The Blood of Kings

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  According to Morwen, there were only three vendors in the city that sold both Mitragyna and Amanitas. A few sold one or the other. It was highly likely that whoever supplied the déisi with the poison had stopped in at one or more of these shops. Their first visit was to an herbalist, a kindly old woman with an obvious respect for Morwen. No one had purchased either ingredient recently, and there was no sign that either had been stolen. Next they stopped by a peddler of rare potions who had been sold out of both ingredients for months without replenishing his stocks.

  With their first two visits largely dead ends, they were on their way to the final place on Morwen’s list when Berengar heard a commotion coming from one of the nearby businesses, where a pair of men were harassing a goblin smith at his forge.

  “Look at this garbage,” said a hateful-looking man, sneering as he turned over a hammer in his hands. “You call this decent craftsmanship?”

  “Your kind don’t belong in our city,” said the man’s companion, who was missing several teeth. He looked back to see the small crowd of observers that had formed. “We should have exterminated your filth after the war.”

  Several onlookers cheered as the first man turned over the smith’s display rack while his companion held the goblin back. Others looked embarrassed, though none uttered a word of protest. Suddenly, the goblin let out a hiss and sank his file-point teeth into his oppressor’s hand, but the first man knocked him to the ground.

  The injured man swore and looked down at his bleeding hand. “Hold him.” He unsheathed an iron dagger.

  The goblin attempted to scurry away, but he wasn’t fast enough, and the first man forcibly restrained him. He hissed as the man with the dagger approached.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Berengar said, drawing their attention.

  The man stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the warden. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  Berengar didn’t bother reaching for a weapon. His hand shot out and snapped the man’s wrist, and the dagger fell away. He punched the man in the jaw once for good measure, causing him to spit out even more teeth. “You have exactly three seconds to get out of here before I reach for my axe.”

  The first man released his hold on the goblin, who landed in the dirt as the pair sprinted away.

  “That goes for the rest of you as well,” Berengar said to the crowd, which quickly dispersed. He reached down and helped the goblin to his feet.

  The goblin brushed himself off. “Thank you for your kindness. I am in your debt, human.” When he started to reach for the overturned display rack, Berengar grabbed his arm.

  “Those men would have killed you. You should keep your head down for a while. The city isn’t safe.” He walked away without another word.

  Morwen was waiting nearby, wearing a bemused expression. “I knew it. I was right about you.”

  “What?” Berengar demanded, unsure if she was making fun of him. He hadn’t liked the idea of being teased when they were on the road from Cill Airne, and he hadn’t warmed to it since then.

  “You could have gone about your business, but you chose to help that goblin—a nonhuman, I might add. I think you’re more than you pretend to be, Warden Berengar.”

  “I don’t like bullies, that’s all. Besides, aren’t you the one who told me I carry great anger inside?” he reminded her as they continued on their way.

  “Aye, but now I wonder if perhaps you use your anger as something to hide behind.”

  He glared at her. “You don’t know me. You’ve heard the stories and decided out of some misplaced romanticism to believe only the heroic ones. But I’m not the man from those stories. Don’t believe something just because you want it to be true, magician. You’ll only be disappointed.”

  Morwen acted as if she hadn’t heard him. “Here we are. I have a feeling our luck is about to take a turn for the better.” She pointed out a sign that hung in front of the alchemist’s store. “Keep up.” She headed for the door, and Berengar wondered if she was goading him for sport.

  It was an impressive shop, especially compared to the two previous establishments they’d visited. There were even more shelves and cupboards than he remembered seeing in Morwen’s laboratory, and all were stocked with expensive-looking potions, powders, and herbs. Berengar didn’t know much about alchemy, but from the volume and quality of the selection he saw, he guessed the owner was able to charge a hefty fee for all transactions.

  A bespectacled man in fine robes looked up at their approach. His brow furrowed when his gaze fell on Morwen.

  “Greetings, Delvin,” the magician said in a friendly tone. “You’re just the man I was looking for.”

  “Lady Morwen?” He was clearly surprised to see her. “I almost didn’t recognize you in those clothes. It’s good to see you again. I hadn’t heard that you’d returned to Cashel.”

  “That would be a surprise.” She paused for what Berengar assumed was dramatic effect. “As my departure was a closely-held secret. Curious that you should be aware of it.”

  Delvin swallowed nervously. “I must have heard a rumor from one of my customers.”

  “It’s funny you should say that, because I was hoping to speak with you about one of those customers. You wouldn’t happen to have sold any Mitragyna or Amanitas recently, would you?”

  Delvin backed away and nearly collided with the wall. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  Morwen’s customary smile faded, and she took a step forward. “In that case, I’m sure you won’t mind if we take a look at your stock—seeing as how King Mór was poisoned with the Demon’s Whisper.”

  At that, the alchemist attempted to flee, but Berengar grabbed him and held him in place.

  “Please, Lady Morwen…”

  “Don’t worry, Delvin—I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not fond of violence. My friend the warden, on the other hand…”

  Delvin’s eyes darted over to Berengar, and he began to shake. “Which warden?” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

  Morwen laughed. “Which one do you think? I think the eye patch and the scars rather give it away.”

