Neither spoke for some time. They lingered in silence on either side of the corpse, and he realized Ravenna was grieving in her own way. “Whatever his faults, your father loved you, Princess.”
She regarded him with a puzzled expression.
“I found a piece of parchment hidden away in his cloak—something he didn’t want his killer finding. He asked me to protect his daughter with my life, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”
He expected the words to comfort her. Instead, Ravenna looked as if she’d been struck. Her face grew white and her bottom lip quivered ever so slightly. Berengar decided to leave the princess to her grief.
He stopped just short of the doorway. “One final question, if you’ll permit me. Who was it who closed the king’s eyes?”
Ravenna bowed her head and looked once more upon her father. “I did.”
Berengar had a hard time believing most princesses would readily approach a fresh corpse. Then again, he was starting to suspect Ravenna was no ordinary princess.
“Warden Berengar,” she called out to him before he left the room. “Whoever killed my father—if you catch them, what will you do?”
“Only what I must.”
He left her as he found her.
They buried the king before the last light faded. Berengar watched the funeral procession from a secluded spot above the city, Faolán at his side. Crowds of onlookers packed the streets, undaunted by the icy northern winds in their hope of catching a glimpse of the king. The guards held the crowds back, away from the main road that ran from the city gate to the castle. Berengar couldn’t help wondering if the king’s assassin was somewhere among the sea of faces.
Monks in simple brown robes carried the king’s body, which was flanked on either side by brilliant golden banners bearing the sigil of his house. A priest in white walked ahead of the others, holding a processional cross. Two more priests followed at his heels, carrying lanterns meant to guide the king’s spirit home—a tradition that endured from the old ways, before worship of the Lord of Hosts began to replace fealty to the elder gods.
Composed and resolute, Queen Alannah and Princess Ravenna walked behind the king’s body. The king’s thane and royal adviser followed a short distance away, alongside three men in iron crowns who were undoubtedly Rí Tuaithe. To Berengar’s surprise, the king’s court magician was not among their number.
The procession marched through the city, allowing the people a final farewell to their king before starting up the castle stair on the way to Mór’s final resting place in the royal crypts. As the procession went by, Berengar looked on the king one last time, caught up in memories of days long past. Much had changed since then, but his debt remained.
I will find who did this to you, the warden promised Mór. You will have justice.
He would start by hunting down the king’s cupbearer, but first he would have to send a message to the High Queen, letting her know all that had transpired. The death of a king was no small matter, especially if Mór’s fears of a deeper conspiracy were true. News of the king’s death would ignite a wave of chaos that if left unchecked could spread beyond Munster’s borders and threaten the hard-won peace that had existed since the end of the Shadow Wars. That wasn’t going to happen on his watch.
As Berengar turned away, he noticed someone else standing apart from the crowd—a petite figure concealed by a gray cloak. Bushy brown curls poked out of a hood meant to hide her face, but despite the distance, he recognized her almost instantly.
Morwen didn’t seem to notice him watching. She had eyes only for the king. Her shoulders heaved violently as the procession went by, and her whole body began to shake. When the king’s body disappeared beyond the wall, she sank to her knees. Though it was too far away to see her tears, he knew she was crying.
Berengar forced himself to look away. “Come, Faolán.”
Some things could not be fixed with an axe.
Chapter Five
He still saw the bear in his dreams. Its bloodstained maw opened to let out a ferocious roar, revealing a set of monstrous fangs inches from his face. Its black fur bristled at his touch, damp from the falling snowflakes. He caught a glimpse of its claws and the vision in his right eye went dark, accompanied by searing pain. They toppled backward together off the rock and landed in the snow. He felt its hot breath on his face just before he drove the dagger into its heart.
He skinned the bear, its corpse still warm, and wore its fur to keep from freezing as he wandered through the forest. Somehow he made it to the village before collapsing into the snow from exhaustion. He felt someone standing over him, and before his eye fluttered shut, he heard a voice.
“Esben?”
The warden woke and reached for his eye patch. The first morning light stole like a thief into his room. An actual thief would have had a far more difficult time of it, as Faolán lay guarding the door, already awake. Berengar sat up and looked around the unfamiliar room furnished for his time in Cashel. The well-appointed chamber was a far cry from the Spartan living conditions he was accustomed to. In truth, he would have preferred a room at an inn or tavern, but at least with a room in the castle he could keep a closer eye on the royal family and their court. He did, however, appreciate the bed, as it was hard to find a cot or bed on the road that could accommodate his size.
Berengar climbed out of bed and approached his belongings. He hadn’t come to Munster to sleep—not that he ever slept all that well anyway. The dreams wouldn’t allow it. Sometimes they were of the bear. Very rarely he saw his wife waiting for him on the other side, but more often than not, his dreams were haunted by the faces of the men he’d killed, a number that had grown beyond his reckoning. Even after so much time had passed, the memories weren’t easy, but he supposed that was rather the point. That the deaths still weighed on his conscience at all was a sign that something of his soul remained, mangled though it was.
