“Impossible!” her opponent exclaimed. “Everyone knows it’s easier playing the aggressor. You must give me a chance to win back my money.”
“Well…” Morwen trailed off, looking at the expectant faces in the crowd. “Double or nothing?”
Her opponent’s eyes lit up at the prospect of winning back his money and then some, and they quickly reorganized their pieces.
When the next game started, Morwen dropped the façade of inexperience, and Berengar immediately realized the truth. The first game wasn’t a fluke. Morwen wasn’t a beginner—she was a master ficheall player. She winked at Berengar, and he rose and started toward the back room. He didn’t need to wait to see how this would end.
“Not so fast,” said the guard on the other side of the curtain, a pot-bellied middle-aged man with long, wispy strands of hair cascading down a balding head. “Do you have the password?”
“Aye. It’s written down. I know I have it somewhere on me.” As Berengar made a show of searching his pockets, the entire hall burst into thunderous applause. When the guard glanced curiously at the source of the commotion, Berengar knocked him out with a single blow and propped his body on a bench.
“A round of drinks on me,” he heard Morwen’s voice ring through the bar, followed by another chorus of cheers. A few moments later, she stole inside the back room, her pockets overflowing with coins. “It looks like you did quite a number on him,” she said, staring at the guard.
“Ready?” Berengar asked while putting on his mask.
“Aye,” Morwen said as she did the same.
Berengar lifted a trapdoor in the floor, revealing a short set of steps leading down. Faolán leapt to the bottom, and Berengar followed after. “Remind me never to play you at ficheall.”
“For heaven’s sake, Berengar—I’m a magician,” Morwen said while lowering the trapdoor. “If my mind isn’t nimble enough to beat some regional champion in a game of ficheall, I don’t deserve the title.” It was nevertheless obvious from her tone she enjoyed the compliment.
Torchlight illuminated the way down the ladder, casting a soft glow on an abandoned chamber below. At the bottom, there was a man-sized gap between the wall and a rusted iron grate that led into the sewers. Voices echoed somewhere in the darkness beyond. Berengar took a torch from the wall to light their way through the tunnels and squeezed his large frame through the narrow passage. He was forced to duck to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. Morwen slipped behind him without difficulty.
They followed the winding tunnels for several minutes without encountering a soul. The air was musty and cold. Rats scurried about at their feet. The sewer system was far more extensive than he ever would have guessed. Occasionally the torchlight revealed signs of prior occupation, including more than one wall drawing, and Morwen explained that in times past the tunnels were used to harbor the populace during dragon attacks.
Eventually the voices grew louder, and at last the tunnel emptied into an enormous underground chamber at the center of the labyrinth. The tunnel they had taken was just one route into the chamber; other paths were faintly visible beside each of the four staircases in the corners of the room. Berengar peered over a rail and spied an impressive gathering of masked and hooded figures below. From the sound of things, an auction was already underway. He looked for any sign of the man from Leinster, without success.
“We need to get closer,” he told Morwen.
With most of the room’s occupants preoccupied with the auction, the pair descended the stairs without attracting attention. The bidding stopped as they reached the bottom, and a weathered piece of parchment—possibly a map of some kind—changed hands. Berengar lingered at the outskirts of the room, searching for a masked figure with half an ear missing.
A man in a wooden mask stepped forward, and the chamber fell deathly silent. “Our final auction of the evening comes courtesy of our friends in the Brotherhood of Thieves—an item so rare and valuable it had to be kept secret until now. Calum, if you will?” The man snapped his fingers, and a figure in a black cloak and matching mask produced a lidded crate and lifted the lid for all to see.
Berengar immediately noticed that half of Calum’s ear was missing. Now we just have to find a way to get him out of here without being seen. He considered waiting until the auction had concluded and following Calum through the tunnels, but members of the Brotherhood of Thieves were notoriously difficult to trail. He was in the middle of cobbling together a plan when he felt Morwen tugging at his sleeve.
