The Blood of Kings

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  He lowered his voice, careful not to be overheard. “The crone suggested shadow magic is involved.”

  Shock registered on her face. “You don’t mean—”

  Berengar nodded. “There’s a chance the Lord of Shadows is active in Fál once again. I will write to the High Queen at once asking if she has heard anything of Azeroth from her spies and scouts. In the meantime, I would advise you to say nothing of this to Queen Alannah until we know more.” Any mention of Azeroth would undoubtedly cause a panic.

  “Azeroth,” Morwen muttered, shocked. “But I don’t understand. What would he want with King Mór?”

  Berengar shrugged. “Who can fathom the motives of a dark sorcerer? Make no mistake, if Azeroth is involved, it’s power he’s after.”

  There was good reason for Morwen’s concern. Even a powerful, well-trained magician was no match for a sorcerer, and the Lord of Shadows—as skilled with a blade as he was with magic—was no ordinary sorcerer. Whatever it was they were up against, it would probably take the both of them to confront.

  Berengar came to a sudden stop. “Wait. We’ve been here before.” There was something familiar about the neighborhood Morwen led him through. They were back in the Fisherman’s District, where he chased the déisi captain through the streets.

  Morwen nodded. “If you remember, Matthias made a deal to add the poison to the king’s goblet in return for an enchanted medallion he thought would help his mother’s illness. With Matthias dead, the poor woman has no one left, so I made inquiries to see if there was something I could do to help.”

  Few would have thought to help the family of someone who abetted the king’s murder, Berengar observed. It certainly wouldn’t have occurred to him. Then again, Morwen was kinder than most.

  “I expected to learn she had been reduced to begging, but instead I discovered someone has been paying for all her needs.”

  Berengar frowned. Had the conspirators actually honored their promise to Matthias, even after silencing him? “Who would offer such help?”

  “That’s just it. The healer I spoke with doesn’t seem to know. They say she’s not long for this world, so I came to see if there was anything I could do for her.”

  They soon arrived outside the house where Matthias had lived with his mother. There was not a soul in sight, as the guards once stationed outside were removed after the cupbearer’s death. No one answered when Morwen knocked on the door. After a few moments, Berengar tired of waiting and forced his way inside.

  Matthias’ mother lay in bed, her eyes closed. Berengar could see why the cupbearer was so desperate to get help for her. The woman was in bad shape. Her complexion was waxy, and her breaths were labored and shallow. She had been propped up in bed, as if unable to sleep lying flat on her back. Morwen tried rousing her, but the woman let out a painful moan and refused to stir. After placing her satchel on the bed and sitting at the woman’s side, Morwen gripped her hand and listened intently.

  “It’s her heart,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do for her. She’s beyond my skills as a healer or the use of potions.”

  The admission served as a reminder there were some things even magicians couldn’t accomplish, even with all their arts. Morwen withdrew a bottle that contained the same maroon substance she took to dull the pain of her broken leg and left it at the woman’s bedside. Berengar turned and started toward the door, but Morwen stopped behind him, wearing a peculiar expression.

  “What is it?”

  “I sense something. It almost feels like my father’s presence…but it can’t be.” Morwen shut her eyes at once and raised her hand to the level of her face, extending her first three fingers as she had in the witches’ abode. Berengar followed her as she walked into the pantry, a small space crammed with stores of food. Morwen opened her eyes again and stared down at the floor, which was partially covered with a worn and faded carpet.

  “I don’t understand,” Berengar said. “There’s nothing here.”

  Morwen knelt on the floor and moved the carpet aside, revealing the wooden floorboards underneath. Her hand sought out one floorboard in particular, and the loose floorboard came away in her grip, exposing a small hideaway spot. Inside was a small book.

  Morwen took the book and opened it to the first page. “It’s written in the king’s hand.” She looked up at him in amazement. “This was his journal.”

  “Matthias must have stolen it and hidden it away here as insurance,” Berengar muttered. “It must contain something his conspirators didn’t want coming to light.” He paused. “Whoever ransacked King Mór’s chambers must have been after this book.”

  Morwen started to reply, but her eyes widened, and she spun around, glancing at the window.

  “What is it?”

  “We’re not alone,” she answered. “There’s someone outside.”

  Berengar cleared the room in an instant and burst out the door, his hand on his sword, but there was no one there.

  Morwen stood behind him. “They’ve gone.”

  Berengar’s gaze wandered to the journal in her hands. “We need to know what it says. We should leave for the castle at once.”

  “I agree.” Morwen hastily stuffed the book into her satchel, and they hurried down the street.

  The city was on high alert in preparation for the impending ceremony. There were guards posted on every corner, and for good reason—the crowds continued to swell as the day marched on, both from those coming and going in the marketplace and the newcomers arriving for the queen’s coronation. The flurry of activity slowed their pace considerably. While making his way through the market, Berengar quickly found himself wishing he’d brought a horse. When Morwen stopped to purchase a morsel from a vendor, the warden noticed a man in a hood staring at them through the masses.

  To avoid alerting the man, he turned his back and whispered into Morwen’s ear. “There’s someone following us. Perhaps he’s the person you sensed earlier.”

