Berengar took the silver crown that once belonged to his friend and held it above Alannah’s head. “In the name of Nora, High Queen of Fál, I name you Queen Alannah of Munster, from the Cliffs of Moher to the Celtic Sea, Lady of the Southern Islands, and Mistress of the Golden Fleet.” He scanned the chapel a final time to make sure there was no danger before setting the crown upon Alannah’s head. “Long live the queen.”
“Long live the queen,” came the response from those in attendance.
When Alannah sat on the throne, all but Berengar knelt in her presence. She bade them rise, and the festivities commenced anew. Berengar stepped away from the throne, hoping to steal away to a remote corner of the room to observe in silence.
“You clean up rather nicely, Warden Berengar,” Princess Ravenna said. “All the same, I’m glad you didn’t shave your beard—I might not have recognized you.”
“You have my thanks for the clothes, Your Grace. By the way, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Oh?” She looked intrigued.
“It’s about the crone.”
The princess laughed.
“What?”
“I thought you were going to say something else, that’s all.”
Unsure how best to respond, he chose to continue. “When I questioned the crone, she mentioned something about not being able to help you or your brother. Do you know what she meant by that?”
Ravenna appeared confused. “I’m afraid not. Aiden’s accident occurred before we ever reached the crone’s lair.”
Another dead end. “There’s something else the crone told me. There’s no curse on you or your family. Never was. I thought you’d want to know.”
He wasn’t certain how she would react to the truth. All the rumors that were spread about her over the years were all based on a lie, and yet it did not change that the people believed it, or the things she had endured.
Ravenna squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”
When he started to remove his hand, she held onto it a moment longer. A look passed between them, and for a moment, it was as if they were the sole occupants of the room. As he looked into her dark eyes, Berengar felt something stir he hadn’t felt in many years. He pulled away abruptly, still able to feel her touch on the hand she’d held. He’d almost forgotten it was the hand of a murderer.
“I’m sorry. I can’t be what you want me to be.”
“You don’t have to hide yourself from me,” Ravenna said. “I accept you for who you are. Can you do the same?”
He looked away. Why didn’t she know to run, like the others? She knew the stories as well as anyone. She understood what he was capable of, the things he’d done.
“So that’s your answer.” She turned away with a look of disappointment.
Berengar watched her leave, conflicted.
“Pardon me, Warden Berengar,” a guard interrupted before he could decide whether or not to pursue her. “We’ve had word of a man asking for you in the city.”
“It can wait,” Berengar said testily, his gaze still on the princess.
“I’ve been told he’s rather insistent. He claims to carry a message from the High Queen, and that it’s for your eyes alone.”
Berengar frowned. If Nora had gone to the trouble of sending him a secret message, why hadn’t she entrusted it to a member of the delegation from Tara? “Very well. Where can I find him?”
The guard gave him the name of the inn where the messenger waited, and Berengar made his way through the crowded room. He stopped at the chapel’s entrance and glanced back at the throne, where Alannah was surrounded by admirers. She would be safe in her thane’s capable hands, at least long enough for Berengar to learn what Nora wished to tell him. It was a short walk, one that shouldn’t take much time. Besides, the journey from the castle into the city would give him an excuse to get away from the packed gathering. He needed the chance to clear his head.
Morwen caught his gaze from across the room and shot him a questioning look. She started to follow him, but Berengar shook his head and crossed the threshold. When he whistled, Faolán came running from where she waited under the trees. Together they followed the road that led down into Cashel beneath the darkening sky. The crowds below had already begun to disperse, breaking up into smaller parties to celebrate the occasion or else returning to their homes.
Again his thoughts returned to the princess. He hadn’t cared about anyone or anything in so long he doubted he was even capable of such a thing. Whatever it was she thought she might find in him, he would bring her only pain. She’d suffered enough already. A long time ago he made the choice to harden his heart, to be strong where others were weak. He had to be, to do the things he did. It was too late for him to change, and he refused to drag her into the darkness with him.
