Morwen’s mouth hung open in shock at the words, and for only a moment, her cheeks flushed red.
The doors to the throne room opened again, and Corrin entered the chamber, accompanied by several guards. Berengar immediately noticed the cupbearer was not among their number.
“Apologies, Thane Ronan,” Corrin said. “Matthias could not be found. No one has seen him inside the castle in days.”
“People usually run when they’re guilty of something,” Berengar said in a rough voice, angry the thought hadn’t occurred to the others until now. He rose from the king’s side. “The cupbearer could be our only link to the poisoner. He must be found.”
Ronan swore. “I want patrols on every street corner and at all the entrances to the city. No one leaves Cashel until he is located. Do you understand, Captain?”
“It will be done,” Corrin answered.
“I’m sorry, Warden Berengar,” Ronan said. “I’m afraid you will have to excuse me while I tend to this situation. There are new security measures that must be implemented immediately.”
“I was finished here anyway,” Berengar replied. “There is nothing left to glean from the king’s body.”
“Very well. I will tell the holy men they can take King Mór for burial preparations. We will speak again shortly.” With that, Ronan departed the chamber together with Corrin, issuing orders to the guards.
Within moments after their departure, a small contingent of robed priests entered, chanting prayers and burning incense as they approached to carry the king’s body away.
At the sight of them, Morwen gathered Mór’s hands into her own and kissed them. “Farewell, my king,” Berengar heard her whisper reverently as he started on his way. The magician caught up with him outside the throne room, where Faolán waited. “Where are we going next?”
“We aren’t going anywhere,” the warden answered. “I’m going to speak with the princess—alone.”
“You need me.” Morwen raised her voice and jabbed her pointer finger at his chest to emphasize the point. “I can help. I know this city far better than you do, and it’s clear you don’t know the first thing about magic.”
Berengar came to an abrupt stop just outside the throne room’s entrance. “Bears don’t hunt in packs. I promised Mór I would bring you back, but now that I’ve done that, I’m done babysitting you.”
Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “I can look after myself. I spent a year in Gaul training with the Order of the Swordless Mage.”
“That explains why you’re such a pacifist.” He chuckled, which only seemed to make her angrier. “If you want to help, identify the poison the assassin used. In the meantime, stay out of my way. The last thing I need is someone slowing me down while I do my job.”
He shot her a menacing look intended to warn her away, but Morwen crossed her arms and stood her ground defiantly. “Is it because I’m a magician, or because I’m a woman? I thought you were different, but you’re just like all the rest.” With that, Morwen marched away, and Berengar realized that she had taken the goblet from him without his noticing.
“Warden Berengar,” a voice called out behind him, where the man Queen Alannah had introduced as Marcus O’Reilly had followed him down the corridor. “I was hoping to share a brief word with you.”
“I’m listening.” Berengar was interested to hear what the king’s chief adviser was so eager to discuss.
O’Reilly looked over his shoulder at the guards, as if afraid of being overheard. “Come with me to my chambers. We can converse there in privacy.” Berengar followed the old man up a staircase to a wooden door in a secluded hallway. He soon found himself standing inside a spacious—if dusty—chamber furnished for a king. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, embroidered with O’Reilly’s family arms. Shelves upon shelves were crammed with books and scrolls. Berengar noticed a large map of Munster spread across a table.
O’Reilly walked with a limp, though he made no use of a cane. His back was slightly hunched with age, and his hair and beard were wholly white. By all appearances, the man was impossibly old, and yet he showed no signs of weariness. O’Reilly seemed accustomed to the finer things in life, suggested both by the quality of his attire and the contents of the room.
“It will not be long before word of the king’s death spreads across the land. Soon the rest of the Rí Tuaithe will come to swear fealty to Queen Alannah.” O’Reilly approached an ornate madia against the wall and reached for a jug of wine. “Do you believe the king was poisoned?”
“Looks that way.”