“If that is what I think it is, we have more pressing concerns.”
The crate held a large egg unlike any he’d ever seen. Reptilian scales covered the egg’s almost translucent surface, which pulsed with red light in a rhythm frighteningly similar to a heartbeat. “It’s just an egg,” he said, only half believing the words. A sinister aura seemed to emanate from the egg, spreading across the room.
“Not just any egg,” Morwen remained unable to tear her gaze away from the open crate. “That’s a coatl egg.”
“Coatl?”
“A winged serpent twice the size of most dragons. They’re so rare I’ve only heard about them in myths and legends. I didn’t think they actually existed.” Her eyes widened, and for the first time since he had known her, she looked afraid. “A single full-grown coatl could destroy the entire city. We can’t let it fall into the wrong hands.”
“What do you propose we do? We can’t exactly walk up to him and take it.”
Morwen flashed a mischievous grin that was becoming all too familiar. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. While everyone else is distracted by the auction, I’m going to steal the egg from right under his nose.” She handed Berengar her winnings from the ficheall match. “Just keep bidding.”
Berengar started to protest, but Morwen had already vanished into the throng of spectators. It wasn’t an easy thing to steal from a member of the Brotherhood of Thieves. No matter how deft and nimble Morwen believed herself to be, the attempt was incredibly dangerous—especially when they had come unarmed. The warden clenched his teeth and stepped forward, feeling frustrated she had left him no choice but to play his part.
The first bid was a sum extravagant enough to outfit a private army. From the way the man who placed it carried himself, Berengar was certain he was a high-ranking noble. He wondered what faces were hidden underneath those masks, and just how many supposedly model citizens showed their true selves underground where no one could see. Berengar pushed his way to the center of the room and noticed Morwen at the edge of the crowd, sneaking closer to Calum. As other bids came pouring in, he shouted a made-up number he assumed would be difficult to top, hoping the amount was believable given the size of the ficheall winnings. He was outbid before he had even finished speaking, just in time for Morwen—who had stealthily maneuvered her way behind Calum—to quietly reach out and grab the coatl egg.
Calum’s hand shot down and grabbed Morwen’s wrist in a flash, and she cried out in surprise. When the half-eared man jerked Morwen forward and ripped off her mask, everyone in the chamber went absolutely still.
“You think you can steal from me, girl?” Calum demanded with a cruel laugh.
Berengar inched closer to Morwen. So much for doing things the easy way. “Let her go.” Every head turned in his direction at once.
Most enemies assumed he was strong—it was his speed that always surprised them. No one ever expected a man his size to move so fast. Calum scarcely had time to open his mouth before the warden’s fist connected with his face, knocking the black mask away. In the next instant he drove his knee into Calum’s groin as Faolán leapt in to join the fray.
“We’re leaving,” Berengar told the masked figures, holding Calum by his cloak. He stood back to back with Morwen, surrounded by the crowd.
“I don’t think so,” said the man in the wooden mask, and guards approached, brandishing swords.
Berengar swore. O’Reilly said there would be no weapons. If I f
ind out the old man betrayed us, he’ll wish he’d never been born.
Morwen lowered her hood. “Stay back. I am Morwen, Court Magician to the Throne.” She stretched her hands out as if to cast a spell, and the guards hesitated. “Gaoth soilse amach!” A gentle breeze rippled through the chamber, but nothing happened. Morwen bit her lip nervously and tried again with the same result. The guards exchanged glances and laughed, emboldened by her failure.
“Do something,” Berengar said. When the closest guard attacked, he was forced to release his hold on Calum, who fled in the direction of the tunnels. Berengar caught the guard’s sword arm and drove his head into the man’s face, allowing him to pull the blade free. He held out the sword, daring the other guards to try him.
“I’m trying,” Morwen protested, attempting the same spell with different hand gestures while clutching the egg.
