The Blood of Kings

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  “I’ll manage.” She sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

  He carved a piece of meat off a stick with his dagger and brought it to her. “I went hunting while you were out. Thought you might be hungry, being out here so long on your own.”

  Morwen devoured her portion and licked her fingers. “It’s delicious.”

  “Not the fare you’re used to at the castle, I’m sure, but it’ll do.” He brought her more, which she consumed with no less fervor. “Here,” he said, handing her his drinking horn. “You must be thirsty.”

  “Thank you.” Morwen gulped down the water and messily wiped her face. “What about you?” she asked, as if it had just occurred to her there was not enough of either remaining for him.

  Berengar shrugged. “I’ll live. You’re the one who needs to keep up her strength. We have a long journey ahead of us in the morning.” He saw she was shivering so he helped her over to the fire, where Faolán curled up at her feet. Her shivering soon subsided, and Berengar plopped down beside her. Together they stared into the flames.

  Both remained quiet for some time, until at last Morwen broke the silence. “How could he?” She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I thought my father was a good man. He sent all those people to their deaths. Everything he taught me about honor and decency…it was all a lie. He never cared about me. He just wanted a magician loyal to the throne.”

  “That’s not true. Your father loved you, in his own way.” He remembered how Mór had pleaded with him to retrieve Morwen from the monastery. Even dying, Mór’s sole concern was for his daughter. In a sea of secrets and lies, the king’s concern was the one truth—the concern of a father for his daughter.

  “He took those people away from their families. They were sacrificed to invoke blood magic, all in the name of peace.” The pain in her words was clear.

  “I’ll not pretend to understand the king’s mind. The weight of the crown changed him from the man I once knew. Some men do evil in the service of what they think is good. I know of what I speak. Your father was human, Morwen—neither all good nor all bad.”

  “He lied to me. So many times I wondered who my mother was. He said she was dead when all along he knew the truth. He gave himself to her to make me. He was with her.” Despite the warmth of the fire, Morwen shivered, as if repulsed by the very idea. “I’m the daughter of a witch.” Her eyes red, she looked at him with a sad, questioning expression very different from the cheerful young woman he had come to know. “I came from evil. Do you think…does that make me evil?”

  In that moment, Berengar couldn’t help remembering the first time he met her at Innisfallen, and how he’d been willing to cut down all twenty men who stood in his way to fulfill his pledge to the king before Morwen had left the safety of the tower and put herself at risk to peacefully defuse the situation.

  “In my travels, I have seen much darkness,” he said. “But there is none in you. Your heart is true, Morwen of Cashel. The blood of kings flows through your veins.”

  “I miss him. I feel so lost without him—lost and alone.”

  “I know the pain. I had a wife once. She died in childbirth.” He stared at her in the firelight. “If I had a daughter, I would want her to be like you.”

  Morwen started to reply, but her voice broke, and without warning she began to cry. Tears streamed down her face, and her entire body shuddered with each violent sob.

  An instinct from another life took over, and Berengar reached out to her. His hand was more accustomed to killing than comforting, but when he laid it on her shoulder, Morwen threw herself against his chest and wept openly, holding him as if the rest of the world had fallen away and she was afraid he too might leave her. The warden hesitated before patting her on the back, as if to tell her everything would be okay, even if he wasn’t certain he believed it.

  Berengar held her until at last she cried herself to sleep. He eased Morwen down to the soft earth and covered her with his cloak for warmth as Faolán nestled beside her. Perhaps in sleep she would find some measure of peace, at least for a time. Wolves howled somewhere in the darkness as the sounds of night spread through the forest. Berengar turned away and gathered some firewood to feed the dying flames before settling in for the long night, his axe across his lap. There would be no sleep for him—not until they were out of harm’s way.

  In the morning, they started the trek back to the world of men. Berengar carried Morwen and her belongings in addition to his own, shouldering the additional burden without missing a step. He once had to haul a giant on foot across the frozen tundra to the north. In comparison, an adolescent girl weighed next to nothing.