“Peace hangs on a thread as it is. When the people learn the truth…” He poured a cup for himself with a steady hand. “If the people suspect magic was involved, there will be massacres of the sort not seen since King Mór’s grandfather’s time.”
It was an implicit warning. If justice wasn’t delivered soon, the city would tear itself apart at the seams. It had happened before. After the Shadow Wars, most of the few magicians and mages were burned or else hunted to extinction. Munster was one of the only kingdoms of Fál to retain the position of court magician. Nonhumans fared even worse. There was a reason encounters with full-blooded fairies were now almost as rare as unicorn sightings.
O’Reilly turned his back. “Can I offer you some wine?” When Berengar didn’t answer, he left the second cup empty. The bells again began to chime just before he lifted the cup to his lips, and both men stared off the balcony at the masses that watched the castle from below. The old man sighed and took a deep drink. “They mourn the loss of their king. Mór was greatly beloved by his people. Such a dreadful tragedy.”
“It wasn’t a tragedy. It was murder.”
“Yes, of course,” O’Reilly stammered. He spoke in a soft, soothing tone that nonetheless possessed a rushed quality. “And a terrible business it is. I knew Mór from the time he was a boy. I was already gray when he was but a lad. I served as Chief Royal Adviser to his brother, and his father before him.”
The warden suppressed a chuckle. By reminding Berengar of his many years of loyal service, O’Reilly was subtly attempting to verbally affirm his loyalty. In fact, his comments suggested a greater loyalty to himself. “I can see the royal family has richly rewarded your years of service.” Berengar spoke in reference to the chamber’s splendor.
O’Reilly let the comment pass unanswered and turned to face him once more. “We are fortunate to have you with us. Your deeds are legendary. King Mór often spoke very highly of you.”
He’s a flatterer, Berengar decided. He used to think it was no small wonder that such men so often occupied positions of power, but after years of dealing with self-important nobles, it no longer surprised him. As a rule, Berengar had little use for men like O’Reilly, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still prove useful.
“Tell me, Laird O’Reilly—what happened on the day of the king’s death?”
“There was nothing particularly unusual about it, if that’s what you’re asking.” O’Reilly’s brow furrowed suddenly. “Except…a messenger arrived in the evening with a letter for the king. When King Mór read the letter, his face grew pale, and he cast it into the fire. As far as I know, he said nothing of its contents to me or anyone else.”
Interesting, Berengar thought. “Any idea where the letter came from?”
O’Reilly shook his head.
“Had King Mór been acting strangely of late?”
“How do you mean?” O’Reilly seemed to regard him with a suspicious air.
He’s trying to see how much I know, Berengar realized. This meeting is as much for his benefit as it is mine. O’Reilly was a flatterer, but probably no fool. The warden couldn’t imagine Mór bestowing such authority on anyone unless they brought considerable talents to the table, many years of service or otherwise.
“Differently, I mean. Did you notice anything odd in the days leading up to his death?”
“Now that I think about it, I suppose he was behaving a bit unlike himself. King Mór ha
d withdrawn from court in recent weeks. In meetings with the royal council he was peculiarly reticent. One might have been forgiven for suspecting that he was keeping secrets.”
“Perhaps he didn’t know whom he could trust,” Berengar said, and the old man gave him a knowing smile.
Mór had suggested as much before his death. Someone close to the king had betrayed Morwen to the déisi. It’s unlikely the poisoner acted alone. The assassin probably had help from inside the castle. Tracking down the missing cupbearer might provide answers to that particular quandary.
Berengar decided he would have to be careful to trust no one, not that it would pose much of a problem. Apart from the High Queen and the other wardens, Berengar could count the number of people he trusted on one hand. Too many people had tried to kill him over the years for it to be otherwise, and he wasn’t one to learn a lesson halfway.