Berengar fastened his leather armor over the white undershirt he’d slept in and pulled on his boots. Then he reached for the weapons in the corner of the room and secured them one by one. Faolán growled and looked back at him with an annoyed expression, as if impatient to begin the day, and the warden swung the bear cloak over his shoulders and started toward the door.
“Time to get to work. We have much to do today.”
Faolán wagged her tail enthusiastically at the prospect.
Though a significant number of leads had already presented themselves, Berengar knew exactly where to begin. It was no accident the king’s cupbearer had disappeared not long after Mór was poisoned. If anyone had the answers he was looking for, it was Matthias. For the moment, everything else would have to wait.
Berengar wasted no time locating Corrin, whom he found outside the castle, listening to a report from two of his guards at the wall.
“Any luck locating the cupbearer?”
Corrin shook his head. “Not yet.”
“He’s probably lying low—waiting for things to calm down before he tries to secure passage out of the city.”
“Rest assured, the guards will find him if he shows his face.”
“I don’t plan on waiting for the trail to grow cold, Corrin,” Berengar said roughly. “What can you tell me about him?”
“Matthias is young—about seventeen, I’d wager. Quiet. Keeps to himself. From all accounts he’s known to be a decent lad, which was why this business is so surprising. His father was a soldier who died in King Mór’s service fighting the Danes, and I believe the king took Matthias on for that reason. The boy isn’t particularly bright, if you catch my meaning. It’s unlikely he would have secured the position based on merit alone.”
Based on what he’d learned so far, Berengar already believed the king’s assassin wasn’t working alone, and Corrin’s words only bolstered that suspicion. “Where does he live?”
“His home is in the Fisherman’s District. We have guards watching it at all hours. I gather you want to take a look around for
yourself?”
“Aye.”
“I can send some guards to accompany you, if you’d like.” Corrin motioned to a group of soldiers across the yard. He started to call to them, but Berengar held up a hand in protest.
“No. If he’s in hiding, the sight of more guards would only scare him away. I’ll have better luck alone.” Faolán’s nose was easily worth a company of guards.
Berengar bid farewell to Corrin and made his way down the castle stair on foot. The morning sun glowed brightly overhead, warming the summer air. The city below was already brimming with life. People rushed about their business, filling the streets with a flurry of activity. Although there was still a somber mood in the city, the sight was a stark reminder that life went on, much as it always had, even in times of tragedy.
When he reached the bottom of the stair, Berengar put up his hood to conceal himself and stepped into the crowd. He stopped only once to ask for directions to the Fisherman’s District from a vendor who didn’t even bother glancing up at him. Few paid him any attention, including the guards. In a city the size of Cashel, it was impossible to notice everyone at once.
Faolán stopped suddenly, and Berengar followed her gaze to a place where someone in a gray cloak was watching him from among the crowd. Before he could get a better look, a farmer on the way to the market went by with his herd, obstructing the warden’s view. By the time they passed, the figure was gone. Berengar lingered a moment longer and went on his way.
The Fisherman’s District was in a poorer area of the city. Since Matthias came from the nobility of the sword, it came as a bit of a surprise that he would live in such a place unless his nobility was in name only. Berengar understood that all too well. He came from a family of lesser nobility that had lost all its wealth and resources by the time of his father. For a lesser noble, to lose one’s land was to no longer be a noble, though the custom was different in the south.
He decided against starting at the cupbearer’s home. Matthias was unlikely to return there while it was being watched. Instead he set out to explore the neighborhood, asking locals what they knew of the young man. Most knew next to nothing, but a few said they had seen him in one of the local taverns on more than one occasion. The crowd thinned as he made his way to the tavern, which proved easy enough to find. Berengar entered with Faolán in tow, and the tavern’s proprietor gave them an unpleasant look.
“I’ll have to ask you to remove your animal,” the man said from behind the counter. “We might not have all the amenities of those self-inflated braggarts up-city, but this is still a proper place of business.”
Faolán snarled at the insult, causing the proprietor to whiten a shade, but Berengar calmly laid a pouch full of coins on the counter. “For your trouble. I promise we won’t be long.”
The man’s gaze flickered over to the pouch, no doubt estimating the worth of its contents. “Very well. I suppose I could make an exception—just this once. Now what’s this about? I’m guessing a man of your means didn’t come here just for a drink.”
Berengar fought back a grin. One of the advantages of being in the High Queen’s service was that he was rarely short of funds. “I’m looking for Matthias. I understand he comes in here fairly regularly.”
The proprietor looked troubled by the mention of Matthias. “He’s not in trouble, is he? You aren’t the first one to come looking for him. A band of guards was in here this morning.”
“Relax. I just want to have a talk with him. He must be a good customer to warrant such concern.”
At that, the man let out a hearty laugh. “Matthias isn’t a patron, sir. The lad works here, and a right good job he does too.”
“He works here?” Berengar repeated, surprised. It was hard to imagine the cupbearer to the king scrubbing floors in such an establishment.
“Aye, whenever he can, usually in the evenings. His mother’s been ill—very ill—for a while now, you see, and from what the lad tells me he’s had a hard time of it trying to pay for medicine.”