When he arrived at the inn, he found no sign of the man who asked for him. The innkeeper proved of little use even in describing the individual, as his attention was occupied by the influx of guests who had traveled to the city to observe the coronation. He mentioned only that the man wore a hooded cloak. Berengar surveyed the busy hall a few moments longer before departing. He was about to return to the castle when he noticed a hooded figure watching him from the shadows. Berengar stepped closer and caught a glimpse of the lower half of the man’s face.
It was Corrin.
Berengar called to him, but the captain of the guard seemed not to hear him. He wore a vacant expression reminiscent of how Ronan had appeared in the crone’s lair, but there was something different about it.
Something’s not right.
“Follow me.” Corrin’s voice was flat.
Berengar glanced at Faolán, who regarded him warily.
We’re walking into a trap. If he wanted to know who was behind it, there was nothing to do but to allow Corrin to lead him to whatever destination awaited them.
He trailed Corrin to an abandoned warehouse in a quiet part of the city. The empty building was stocked with barrels and bottles full of wine.
“This way,” Corrin said.
Berengar passed through a hidden doorway into a back room, and followed Corrin down a narrow corridor. The path ended in a flight of stairs that led to the cellar. As they descended, Berengar felt a chill in the air he hadn’t noticed before. The weathered wooden door at the bottom creaked on its hinges when Corrin pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit underground chamber where another figure waited at a round table. Corrin came to an abrupt halt and stood motionless.
Berengar glimpsed the face of a kindly old woman in the candlelight. He hesitated in the doorway. Despite her nonthreatening posture, something about the woman’s appearance seemed wrong. Faolán sensed it too; the wolfhound bared her fangs and barked loudly.
The woman gestured to a chair on the opposite side of the small table. “Please. Have a seat.”
Were he a lesser man, the sound of her voice might have sent a shiver running the length of his spine. Berengar’s gaze lingered on the familiar diamond-shaped ring the woman wore on her left hand. He peered through the darkness and stared hard at her face, feeling as if his eye was playing tricks on him. It seemed another face was hidden underneath the pale skin and wrinkles, and in an instant he knew to whom the ring belonged.
“We both know if I sit down, only one of us will leave the table alive, witch.”
The spell that concealed the woman’s true face vanished the moment Berengar saw through it. Just like that, Agatha was looking back at him, young and attractive once more. The warden had no doubt of her intentions. She used Corrin to lure him down to the cellar, away from others, for one reason alone.
Agatha made no attempt to move. “Very perceptive. It seems Cora was right. Your will is strong.”
“You survived.”
Her lips pulled back into a haughty sneer. “I can disguise my appearance easily enough if I choose. Once I made it appear I perished in the flames along with my sisters, it was child’s play to gain entrance into the city. From there, it was
just a matter of finding the right soul to bring you to me.”
“Why risk coming to the city at all? Why not flee?”
“My plans for Munster are not yet complete.” She motioned to the seat across from her again, and this time her voice was firmer. “Now sit. Don’t bother calling for help, either. I’ve enchanted the room so no sound can escape.”
“That’s a shame. No one will be able to hear you screaming.”
Rather than reach for his axe, Berengar ordered Faolán to remain at a distance and approached. He pulled back the chair and took a seat without breaking eye contact for even a second. A deck of cards lay face down in front of Agatha. The witch’s black seeing stone sat inert at the center of the table, surrounded by four candles.
“I’m not in the mood for games, witch.”
“If you want answers, you’ll play mine. Each member of our coven possessed certain gifts. Cora could enter minds freely. Minerva was a talented alchemist. For my part, I have the sight. I can glimpse fragments of what was, what is, and what is to come.” With that, she began shuffling the deck with dexterous hands.
“You speak in riddles and lies. There’s no answer you can give that I can believe.”