In the end, the matter came down to a question of motive. Someone had assassinated the king, but why? Unraveling the answer to that question would shine a light on the rest of it. Whoever wanted Mór dead must have had a powerful reason to take such a risk. Usually in cases of regicide, there was a contested line of succession, or else a rival king in a warring kingdom. But Fál was at peace, and the line of succession was clear.
“Did the king have any enemies? Anyone who might have wished him harm?”
A cold breeze passed between them, and the old man turned away from the balcony. “No ruler is without enemies—even one as loved as good King Mór.” O’Reilly approached the table with the map and set the cup aside before pointing out a spot on the coast. “From their stronghold to the east, the Danes raid our villages, led by Gorr Stormsson—a savage butcher through and through. Our armies have confined the territories he holds, but only at great cost. Stormsson has committed worse crimes than you could possibly imagine.”
“I don’t know. I can imagine quite a lot. What of magical threats?”
“Munster is not like the other kingdoms. We live in peace with nonhumans, for the most part. The giants are our friends. Even goblins live freely in our cities.”
“And witches? Do you have any of those?”
“Four, to be exact.” O’Reilly’s finger moved to a spot on the map closer to the capital. “There is a coven of three less than a day’s journey from Cashel. They are known as the Witches of the Golden Vale. King Mór left them largely to their own devices. He had an…arrangement of sorts with the coven’s leader. Nobles and peasants alike come from all across the land seeking their aid. The witches peddle spells and useful enchantments—that sort of thing.”
“Potions?” Berengar asked curiously.
“With certainty, but you needn’t concern yourself with them. They’re harmless, really.”
“No one who dabbles in the dark arts is harmless, Laird O’Reilly.” Magic was a dangerous thing, which was one reason Berengar tried his best to keep his distance. None of his encounters with witches had ever ended well. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss Morwen after all. “You mentioned a fourth witch. I take it she’s not part of this coven.”
“No, she is not.” O’Reilly wrinkled his nose in disgust. “An old crone that dwells in the Devil’s Bit. Many great warriors and heroes have attempted to slay her over the years at the king’s behest. All perished.”
“It sounds like King Mór made an enemy of her.”
“Undoubtedly. It was said she placed a curse on the king’s family, which resulted in the death of his son and heir some years ago.”
A curse. Could be a good place to start. Berengar made a mental note to check into the prince’s death. Perhaps Mór was not the first victim.
The conversation was cut short by a loud knock at the door. A servant girl entered and offered an apologetic bow. “Forgive me, Laird O’Reilly, but the queen has requested your assistance with the funeral procession.” Her eyes fixed on Berengar’s scars.
“Yes, of course. I suppose we shall have to continue this conversation later,” he muttered almost as an afterthought.
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Whatever else he had learned from O’Reilly, Berengar knew one thing for certain: the old man was keeping something from him.
He found the princess in the chapel, where the king’s body had already been prepared for burial. Ravenna stood over her father’s corpse, which lay on a table in the center of the room. Two guards waited outside out of respect for her privacy. If the princess heard Berengar enter the chapel, she gave no sign of it. The mortician had done his work well; Mór looked almost the way he remembered. The king was dressed in splendid gold and purple burial clothes, and his hands were clasped around a sword that ran nearly the length of the table.
Candles burned softly, casting wavering shadows across the dimly lit room. The princess was also dressed in mourning black, though unlike her mother, Ravenna wore no veil. Her dark eyes shimmered like coals in the firelight. They were red, but he saw no tears.
“I remember that sword,” Berengar said to break the silence. “It saved my life on at least one occasion.”
“I can imagine. I grew up hearing the tales of the Poet Prince. I remember when they laid my brother to rest in the crypt. It felt at the time like the world had ended. That seems so long ago now.” She glanced away from her father and held Berengar’s gaze. “I gather you’re here to discuss the night of his death.”