  “What should we do?” she asked in a hushed tone, clearly fighting the impulse to look back.

  “Nothing. Let him come to us.”

  She nodded to show she understood.

  They resumed the walk through the market as the hot sun bore down overhead. Berengar pretended to peruse the wares of various craftsmen along the way, occasionally catching a glimpse of their pursuer’s brown cloak out of the corner of his eye. Each time the man appeared closer than before, until at last he was right behind them. Berengar exchanged a glance with Morwen, who walked with the hint of a smile. He waited for the hooded figure to silently reach his hand into Morwen’s satchel before seizing him. The man thrashed against his grip until Berengar slammed him against a vegetable stand, causing fresh carrots and lettuce to fall to the ground. When the angry vendor stepped forward to give him a piece of his mind, he took one look at Berengar and apparently thought better of it.

  “Looking for this?” Morwen asked the would-be thief, holding the journal just out of reach.

  When the man tried stretching out his hand to grab it, Berengar hurled him onto the road. He tried to escape, but Faolán leapt on his stomach and pinned him to the ground.

  Berengar knelt beside the man and held him by the throat. “I’m only going to ask this one time. Who are you?”

  “I’d answer him if I were you.” Morwen returned the journal to her bag. “He means it.”

  “Have mercy,” the man coughed out when Berengar released his hold. “I was only following orders.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Laird O’Reilly’s. He sent me to follow you. He thought you might lead him to the book.”

  “Why?” Berengar demanded.

  “He didn’t say—I swear it. He was convinced the king’s cupbearer hid something away inside the house. I searched but found nothing.”

  Berengar glanced over at Morwen. “I’d wager all the coins on me that O’Reilly was the one paying for that woman’s care. He didn’t want anyone else poking around inside, at least no
t until he found what he was looking for.” He turned his attention back to the man quivering below him. “Did O’Reilly have a hand in the king’s death?”

  “I don’t know. Please, I’m only a servant.”

  “I believe you.” Berengar held out his axe inches from the man’s face. “Do you see this axe? My friend, the magician, has enchanted it to withstand almost anything. I could cut into the street and the axe wouldn’t break. Imagine what it could do to your bones.” He gripped the spy by the shirt and held him up. “If you mention any of this to your master, I’ll show you myself. That’s a promise.” With that, he released the man, who scrambled to his feet and ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. “If Laird O’Reilly went through all that trouble to get to the journal, there must be something in its contents he doesn’t want anyone to see. Or perhaps he’s just afraid of what it might contain. Either way, it doesn’t speak well of his motives.”

  “I agree,” Morwen said. “He could have had his spies trailing us for days, possibly since you arrived.”

  Berengar still hadn’t forgotten how O’Reilly nearly sent them both to their deaths in the underground market. “What do you know about him?”

  “Beyond his position?” She shrugged. “Very little. Only that he’s been at the castle for many years, long before I was born. I believe he comes from privilege. In his youth, he received a prestigious education at Cill Airne. Apart from that, I cannot say. He’s always been difficult for me to read, but it’s hard to think of him as a murderer. Do you really think he might have been involved in the plot against the king?”

  “There’s something he’s hiding. I know that much,” Berengar told her. “Just earlier he told me he was planning to retire. It’s hard to see why he would run if he was innocent. Let’s go through the contents of that journal first. Then we’ll decide what needs to be done about Laird O’Reilly.”

  On the eve of what should have been a joyous occasion, the mood in the queen’s hall was strangely somber. Berengar observed the chamber’s occupants from where he sat at the end of the banquet table. Alannah herself was quiet, as was her way. Ronan sat at her right hand, once again dressed in fine clothes. He did not appear shaken in the slightest by their journey to the Devil’s Bit. Berengar noticed Princess Ravenna again deep in conversation with Desmond, though her gaze occasionally drifted in his direction. The warden turned his attention to Marcus O’Reilly, who, if he had learned of what transpired in the market, was careful not to show it.

  He again considered everything he’d experienced since his arrival at Cashel. For each secret he uncovered, two more rose in its place. There were still many unanswered questions concerning the attempt on Morwen’s life, the plot to blackmail the king, Mór’s deal with the Witches of the Golden Vale, and the mystery of the magical threat to the realm, to name but a few. Then there was Corrin’s disappearance and the threat of Gorr Stormsson, which hung over the room, unspoken. Despite all he had learned, he seemed no closer to identifying Mór’s killer than before. Many had cause to want the king’s death. Unless the king’s journal contained some clue, the trail had run cold, and with the queen’s coronation looming, his time to act before the ceremony was running out.

  Morwen, seated far to the queen’s left, hardly touched her food, and Berengar caught her stealing furtive glances in his direction throughout dinner. When the meal was over, Berengar fed his scraps to Faolán and excused himself. There were still questions that needed answers.

  Desmond and Ravenna left the table early, and he found them in the courtyard, strolling through the garden as the princess’ guards trailed a respectable distance behind. When they saw him approaching, the pair stopped and waited for him.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” Berengar said. “I was hoping I might have a quick word.”

  “Of course.” Ravenna turned to her companion. “Will you excuse us, Desmond?”