  “Who bought those ingredients?” Berengar demanded. “Tell us, or I’ll use your face to sharpen my axe.”

  “A goblin merchant from Limerick,” Delvin shouted. “He’s the one you’re looking for. The scum probably crafted the poison.”

  Berengar started to relinquish his hold, but Morwen shook her head. “It’s never wise to hide the truth from a magician, Delvin. We can always tell when you’re lying.”

  Berengar didn’t wait for a response before slamming Delvin into a row of shelves, causing numerous vials of ingredients to shatter as they spilled onto the floor. “Last chance. Or they’ll be picking pieces of you off the floor.”

  “Fine,” Delvin pleaded. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just don’t hurt me.” Berengar released him, and the alchemist fell to the floor in a disheveled heap. “The Mitragyna and Amanitas were purchased through an intermediate by an anonymous third party. I had no idea what they were planning, you have to believe me!”

  “This intermediate,” Berengar said. “Who was he, and how can we find him?”

  “I don’t know his name. He’s a man from Leinster. I suspected he was a member of the Brotherhood of Thieves. He has a shaved head and a well-groomed beard…and half his left ear is missing. I don’t know where to find him. I was paid handsomely not to ask questions.”

  “That’s not good enough.” Berengar slowly reached for his axe.

  Delvin held up a hand in desperation. “Wait! Ours wasn’t the only transaction he was paid to arrange! There’s an auction set to take place tonight in the underground market, and there’s every reason to believe he’ll be in attendance.”

  Morwen crouched beside Delvin, and her expression brightened once again. “See, Delvin? I knew you could be reasonable.”

  Berengar couldn’t help being impressed. Despite her age, Morwen’s methods had actually p
roven quite effective. “Any idea where we can find this underground market?” he asked as they left the alchemist’s shop.

  “Not the slightest, but I know someone who almost certainly does—Marcus O’Reilly.”

  “The royal adviser?”

  “He’s cleverer than he lets on. Laird O’Reilly has a network of spies that extends across Munster—perhaps even the whole of Fál. There isn’t much that goes on in the city he isn’t aware of.”

  When Berengar thought back to his initial meeting with O’Reilly, he remembered leaving with the distinct impression that although he had been doing the questioning, the old man was the one who was studying him. “The déisi didn’t find you by accident. King Mór suspected someone close to him leaked word of your location at Innisfallen. We have to be careful. I’ve had dealings with the Brotherhood of Thieves before. If the intermediate gets word we’re looking for him, he’ll flee the city. Can we trust O’Reilly to keep our task a secret?”

  He could tell from her expression the answer was no.

  “We have no choice,” she said. “It will be evening before long.”

  Together they walked along the road that led to the castle, once again on the assassin’s trail.

  Morwen’s suspicions proved correct. Laird O’Reilly was able to tell them everything they wanted to know and more. The underground market was just that—a market for illicit goods and services hidden underground, somewhere in the maze of tunnels connecting the sewer system. Patrons wore masks so as not to compromise their identities, or else acted through intermediaries. There were said to be a number of entrances, though O’Reilly was only aware of three—one of which Morwen appeared to be familiar with. Although he didn’t know the nature of the item to be auctioned off, it was rumored to be exceedingly rare and valuable.

  Berengar noted that O’Reilly, who made no attempt to disguise his curiosity about the nature of their interest in the underground market, asked almost as many questions as he provided answers. If they had been conversing with anyone other than a member of the royal court, the warden wouldn’t have hesitated to show his displeasure. Fortunately, Morwen proved adept at handling or deflecting each of O’Reilly’s inquiries. She was careful not to mention the man from Leinster or why they were searching for him.

  Could he have had a hand in King Mór’s death? Berengar wondered. Someone so influential and well connected would have had little difficulty securing the poison used to murder the king. As one of the king’s confidants, O’Reilly had probably known of Morwen’s journey to the monastery, if not the reason why Mór sent her there. Despite it all, Berengar couldn’t come up with a reason why O’Reilly might plot against the king. It seemed unlikely the old man would do anything to jeopardize his position when he already wielded more power and influence than almost anyone else in the kingdom. Still, Berengar made a note to look further into the royal adviser when the opportunity presented itself.

  “Do you plan on bringing guards?” O’Reilly asked. “If you would allow me to speak with Corrin, I am sure we could arrange—”

  Berengar cut him off. “No. It’s important that no one learn of this. No one,” he added for good measure, in a tone that conveyed he meant it.

  Before they departed, O’Reilly added one extra wrinkle to their plan when he warned them that all weapons were barred from the underground market. They would be going alone into unknown circumstances without the company of guards or the protection afforded by the warden’s axe. Berengar didn’t like leaving his weapons behind, but he wasn’t willing to risk their opportunity to find the man from Leinster.

  “Could you cast another vanishing spell?” he asked Morwen when they were out of earshot. “We could sneak into their gathering and grab the intermediate unseen.”