Her words caught him off guard. With Mór not even cold in his grave, he had guessed she would want to wait until after the funeral. “There’s no need—”
“Weep not for him who is dead, nor grieve for him. Instead, weep bitterly for him who goes away, for he shall return no more to see his native land.” Ravenna’s expression was hard, almost fierce. “Do you like those words? They’re from a passage my father learned from the priests. He quoted it to me before my wedding day. At the time, I couldn’t understand why they made me feel quite so sad. Now I think I do.” She rarely blinked when she spoke. “Ask me your questions, Warden Berengar. I will do my best to answer, although I fear I will be of little help.”
“You were the last person to see your father alive. What can you remember?”
“My father summoned me to see him. The hour was late, but there was nothing unusual about it. While we were speaking, he stopped suddenly and clutched his chest as if he couldn’t breathe.” Ravenna shuddered at the recollection. “It was terrible. I’ll never forget the look in his eyes just before the goblet slipped from his hands. He fell from the throne, vomiting blood. By that time, I had shouted for the guards, but he was already dead.” Her voice never wavered as she spoke.
“What did the two of you discuss? The guards reported they heard raised voices coming from inside, as if you were arguing about something.”
She laughed—a dry, hollow sound that almost seemed not to belong to the beautiful young woman across from him. “My father was a great man, Warden Berengar—a great king. He devoted his life to Munster. He placed his duty to the realm above all else. Everything else. He was a great king, but he was not a good father. Our relationship was contentious, to put it mildly. I trust you gleaned as much from our meal together.”
“You don’t mince words.” With the exception of the High Queen, he had never met another royal who offered their true thoughts so freely.
“I’ve spent my whole life around people who’ve spent theirs playing games. I decided not to play games. That was what my father and I were discussing. I asked his permission to leave Munster.”
“I take it he refused?”
“Curious. I thought you were going to ask why I wanted to leave in the first place.”
“That’s plain enough. It’s clear to see that you’re unhappy.”
“I wasn’t always,” she said wistfully, and for a moment he caught a glimpse of the weariness that lay behind her fierce gaze. “You’re very observant, Warden. Or perhaps you simply understand unhappiness better than most.” She continued as if she already knew he would make no response. �
��Tell me, what’s it like to be free? To go where you wish? To do as you please? To chart your own course, free of whatever stories they tell about you?”
“They tell plenty of stories about me, Princess.”
“Yes, I know.” Ravenna smiled for the first time since the night he first encountered her, but it was a sad smile. “I’ve heard them all. I’m familiar with each of your titles. The people have names for me as well. Perhaps you’ve heard them. Do you know what they call me?”
She waited expectantly for a response, and this time he felt compelled to answer. “Nothing that I would give any credence to.”
Ravenna’s smile vanished in an instant, and her eyes widened in a show of surprise. When she spoke again, her tone was so soft that it sent a shiver running the length of his spine. “I think you’re rather kinder than you let on, Warden Berengar.”
“You’re wrong, you know. You’re free to be anyone you choose.”
“If only that were true.” Her expression hardened once again. “How old were you when you were married?”
The question caught him off guard, so much so that he surprised himself by answering it. “Sixteen.”
“I was younger than that when my father told me I was to be married off. I had never met the suitor. All that mattered was that the match would establish a valuable trading alliance for Munster. I did not want to go, but my father told me it was my duty to the realm. Munster’s great king put me on a ship the next day. There was no choice.”
“It must have been hard for you, leaving home so young.” It was clear now why Ravenna spoke without trembling. The princess was someone who had endured life’s cruelties and emerged stronger for them, like tempered steel. It was a trait they shared.
“I prayed every day and night to return. Eventually, my prayers were granted. My husband fell ill and died, and I was returned to Munster. Only the people believed he’d died because I was cursed, and that my brother’s death was also my fault. They called me the ‘Tainted Princess.’ The rumors spread, as such tales are wont to do. No more suitors came for the cursed beauty of Munster. My father blamed me. He said it was because I was too independent, too headstrong.”
The Blood of Kings Page 7