“Yet here you sit.” Slowly, she spread the cards face down. When she finished, her hands disappeared underneath the table. “Pick three cards.”
This is dangerous magic, Berengar thought. Agatha was tempting him with the answers he sought, but meddling with the strands of fate was an unnerving proposition, even for a man like him. Knowledge was power. It was possible that by manipulating his perception of the future, Agatha could actually influence the way events unfolded. He would have to tread carefully, especially without Morwen to guide him.
“First I want the truth. Did you plot the king’s death?”
Her eyes seemed to glimmer in the candlelight, and at last she shook her head. “No, though I was more than happy to provide my assistance. Thanks to them, all that I’ve worked for is finally within my grasp. Bastard though she is, my daughter is a potential heir to the throne.”
“Morwen will never serve you.”
Cackling laughter sounded through the chamber. “We will see how strong her resolve remains when you are no longer there to hold her back. Mór was never a threat to me. It was only his wife and heirs who stood in my way.”
“The crone didn’t cause the prince’s horse to go mad. It was you.”
“I waited years for the opportunity,” Agatha said. “I never imagined Prince Aiden would be foolish enough to ride alone with his sister to the Devil’s Bit. A pity the Tainted Princess wasn’t killed as well, though that mistake will soon be rectified.”
The corners of his mouth twitched in anger. “Call her that again, and I will take your tongue before I kill you.”
Agatha started to reply, but when she saw his seriousness, her brow furrowed and she stopped. “You’re in no position to make threats.” Her voice wavered, if only a little.
“Are you in league with Gorr Stormsson or the déisi?”
Agatha waved a finger at him. “That’s not how this works. First you must choose a card. Then I will answer a question.”
“As you wish.” Berengar reached out and slid a card in front of her.
Agatha held her hand over the seeing stone before turning the card over, revealing the image of a heart with a sword through it. “The heart of a hero.”
“You must not have been paying attention,” he said, his voice a harsh growl. “I’m no hero.”
Agatha chuckled softly. “You cannot hide the truth from me, Warden. The world may know you as a monster—you might even believe it yourself—but I see what you really are, underneath it all. Already the wall of stone you’ve tried so desperately to build around your heart is beginning to crack. The card represents love, and it does not lie. You lost your wife, but you’re not truly afraid that you won’t find love again. You’re afraid that you will. Despite your better judgment, you find yourself caring about the magician, even as she softens you around the edges. And no matter how you try to ignore it, you can’t deny the feelings that have developed for the princess, though you know she can never be yours.”
Berengar showed no emotion. “If you’re done talking, I’d like an answer to my question.”
Agatha appeared slightly irritated by his lack of reaction. “You’re asking the wrong question. Who financed the déisi in the first place? Where did the gold come from?” She leaned forward and leered at him. “You can sense it, can’t you? The truth is right in front of you, and yet you cannot see it.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “That’s not an answer.”
“Some time ago, Gorr Stormsson came to me in secret. I assumed he wanted his future read, but his intentions were far more sinister. He would procure the necessary ingredients for the Demon’s Whisper, using various agents from the Brotherhood of Thieves. Yes, Warden—it was my coven who prepared the poison that killed King Mór.”
One by one, the pieces started to fall into place. The use of the Brotherhood of Thieves ensured the poison’s origin would remain hidden, while the déisi eliminated or attempted to eliminate loose ends, like Matthias, the king’s cupbearer. With Mór out of the way, Stormsson would be free to take the throne in the ensuing chaos. There was just one thing that didn’t fit. Why would Stormsson, already an openly declared enemy of the king, bother to conceal his involvement in the plot? Based on the stolen shipments of gold, Berengar already suspected the Dane wasn’t working alone, but if that was true, who was his co-conspirator—and who was the true mastermind behind the king’s murder? There also remained the mystery of Calum’s death, and the magical threat Agatha spoke of during their initial confrontation. Or had that been a lie as well?