Interesting. Berengar wondered if anyone in the castle was aware Matthias had taken another job. “Had you noticed a difference in him recently? Maybe he’d been up to something unusual?”
The proprietor scratched his beard and seemed to think a moment before nodding. “There were a few times when he went out to meet with a strange man. Every time he came back, he was upset, but he never spoke about it.”
“This man—can you describe him?”
“I’m afraid not. I never saw much of him, but I can tell you where they met. It wasn’t far from here, just down the road across from the pavilion.”
“Thanks.” When Berengar looked away, he noticed Faolán staring at the door, her ears perked up. He turned back to the proprietor and lowered his voice. “Is there a back entrance?”
The proprietor looked at him quizzically but ushered them through the back door. Once outside, Berengar gripped the handle of his axe and quietly circled the tavern, where a familiar figure in a gray cloak was pressed up against the door, trying to listen in. Berengar grabbed the figure from behind and her hood slipped off, revealing the face of Munster’s court magician.
“You,” he said tersely, releasing his hold on the girl. “What are you doing here?” She must have followed him from the castle without being seen, an impressive accomplishment that only made him angrier. “I thought I told you to keep out of this.”
Morwen didn’t look intimidated in the least. “If you think I’m going to sit on my hands in the castle while you hunt for the king’s killer alone, you’ve got another think coming. I—”
At that moment, Berengar glimpsed movement down the road, and he held up a finger to silence her. He nodded at the spot where an adolescent in nondescript clothes emerged from an alleyway and checked to make sure he was alone.
“That’s Matthias,” Morwen whispered. “What’s he—”
“Look,” Berengar said as a second man approached Matthias. Berengar recognized him immediately. It was the captain of the déisi—the same man who escaped after attempting to kill Morwen. What was he doing in Cashel? “Move, or they’ll see us.”
Morwen raised her staff and ran a hand over the purple runestone fixed near its head. The rune glowed as the magician’s hand passed over it, and the letters of one of the charms etched into the staff glowed with purple light.
Matthias began to speak, but the déisi looked back suspiciously, and his gaze fell directly on them. Berengar flinched and started to move, but Morwen seized his arm and shook her head. The déisi stared right past them and returned his attention to Matthias.
“I’ve cast a spell of lesser concealment. They can’t see us.”
Berengar made no attempt at a response. He was too busy listening to the exchange.
“Where have you been?” he heard Matthias demand. “I’ve been waiting for hours.” The words were angry, but his tone was afraid.
The déisi ignored the question. “Are you certain you weren’t followed?”
“Yes, but it’s only a matter of time before the guards find me. The king is dead! You told me it was a potion of forgetfulness. You said no one would ever know.”
A guard walked down the street, whistling a lively tune, and both men fell quiet until he was out of sight.
The déisi’s voice was a low hiss. “You knew what this was when you accepted my offer. Or have you already forgotten about your poor mother?”
“I did what you asked. I want what was promised me.”
“Don’t worry. You will receive your reward.” As the déisi handed Matthias a silver medallion, the warden saw his hand grasp the hilt of his blade. Matthias, his attention focused on the medallion, failed to notice.
He’s going to kill him, Berengar realized. “Stop!” He threw himself forward, breaking the illusion, and the déisi met his gaze. There was no time to reach for his axe, so Berengar reached instead for the short sword sheathed at his side, but he was already too late. The déisi drew his blade and cut t
he cupbearer’s throat in one clean sweep. Blood spurted everywhere, and Matthias crumpled to the ground, his fingers twitching as he held the medallion. He was dead before Berengar reached them.
The déisi captain raised his cruel-looking curved blade and swung it at Berengar. The pair exchanged precisely three blows. The déisi successfully parried his first two strikes, but on the third, Berengar felt his sword cut through skin. The déisi stumbled past him, his side dripping with blood. Hatred etched itself across his face, and he fled, still clutching his sword.
“After him!” Berengar tore down the street in pursuit with Faolán and Morwen close behind.
Berengar chased the killer from the Fisherman’s District with neither showing any sign of slowing down. Despite his wound, the déisi ran like the wind was at his back, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. Bystanders grew more numerous as they crossed into a more affluent area of the city, and several people cried out when they saw the unsheathed swords. The déisi glanced over his shoulder and when he saw Berengar gaining on him, he shoved a spectator out of his way and joined the masses.
Berengar swore and slowed his pace, trying to spot his target among the crowd. Faolán came bounding up beside him, but Morwen seemed to have disappeared. I should have known it would be too much for her to keep up. “We can’t lose him, Faolán.”
The wolfhound sniffed the ground where a drop of the killer’s blood had fallen, and her tail straightened instantly as she pointed in the direction of the trail. She ran following the scent, and Berengar went after her, pushing his way through the crowd.
There, he thought, spotting a figure ahead. The déisi darted into an alleyway, just out of reach. Seconds before the man would have reached the end of the alley, someone thrust a boot in his path. The killer tripped and crashed to the ground, losing his grip on his sword. Morwen stood over him triumphantly, a devious gleam in her eyes.
The Blood of Kings Page 8