High Kings came from Munster. When the kingdoms broke apart, the throne at Tara sat empty for centuries, until Nora of Connacht again united Fál under one ruler.
The chamber was suddenly filled with the voice of the herald who stood between Berengar and the throne.
“Welcome, Warden Berengar,” the herald announced. “You stand in the presence of Mór the Second of Munster, King from the Cliffs of Moher to the Celtic Sea, Lord of the Southern Islands, Master of the Golden Fleet, and servant of Nora, High Queen of Fál.”
Berengar had other names too. Most were records of deeds, not titles of nobility. Many were not fit for polite company, and some, others dared not mention in his presence. He was known throughout various parts of the realm as the Bloody Red Bear, Berengar One-Eye, The High Queen’s Monster, Berengar Trollslayer, Berengar Goblin-Bane, and Berengar the Unbroken, to name a small number. There were more than a few songs detailing his exploits.
Berengar did not kneel when the herald finished speaking, though he politely inclined his head in the king’s direction. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Mór, who grimaced tersely in a sign of displeasure. It wasn’t an unexpected response; most kings and queens were unused to anything other than complete and utter fealty. As a warden of Fál, Berengar stood apart. He was not subject to the king’s laws and answered only to the High Queen. There were five wardens in all, tasked with keeping the peace across the land. Oftentimes this meant something as simple as settling disputes between local lords or hunting a particularly dangerous monster. Judging from Mór’s troubled expression, this was not one of those instances.
The two men stared at each other across the throne room for a long interval before at last King Mór’s lips pulled back into a genuine smile, and he rose from the throne. “It’s been a long time.”
“That it has, Your Grace.” Out of respect, Berengar addressed the king in the manner the royals of Munster were styled.
Mór approached, and the two men clasped hands. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”
“And you, Your Grace.”
Though they had fought side by side in the Shadow Wars, in truth, they had never been entirely close. Then again, when one was royalty, everyone—and no one—was your friend.
Mór released his grasp. “You arrived sooner than we anticipated.”
“I came at once after I received your letter.” It wasn’t technically true. He had stopped along the way to find a home for an orphaned goblin youngling and sent Mór’s messengers ahead, but he had quickened his pace to make up for lost time.
“I thank you for your haste.” Lines that were not there be
fore appeared on the king’s face. Despite his efforts at levity, something was clearly troubling him.
“What is this about? Your letter was rather cryptic, Your Grace.”
Mór let out a dark laugh that betrayed an undercurrent of tension. “Straight to business. You haven’t changed much, I see.” His expression brightened considerably. “Let us not yet talk of such things. The hour grows late. It will be dark before long. You must be hungry and tired from the long journey. You shall dine with my family and me, and then we will discuss the reason for my summons.”
Having ridden with such urgency, Berengar felt a tinge of irritation at the prospect of having to wait even longer to discover the reason for his presence in Munster. Still, he was sure Mór would get to the point before too long, and he could live with waiting until after his belly was full before he received what was increasingly likely to be bad news.
Night descended over the land as the last vestiges of sunlight were replaced by muted candlelight and the somber glow of torches. Berengar dined with Mór and his family at the king’s table. Save for the servants and castle guards, the great hall lay empty. A band of court musicians played soft music. The musicians of Munster were widely recognized as the best in the land, and their presence at court was a testament to their talent. As Berengar recalled, the king himself was a musician of some fame in his younger days, though Berengar had heard it said Mór rarely played since the Shadow Wars.
A servant girl approached carrying a mias—the wooden board on which food was served. “For you, sir.” She laid the board before him and bowed low. Her eyes lingered perhaps a moment longer than necessary on his scars. He saw a familiar expression like fear flicker over her face, and the young girl promptly retreated to the kitchens.
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