When Berengar opened his mouth to speak, the witch shook her head. “It’s time for you to choose another card.”
“Fine,” he said through clenched teeth. He grabbed a card near the end of the row and turned it over himself. An image of the moon stared back at them from the other side.
“The moon. Deception and betrayal.” Again she held her hand over the seeing stone. “Yes,” she whispered almost reverently, and her eyes widened with glee. “How do you know that everyone around you is truly who they say they are? What if someone you believe to be an ally is actually a foe?”
For the first time, Berengar felt a flicker of doubt. She’s lying. Trying to get into your head. But what if she wasn’t? He had enough trouble trusting others to begin with. If he learned anything from Mór, it was that everyone had secrets. His thoughts turned again to Morwen, who seemed so innocent, so good. As the king’s court magician, she would have been perfectly placed to commit the murder. What if she had been helping her mother from the start, her eyes on the throne the whole time? It would have explained why she was so eager to help him in the investigation.
“You’ve played perfectly into our hands,” Agatha said. “Even now, those you have sworn to protect are in mortal peril, and you sit here, unable to defend them.”
Berengar’s eyes widened. It was a trap from the start, one meant to lure him away from the castle long enough for the assassin to strike.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” he demanded, thinking of Corrin. “You used magic to control the king. You seized control of Ronan to murder the crone.”
Though she recovered quickly, Agatha’s face betrayed her surprise. “There is much you fail to see, Warden of Fál. But it matters not, for your time is short. Soon you will be dead, along with the queen and princess. Now, I believe you’ve one card left.”
Berengar reached across the table and began to go for a card, when suddenly he stopped and flipped over another, as if pulled by an unseen force. He didn’t need Agatha to tell him what the skeletal image of the reaper meant. Agatha’s expression faltered, and it was Berengar’s turn to smile. Death had surrounded him his whole life. The halls of hell were full of those he sent there with his axe. To him, death was nothing more than an ol
d friend.
His hand shot across the table and seized her by the throat before she could say a word. The chair fell away as he stood and tightened his grip. “You can’t cast a spell if you can’t get out the words.”
Berengar felt a sudden stab of pain in his forearm where she raked one of her long nails across his skin. His hold on her slipped, and he staggered back.
A characteristic arrogance had returned to Agatha’s face. “The poison will not kill you, at least not right away. You will not suffer as Mór did, but still the great Bear Warden will die here, alone in the dark, like the feral beast you are.”
“Not yet.” He reached for his axe as Faolán leapt to his aid.
The witch’s brow furrowed in disbelief, and she took a step back. “How can this be? You should hardly be able to stand!”
He stared her down, drawing strength from the feel of the battleaxe in his hand. It wasn’t the first time he’d been poisoned, even during his time in Cashel. Agatha failed to take his size into account and had overestimated the speed of the poison’s effect. For that, she would pay with her life.
“I’ll simply kill you another way. We will see how you fare against me without a magician to aid you.”
“I’ve killed witches before,” he reminded her, raising his axe.
Agatha formed her left hand into a claw and shouted the words of a spell at him, but Berengar absorbed it with the silver rune on his axe. When the witch poured more of her energy into the spell, pushing him back, Berengar powered through until he was close enough to shift his axe to one hand and swing at her. When Agatha ducked underneath the axe, he slid his sword free with his remaining hand and slashed her across the right side.
They stood there locked together for a moment, looking back at each other. The streaks of gray in Agatha’s hair spread, and new signs of aging appeared along the lines of her face. She fell away, blood dripping to the floor, regarding him with an expression of pure loathing. The wound closed, and her hair became a vibrant brown once more, though some of the lines of aging remained behind.
Agatha opened her mouth to cast a curse, but before she could get the words out, the room began shaking violently. A black fire burst to life from the seeing stone as shadows moved along the walls. One by one, the candles went out.
The Blood of Kings Page 27