Just before the wave of guards hit, a strong wind rushed through the chamber and all the torches and candles in the room went out at once. Berengar felt Morwen grab his hand, and she guided him through the darkness, avoiding their attackers. Panicked cries sounded behind them as they sprinted toward the tunnels, where faint light glimmered in the distance, and Berengar caught a glimpse of the half-eared man’s cloak vanishing around a corner.
“After him, Faolán!” Berengar shouted. “We can’t let him escape.”
The wolfhound took off in pursuit, hot on Calum’s scent. She led them through the unfamiliar maze of tunnels, and they followed the sound of her howls. Berengar’s boots splashed across the muddy ground, causing rats and other vermin to flee before him. He rounded a corner and emerged into a chamber not unlike the one underneath the inn, where a stair led aboveground. A boarded covering was halfway ajar at the secret entrance, allowing moonlight to steal in from above. Berengar heaved the cover aside and emerged from a stone well that had been boarded over.
Faolán barked loudly, and Berengar saw Calum throw a farmer from his wagon and take the reins. The horses charged down the paved road at Berengar, who stood calmly in the wagon’s path. Just before it would have hit him, Faolán leapt onto the wagon and descended on Calum, who jerked the reins in surprise. The wagon overturned, skidding to a stop in the street. Calum crawled out from the wreckage, scraped and bleeding, and Berengar grabbed him by the hair and forced his head back. He trained the blade against the man’s neck.
“You’re done running,” he said as Morwen caught up with them, panting for breath. “I want to know who hired you to arrange the king’s assassination.”
“Do you have any idea who I am?” Calum demanded. “When the Brotherhood learns of this, they will come for me, and you will—”
Berengar drove his knee into the man’s face. He was starting to lose his patience. This was the second time that day he’d been forced to chase someone down on foot, and he was in no mood to play games. “Lie to me again, and I’ll start taking pieces of you.”
“I don’t know anything.” Calum spit at the warden’s feet for good measure.
Berengar’s sword flashed through the moonlight. Blood spurted into the air, followed by a terrible scream, and Calum’s amputated hand landed on the ground. Morwen looked at him in horror, no doubt taken aback by the display of violence, but Berengar ignored her. A warden could dispense the queen’s justice as he saw fit, and there was little anyone apart from a monarch could do to hold him accountable.
He tightened his grip on the whimpering man. “Start talking, or you won’t like what I’ll take next.”
“The contract was paid in gold,” Calum said through tears as he cradled the bloody stump. “I was to provide the ingredients and leave them at a prearranged location before returning to retrieve the finished product. I don’t know who prepared the poison.”
It must have been an outrageous sum, as the Brotherhood of Thieves rarely engaged in such activities. Assassinations were risky propositions at best, and often drew the sort of scrutiny the organization preferred to avoid. If Calum had possessed the foresight to turn down such a risky job, he might still have two hands.
“And the déisi? Did you hire them?”
Calum shook his head.
The individual behind the king’s murder had been clever indeed to keep their pawns separate from each other, which limited the information each was able to provide.
“The cupbearer’s killer was slain by an arrow before he could tell us what he knew,” Berengar said. “Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know,” Calum answered, and Berengar found himself growing frustrated.
Morwen spoke for the first time, her voice quiet and thoughtful. “The egg—how did you acquire it?”
Calum hesitated, so Berengar applied pressure to his wound. “Gorr Stormsson.”
Morwen knelt at the thief’s side and began wrapping his wound. “He’s weak from blood loss. He’ll die if he doesn’t receive treatment soon.”
Berengar heard voices and looked up. A crowd had started to gather, attracted by the overturned wagon and Calum’s cries. His gaze swept the rooftops, which were cloaked in shadow. They were too exposed, out in the open. He didn’t want a repeat of what happened that morning.
“Fine.” He pulled the thief to his feet.
“Where are you taking me?” Calum asked.
“We’ll see if a night in the dungeons will refresh your memory.” Berengar started up the road to the castle, dragging the captured prisoner behind him.
“What are you doing?” Morwen whispered under her breath as Berengar approached the castle gate.