  Neither spoke of their conversation from the previous night. Despite her injuries, Morwen’s spirits seemed improved, even if she remained somewhat subdued. She did not cry again. Her duel with the witches had left her drained, as had the extent of her fall. Berengar decided he wouldn’t have minded if she teased or pestered him with questions if it meant she was on the mend.

  More ravens flocked overhead, flying east. Berengar waited for them to pass before emerging from the forest. He hadn’t forgotten what the witches had said about a darker presence that had taken root in Munster. Was it a veiled reference to the crone that dwelled in the Devil’s Bit, or something else? Agatha denied any involvement in Mór’s poisoning and Calum’s death, but what if she was lying? The circulum onerariis would have allowed the witches to enter and depart the dungeons unseen, especially if Minerva erased the guards’ memories. All the pieces seemed to fit, perhaps a little too perfectly, as if someone had intentionally left them for him to put together.

  “You’re troubled,” Morwen muttered, her eyes closed. “I can sense it.”

  “I warned you to stay out of my head.” This time he made the remark in good humor. “It’s nothing.”

  “I saw your reaction when Agatha spoke of the Lord of Shadows,” she replied as if reading his thoughts. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a look like that on your face before. Could he be active in Fál once again?”

  “No. Magic prevents him from setting foot on the island. He was banished from Fál and can never return. The High Queen told me so herself.”

  Morwen yawned, and for a moment he thought she had again fallen asleep. “Tell me about the war. Father never spoke of it.”

  It wasn’t a subject Berengar was particularly keen on delving into himself, but if it would keep her with him there in the present…

  “Before you were born, these lands were full of terrible monsters and evil sorcerers, until Wise King Áed and Thane Ramsay of Connacht ushered in a time of peace between the five kingdoms. But no peace lasts forever, and when Áed fell, the whole of Fál descended into chaos and war. Out of that chaos rose Azeroth, the dark sorcerer who sought to bring the island under his rule. He might have succeeded had Áed’s niece, Princess Nora, not stepped forward to unite the kings and queens of Fál under one banner.” A snore pulled him from the past. Morwen had fallen asleep in his arms. Berengar stopped talking so as not to wake her and continued on his way.

  They went the whole morning without encountering a soul. Sweat trickled from the warden’s brow as the noon sun bore down from above. The sticky heat seemed to permeate every part of his being, and the fur cloak was like a furnace on his back. Morwen spoke less and less as the day went on. It wasn’t long before she stopped responding to the sound of his voice altogether. Her skin grew pale and clammy, signs she was developing a fever.

  Berengar kept on tirelessly, one step after another. Faolán barked loudly, and when Berengar glanced up, he saw smoke rising in the distance. The outline of a human settlement loomed ahead.

  “Berengar?” Morwen’s voice was no more than a whisper.

  “Stay with me.” She moaned as he jostled her about. The potion’s effects were wearing off, if they hadn’t already.

  He carried her across acres of farmland, passing herds of grazing sheep and goats along the way. The shape of the town became clearer a
s they approached, a moderately sized farming community by the look of it. Berengar felt Morwen’s hold on him weaken, and her breaths were labored and shallow.

  He quickened his pace. “Hold on. We’ll be there soon.”

  When he entered the settlement, the townspeople stopped what they were doing and gathered around him at the sight of the girl he held in his arms.

  “She needs a healer,” Berengar shouted. “Now!”

  “Take him to Iona, Thomas,” a man from the crowd said to his son, a young boy of no more than eight or nine. “Go now.”

  “This way, sir.” The boy hurried to a small hut at the edge of town. The door crashed open under Berengar’s weight, revealing the interior of an herbalist’s shop, where a woman at a desk was crushing dried leaves with a mortar and pestle. Berengar assumed this was the Iona the man spoke of.

  The herbalist’s eyes moved from Berengar to Morwen, lingering for a moment on the magician’s staff. “Set her over there.”

  Berengar eased Morwen onto a small cot in a cramped corner.

  Iona crossed the room and began rummaging through the contents of a set of cabinets. She returned with an armful of powders and ointments. “What happened to her?”

  “She fell and broke her leg. A fever set in.”