  “It’s a spell of lesser concealment,” she answered with a hint of irritation, “and it doesn’t work like that. The rune casts an illusion. Whoever is looking at us sees something else, but only if we remain perfectly still. And before you go asking if I have a potion of invisibility, the answer is no.”

  Berengar had just removed his short sword when his attention fell on the magician’s staff. “Your staff—you’ll have to leave it behind. It would be too easy for someone to recognize you if they saw it.”

  Morwen hesitated, clearly reluctant to part with her staff.

  “You can use magic without your staff, right?” He hadn’t forgotten the spell she cast that had gone awry when they first encountered the déisi on the road from Cill Airne.

  “Of course I can!” Morwen exclaimed, color rising to her cheeks.

  The crowds in the city had thinned, and a cool breeze blew gently at their backs. The sun had not yet set by the time they reached their destination, a large, two-story inn named The Troll’s Landing. According to local legend, the inn was built over the spot where a troll had been slain during an assault on Cashel centuries ago. Although such stories were often exaggerations, the massive troll skull that hung above the door was real enough.

  Inside, the lively inn was packed full of patrons. People shouted to be heard above the music, which coursed through the hall from a band that danced as they played. Several onlookers had gathered around a table near the roaring fireplace where two men were deep in a game of ficheall. A variety of banners, shields, and furs adorned the walls, and barrels and sacks were crammed into the corners of the room.

  Berengar entered and deftly sidestepped a barmaid with a serving tray, Morwen following close behind. Unlike the tavern he’d visited earlier that day, no one seemed to bat an eye when Faolán entered. Judging by the somewhat seedy quality of the clientele, that didn’t surprise him. His gaze swept the busy hall until at last he spotted an inconspicuous back room tucked away in a corner. Berengar drew nearer to get a better look, careful to avoid drawing unwanted attention. Though a parted curtain concealed most of the back room’s interior, he caught a glimpse of a man keeping watch on the other side of the threshold.

  After a moment, a patron approached from the crowd and stepped through the curtain.

  “Password?” demanded the man posted on the other side.

  The patron muttered a response, and Berengar heard something that sounded like the hinges of a door opening. He waited a few minutes longer, but the patron did not return.

  “We have a problem,” he said to Morwen. “A password is required to gain admittance.” Worse, he couldn’t force his way inside without raising the alarm.

  “The only way we’re getting to the auction is through that door. To do that, we need a distraction. I’ll keep everyone occupied while you deal with the guard.”

  “And just how do you plan on doing that?”

  Without warning, the hall erupted in a wave of cheers where the game of ficheall had apparently just concluded. One of the players stormed away angrily while his competitor stood and took a bow, basking in the crowd’s admiration. A hefty sum of winnings lay heaped on his side of the table.

  “Is there truly no one else who wishes to challenge me?” the ficheall player asked with an arrogant smirk.

  Morwen’s eyes darted to the pouch of coins Berengar carried, and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “How much money did you bring with you?”

  “What—” he started to ask before following her gaze to the table. “Have you lost your mind? That auction will be starting any minute and you want to play a game?”

  “Trust me, and wait for my signal.” With that, she walked off toward the fireplace.

  Berengar glanced at the coin pouch again, but it was gone. He swore under his breath and retreated to the safety of the bar.

  “I would like a game,” Morwen said meekly, approaching the ficheall player.

  The man looked at her in surprise and let out a mocking laugh. “Run along, little girl. This is no place for someone like you.”

  Morwen flashed an innocent smile. “I can pay.” She set the pouch of coins down on the table.

  Berengar saw greed dance in the man’s eyes, and th
e player’s lips spread into a wide grin. “Very well! Never let it be said I refused a challenge.” He motioned for her to take a seat. “Gather ’round,” he said to the crowd. “Perhaps I’ll take it easy on the lass, since she’s so young.”

  I hope she knows what she’s doing. Berengar started to order a drink before remembering she had taken his money.

  Morwen and her opponent quickly gathered their pieces and organized them on a handsomely carved game board. The magician’s pieces were a white bronze color, and those of her opponent were yellow gold. Berengar watched with interest from a distance. He was familiar with the rules of the game, even if he didn’t play himself. There was an art to playing a game of ficheall, which required a strategic patience he didn’t possess.

  Ficheall was a strategy game played on a grid of seven squares by seven. One player’s pieces were arranged around a king in the center of the board. These pieces were surrounded by an opponent’s pieces, and in order to win the game, the player had to successfully clear the way for the king to reach one of the grid’s edges. Their opponent’s objective was to capture the enemy’s king before this happened. A simple coin toss usually determined who played the role of the defender and who was the aggressor, and in sets of three, the players switched roles with each game.

  Morwen’s opponent started strong out of the gate, providing a string of impressive moves for his enthusiastic fans in the crowd. Morwen seemed to struggle with each decision, although she managed a few successful moves that the spectators attributed to luck. For a moment, Berengar thought she was going to lose, but then she seemed to come out of nowhere to capture her opponent’s king. The reigning champion was so stunned he couldn’t speak.

  “That was a good game,” Morwen said. “I got lucky, I guess.”