Berengar didn’t answer.
When the guards noticed him, they regarded him curiously but parted to allow him entry. A group of onlookers watched as Berengar led Calum into the castle. Morwen continued to cast nervous, puzzled glances in his direction. The warden threw open the doors to the throne room and marched Calum toward the throne. All the members of the royal court immediately stopped what they were doing, and an eerie silence fell over the great hall.
Queen Alannah sat on the throne, looking particularly aghast at the scene. Ronan, beside the queen, put his hand on the pommel of his sword just in case. Laird O’Reilly went white at the sight of them. Princess Ravenna’s eyes gleamed with interest—as if utterly delighted something had finally broken the monotony of court.
Berengar threw Calum to the floor. “I am Esben Berengar, warden of Fál,” he loudly declared. “The man at my feet is responsible for poisoning King Mór, and I know someone in this room helped him do it.”
Chapter Seven
In the wake of Berengar’s dramatic entrance, the throne room quickly devolved into chaos, and it took some time to restore order. The commotion was by his design. By morning, half the city would have heard of what transpired in the throne room.
Once the prisoner was safely escorted to the dungeons, the queen summoned him to the limestone chamber where council meetings were held. Darkness seeped inside with night’s descent, held at bay by flickering torchlight.
Queen Alannah paced the floor between pillars, her hands clasped behind her back. It was difficult to read the queen’s expression in the dim light, but Berengar could tell she was angry nonetheless. Alannah struck him as someone acutely mindful of the image she projected, a necessary trait for a woman who had spent much of her life at the king’s side. Women in such positions were usually skilled at concealing their true feelings and opinions, often even more than the men. Now that the throne belonged to her, and she was free to do as she wished, he wondered what kind of monarch she would be.
“What were you thinking?” Alannah demanded. “You come barging into the throne room with a bleeding captive in tow—a man you claim arranged to have my husband killed—and have the temerity to accuse the members of my court of treachery?”
No one spoke as the queen awaited his response. Morwen, Thane Ronan, and Laird O’Reilly had assembled around the alderwood table, forming an informal council of sorts. Only Princess Ravenna stood apart from the others, watching
from the balcony with a somewhat bemused expression as the last members of court departed the castle.
“You were in no danger,” Berengar said. “I made sure of that.”
Alannah shook her head at the words, as if in disbelief, and her facial muscles tensed. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? I’ve only just begun my reign. I need the support of the noble houses and the great lords of Munster to keep the peace. I would have thought you at least might have known better, Lady Morwen.”
Morwen, still wearing the gray cloak and commoner’s clothes that comprised her disguise, hung her head in shame.
“Worse still, you chose to hunt for this man alone, without consulting me first. What if he had eluded your grasp? Did the thought even occur to you?” Berengar held her gaze for a dangerously long moment. “With respect, Your Grace, I don’t require your permission.”
Coming from anyone other than a warden of Fál, such an impudent remark would have constituted just cause for flogging—if not worse.
It was a measure of the queen’s restraint that she kept the anger from her voice. “Did anyone else know of this?” She cast a dark glance around the room.
Laird O’Reilly bowed low. “Warden Berengar and Lady Morwen came to see me earlier, making inquiries about the underground market. They made no mention of the reason for their interest. I offered to supply them with guards, but the warden insisted on keeping the matter a secret.”
Like many royal advisers worth their salt, O’Reilly possessed an obvious talent for shifting blame. Berengar bit back the response already on the tip of his tongue. He and Morwen told no one else of their plan to enter the underground market—only O’Reilly, who had conveniently forgotten to inform them that a password was required to gain entrance. Had the man intentionally omitted the truth about the armed guards in the tunnels, or did he truly not know? Berengar decided to say nothing, at least for the time being.
Morwen glowered at O’Reilly, no doubt thinking along similar lines. “We almost lost our heads down there. You might have been more forthcoming with information.”
The Blood of Kings Page 11