  Iona grimaced as she removed Morwen’s bandages. “It’s broken in two places. Hold her down. I’ll need your help for this.” Her tone was sharp. She took a candle and began burning a mixture beside the cot. “It’s for the pain.” She stopped to wash her hands in a bowl of water at Morwen’s bedside. “This will not be pleasant—for either of you.”

  Berengar forcibly restrained Morwen, who let out a terrible scream as Iona manually returned the bones to their natural alignment. When it was over, Morwen slumped on the cot, semiconscious. Berengar backed away to allow the herbalist to work unencumbered. He stood beside Faolán, watching as the woman applied a salve made of boiled elm and linseed before wrapping her in bandages soaked in oil and resin. Iona administered a milky white substance to Morwen by mouth. She looked her over for a long moment and turned away with a sigh.

  “I’ve administered a decoction of yarrow and white willow for her fever,” Iona explained. “She has an unusually strong constitution for a girl her age. She will live, but it will take time for her to fully recover. The bandages will need to be changed every few days.”

  Berengar stood at Morwen’s bedside. The magician had fallen into a deep slumber and now lay perfectly still, lost to the world. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”

  Iona collapsed in the chair at her desk, seemingly exhausted from the sudden excitement. She glanced over at the boy who remained in the corner of the room, white as a sheet. “Be a dear and fetch your father, Thomas. I am sure he will wish to exchange words with our new guest.”

  The boy didn’t need to be told a second time. He bolted from the herbalist’s shop, running as fast as his legs could carry him.

  “I can see you care dearly for her,” Iona said. “She is lucky to have such a devoted father.”

  Berengar turned away from the cot. “She’s not my daughter. I barely know her.”

  Though Iona appeared surprised, she did not comment further on the matter. When Berengar produced a pouch of coins and offered her payment, the herbalist shook her head and turned it away.

  “I see you wear the High Queen’s sigil. Many herbalists and alchemists perished in the purges that followed the Shadow Wars. Queen Nora put an end to them. I cannot accept payment from a servant of Tara.”

  After Azeroth fell, men saw magic and monsters lurking in every corner. Most alchemists and herbalists didn’t have a drop of magical blood, but that didn’t matter to the fanatics and a terrified populace. Even in a tolerant kingdom like Munster, there were still lingering resentments on both sides, years after the war.

  Berengar took a look at the tight quarters of the shop, which paled in comparison with the establishments he’d visited in Cashel while searching for the source of the Mitragyna and Amanitas used to produce the Demon’s Whisper. Although the place seemed reasonably well stocked, the rural setting was far removed from the finery of city life.

  “Are you sure? Must be hard for someone like you to make a living in a place like this.”

  Iona laughed. “I make do. The townspeople pay me in chickens and goats and the like.” She smoothed the folds of her dress, which was soiled with blood and grime from the procedure. Iona was a few years younger than middle-aged. She was fetching, in her own way. Her hair was a dark chestnut, streaked with more than a little gray. “The people need me here. Besides, volunteering our services is one of the only ways we’ll ever convince them we’re not the monsters the stories claim we are.” Her brow furrowed suddenly, and she studied him more closely. “Have we met before? I recognize your likeness.”

  “I doubt it,” he replied. “I am a stranger to these lands. The road is my home.”

  She shook her head, a hint of recognition in her eyes. “The riots at Dún Aulin. You were there, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Berengar muttered. “I was there.”

  He remembered it well. Five years into the High Queen’s reign, a band of radicals stirred the populace of Dún Aulin into a full-on revolt in an attempt to cleanse the city of all undesirables. The warden was sent in to restore the peace, but by the time he arrived, the streets were already paved in blood. Even those who committed no crime other than expressing belief in the elder gods had fallen prey to the mobs. Berengar would never forget the image that greeted his arrival—that of an alchemist crucified outside the city gates.

  “You’re him, aren’t you? The Bear Warden? I was a student at the Institute at the time,” she continued when he didn’t answer. “The school was under siege for two weeks before you showed up. We would have died if not for you. You delivered almost everyone out of the city unharmed.” She shuddered at the recollection. “After that, I traveled to Munster and completed my studies at Cill Airne. But I’ve never forgotten what you did that day.”