  “Actually, it was Desmond I was hoping to speak to.”

  “How may I be of service?” Desmond asked when they were out of earshot.

  “It’s come to my attention that Laird O’Reilly spent some time in Cill Airne as a young man. As Laird Tierney’s son, I thought perhaps you might be familiar with his background.”

  “Laird O’Reilly is well known to us. He was a friend of my father in their youth. He’s widely considered one of the cleverest students to come through the Institute, though he was forced to leave for a time before he completed his studies.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “It was on account of his father, as I recall—a lesser noble who became entangled in a dispute with Munster’s thane during the reign of King Mór’s grandfather. The king stripped O’Reilly’s father of his title and holdings, leaving him penniless.”

  “But he later completed his education?” Berengar asked.

  “Yes. He sided with the king over his family and in so doing earned his favor. The crown even paid for his education. When his schooling was finished, he took a position in Cashel and has been here ever since.”

  “Thank you,” Berengar said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  He didn’t have to try hard to imagine what it would have been like for someone of O’Reilly’s ambition to lose his fortune and position at a young age. If anything, such a blow probably made his inclination to hold onto power and wealth that much stronger.

  A messenger appeared, dressed in Laird Tierney’s colors. “There is urgent news from Cill Airne. Your presence is required.”

  “It appears I must leave you,” Desmond said. “Give my regards to the princess.” He paused, as if dancing around a delicate subject. “There’s nothing between the two of you, is there?”

  “No.” Berengar’s voice was almost a growl. He was growing tired of being asked that question.

  Desmond nodded, as if expecting this answer. “There’s one other thing. I hesitate even to bring it up, but it was rumored Laird O’Reilly lost a great deal of his wealth some years ago due to an ill-timed trading investment. I trust you will be discreet with this information?”

  “Of course.”

  Desmond smiled. “Farewell, Warden Berengar.”

  Ravenna, who had lingered in the background during their conversation, again drew near at Desmond’s departure. “It seems I am in your debt again, Warden Berengar.”

  “How so?”

  “The timing of your arrival was perfect, as I had just rejected Desmond’s proposal. We are old friends, and I had no wish to cause him pain. Like me, he is no stranger to life’s cruelties.”

  “Really?” Berengar offered her his arm, and they walked together.

  “We both had miserable fathers, for one. Desmond wanted to be a scholar when he was younger, until Laird Tierney forced him to abandon his studies in the wake of the war. He feared his subjects would not want an alchemist for their future ruler.”

  He was probably right, Berengar thought. He remembered the ease with which the people of Cill Airne accepted the lies of the déisi, eager to blame magic for all their problems. He had no doubt those in the siege party would have burned Morwen at the stake without a second thought.

  “Then some years ago, Desmond’s escort was attacked on the road by Danes. He was taken prisoner. Laird Tierney refused to pay the ransom, and Desmond was held hostage for months.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “He rarely speaks of it. I’m sure it’s not a happy memory. But we should not dwell on these things tonight of all nights. Come—allow me to show you the rest of the garden. It’s always been Mother’s great passion.”

  Though such an indulgence kept him from his other responsibilities, Berengar found himself unable to refuse the princess. He stayed with her until the sun’s dying light retreated from the courtyard. There was one more stop to make before he made his way the tower, where Morwen awaited.

  Alannah remained in the great hall. With her lords and servants dismissed, she was alone but for the guards. She stood with her back to him, drinkin
g from a goblet. It was not lost on Berengar that she was facing the crypt.

  “The warden is here to see you, Your Grace,” a guard said with a bow, and the queen turned to face him. Despite the occasion, she looked unhappier than anyone.

  “Forgive me for the intrusion, Your Grace. There’s something I need to ask you, but I wanted to wait until we could speak in private.”

  “You’re going to ask if I’m in love with Ronan,” Alannah said, characteristically inscrutable. “You want to know if I had my husband killed. Tell me, what would you do if I said yes?”

  Berengar eyed the queen’s guards. Alannah had to but give a command and they would attack without hesitation. Strong as he was, he couldn’t fight them all. He returned his attention to her gaze and held it, unwavering. “I must follow the truth, wherever it leads.”

  “You are as bold as they say you are. I must disappoint you, however. I’m aware of Ronan’s feelings. I care for him, yes, but as queen there are more important matters than my own personal wishes.”

  “In all these years, you have never acted on them—not even once?” He looked for a crack in the stone of her face. “This is Munster, after all, not Leinster. You might be forgiven an indiscretion.”

  “You think us soft, don’t you? That is why you hold our kingdom in such contempt, is it not? You see only our love of culture—of music, wine, and dancing—and think we do not understand hardship. You think I do not know suffering—I, who loved a man who cared only for himself? My daughter is all I have left in the world, and yet she keeps me at a distance. I long for the days when she would laugh as I put flowers in her hair, but they are lost forever. Sometimes I think she died with her brother. No, you have not known pain until you have lost a child.”

  Berengar said nothing, but his facial muscles tightened.

  When the queen studied him, her brow furrowed as if comprehending something she had not thought of before, and her mouth opened in surprise. “I see. You hide your pain well, Warden Berengar.”