  Neither have the people of Leinster. When Berengar beheld the horrors at Dún Aulin, he was consumed by rage. He cut down all who played a part in the killings one by one, without mercy. Even those he saved were afraid of him after that. The Kingdom of Leinster was renowned above all else for its piety, and in the eyes of its people, he would forever be a monster for the sins he committed that day.

  From her cot, Morwen gave a snort but did not stir. Suddenly there came a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Iona called.

  In stepped a man Berengar recognized as Thomas’ father, a short but hefty man with a thick mustache. Though his attire was nothing out of the ordinary, he carried himself with an air of authority. The man nodded courteously at Iona, and then at Berengar, before looking over Morwen with a somber expression. “Thomas tells me she’ll be all right.”

  “I think that’s safe to say,” Iona answered.

  “Good,” Thomas’ father replied, turning to face Berengar. “You two caused quite a stir among folk in town, entering the way you did.” He held out his hand by way of greeting, and the two men shook hands. “I am Nathan, the town elder.”

  “My name is Berengar,” the warden replied. “And what town would that be, exactly?”

  “Knockaney, of course.” Nathan regarded him with a curious expression. “I take it you lost your way.”

  “Aye. We made our way from the forest. Yours was the first settlement we came to.”

  “You carried her all that way on foot?” Nathan sounded both shocked and impressed. “I’d wager you could use a drink and something hot to eat. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll see about a meal, and finding you lodging while we’re at it.”

  “That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.” Berengar lingered a moment longer beside Morwen before bidding Iona farewell.

  Most of the townspeople seemed to regard him with unease as he emerged from the herbalist’s shop.

  Nathan noticed the source o
f Berengar’s discomfort as they made their way across town. “You’ll have to forgive their suspicions, I’m afraid. We’ve had word the village of Ahenny was set ablaze by Danes not far from here.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “There’ve been sightings of strange riders about in at least two of the neighboring towns. Rumors, more likely than not, but between that and the king’s death, I reckon everyone is on edge. Then you show up with that axe on your back…” Nathan stopped and looked him over carefully. “Well, you have the look of a Dane about you, if I’m being honest. You’re not one of them, are you?”

  “No,” Berengar said in a tone that implied he did not particularly care for the question.

  “Bloody Vikings.” Nathan spat on the ground in disgust. “Good for nothing but sailing and killing.”

  Berengar followed Nathan to the local inn, a respectable-looking establishment that nevertheless appeared to accommodate few guests. Consequently, unlike the other townspeople, the innkeeper seemed utterly delighted to have a new patron. Though Berengar paid the weekly rate, he was unsure how long they would remain in Knockaney. Between the reports of Danes and the prospect of two vengeful witches lurking somewhere about, the town wasn’t safe for them. Neither could he very well leave while Morwen was still recovering, and yet every hour he spent away from Cashel put the royal family at further risk.

  With his business at the inn squared away, Berengar quickly consumed one helping of lunch, and then another. Nathan bought a round of drinks afterward in a show of hospitality, which they shared around a table with the innkeeper. The conversation quickly turned to the mystery of the king’s death, a topic rife with rumor and speculation. No word had yet reached Knockaney of the Witches of the Golden Vale or their whereabouts, which wasn’t entirely surprising, as the news was only a day old. Berengar mostly listened, grateful for the opportunity to quench his thirst.

  Finally, Nathan pushed his chair away to return to his affairs, and Berengar thanked him for his generosity. He made arrangements with the innkeeper to have a letter delivered to the castle informing Queen Alannah of the circumstances of their arrival in Knockaney. He left out most of the details of their confrontation with the witches on the chance the letter was intercepted before it reached Alannah’s hand. He then wrote a separate letter for the High Queen, detailing all the events that had occurred since he received King Mór’s initial summons, and instructed that it be delivered to Tara. When he was finished, he emerged from the inn and set about purchasing supplies in the town for the return journey. Luck was on his side for a change, and he found a farmer willing to part with two reliable mares for a reasonable sum.