“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Morwen.
Ravenna returned her attention to the throne. “Now, Lady Morwen, in recognition of your services, I release you from your oath.”
Morwen’s smile faded, giving way to disbelief. “What?”
“It was my mother’s last wish. It is a reward well-earned for your great deeds.”
Morwen leapt to her feet and approached the dais without a moment’s hesitation. “I have no wish to leave the castle, Your Grace. I am happy with my position.”
Ravenna lowered her voice, but Berengar was close enough to hear her words. “I fear there will be much resistance to my new edict, perhaps even a backlash against nonhumans. I cannot guarantee your safety, and I will not have your blood on my hands.”
Morwen fell to her knees before the throne and kissed her half-sister’s hand. “Please, don’t send me from your side. Cashel is my home.”
“Do not weep, Lady Morwen. I will make sure you are well provided for. For the first time, you are truly free to chart your own destiny.”
Morwen looked as if she’d been shot. She stumbled from the throne, ashen faced. He knew her expression all too well. It was a lesson he’d learned a long time ago, the realization things would never again be as they once were.
That night, he enjoyed his first true sleep in days. At Ravenna’s request, he remained in Cashel for Queen Alannah’s funeral. Berengar took the time to settle his accounts in the city. His time with Ravenna was bittersweet, as both knew it was coming to an end. He saw little of the princess, who was occupied with her new responsibilities. He saw even less of Morwen, who seemed to have retreated from castle life.
At last he prepared to return to Tara, aware the High Queen would want to hear the story of Mór’s death. When he came to say farewell to the princess, she asked him if he had given any thought to her offer, and he told her he still didn’t have an answer for her. With Ravenna’s coronation as queen not set to take place until after Ronan destroyed the Viking fleet, Berengar promised he would return at that time with an answer.
A familiar figure in blue robes waited for him at the castle’s entrance.
“You didn’t think I’d let you leave without saying goodbye, did you?” Morwen asked.
“I know you better than that,” the warden answered with a laugh.
A long look passed between them. Berengar was a man of few words, and he wasn’t exactly a sentimental sort to begin with, but he was certain Morwen knew how he felt.
“Farewell, Morwen of Cashel.” He would miss her, maybe more than he cared to admit, but that was the way of things. Better not to dwell on it.
“Wait,” Morwen called after him outside the castle.
He stopped for her.
“Take me with you.” She glanced over her shoulder, and her gaze fell on the tower. “There’s nothing left for me here.”
It was true some wardens traveled with companions, but Berengar had always walked alone.
“Life on the road is too dangerous for a girl,” he said, quickly adding, “even one as brave as you.”
Morwen folded her arms across her chest. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a magician. I held my own against those witches and treated you when you were shot with that poisoned arrow, thank you very much. Think how useful it would be to have a magician on hand. I guarantee I know more about monsters than you do.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Please,” she said. “You know I can help.”
What frightened him the most was how much he wanted to tell her yes.
“No. My decision is final.”
Her voice was almost so quiet he didn’t hear it. “I thought you were my friend.”
For a moment, he remembered carrying her across the wilderness as she slept, the words of a long-forgotten lullaby on his tongue. Then he walked away, leaving her standing behind, head bowed low.
Chapter Eighteen
The warden sat alone inside an inn at the border with Leinster, reading a map by candlelight. Faolán lay stretched out at his feet, basking in the warmth of the nearby fire. A meadair rested on the table beside the map. The drink was an expression of thanks from the innkeeper for breaking up a brawl between two rowdy patrons earlier that evening. The warden raised the meadair to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of honeyed mead. God help him, he was actually developing a taste for the stuff. Next he’d be singing with the bards or playing ficheall.
It had been an eventful day. It seemed the townspeople had no shortage of troubles that needed sorting out. In addition to stopping the fight, he’d helped the local constable capture an elusive bandit and tracked down a local girl supposedly abducted by a leprechaun. In the end, most of the problems the townspeople bothered him with amounted to little more than ordinary errands. As it turned out, the “bandit” was just an orphaned child stealing food to feed himself, the missing girl simply stole away to see her sweetheart, and the “leprechaun” was nothing more than a very dirty and hairy man who lived near the swamp. Still, after weeks corralled within the city, it felt good to be back in the countryside again.
It was time to return to Tara, hopefully for a long rest before he was needed again. He’d earned it. His stay in Munster proved longer than he ever expected it would be, but it was finally over. He had avenged his friend’s death and brought his killers to justice. Munster was at peace, and yet a shadow of doubt remained. He couldn’t escape the feeling that nagged at him since his departure from Cashel, which had only grown stronger with time—the feeling he’d left something unfinished.
Again and again he returned to his time in the capital, searching in vain for the missing piece. On the surface, everything fit perfectly—perhaps too perfectly. It was as if all the answers had been left for him to find, purposely leading him to the truth. Life was rarely so neat and tidy. There was something troubling about the way Desmond looked at him just before he threw himself to his death. There was something more he had to say, one last secret to be revealed.
Berengar put the map away, frustrated, and drained the last of the honeyed mead. Why was he so uneasy? Maybe he simply no longer knew how to be happy. After all, everything turned out all right in the end. He’d rescued the princess and saved the kingdom, just like in the fairy tales. Perhaps that was the problem. The world wasn’t like the one found in the stories. Even the true fairy tales were much darker than the ones he learned as a lad. Life was rarely so simple.
But what was he missing? The contents of the letter the king received before his death were still a mystery, though as the message had come from Cill Airne, it was likely Desmond was its source. There was the theft of shipments of gold from the treasury, done with help from someone inside the castle—a feat Desmond couldn’t have accomplished from Cill Airne, and one O’Reilly denied, despite his attempt to alter the Exchequer’s books to conceal his blackmail of the king.
Most troubling were the allusions Agatha made to the possibility there was an additional magic user somewhere within Munster’s borders. Though that could be easily dismissed as another of the witch’s lies, Lissa made a similar claim. Agatha appeared surprised when Berengar accused her of controlling Mór’s mind. Was it shock that he knew the truth, or was she surprised to learn Mór had been controlled in the first place? Morwen believed such a power was beyond a mere witch. The more Berengar thought about his final confrontation with Agatha, the more it bothered him. Something made the floor open up beneath the witch, and he was fairly certain it wasn’t that one of her spells had gone wrong.
It’s no use, Berengar thought. He left some coins for the innkeeper and rose from the table. I should get some rest. There’s a long ride ahead tomorrow. He made his way through the crowded hall with ease; it was an advantage of his size that people always seemed to clear out of his path. He was just outside his room when a line from Mór’s journal came back to him.
Something else has its claws in me…something evil and familiar.
At once Berengar knew wh
at he’d overlooked.
He departed the inn and rode south. If the truth was as he feared, every man, woman, and child in Cashel was in mortal peril.
When he passed through the city gate, it was as if nothing had changed from the day he arrived at the capital. Even at a distance, Cashel was a sight to behold under summer’s golden sun, and the effect was only magnified up close. Thousands walked its streets. There were men and women of all walks of life—not simply nobles, priests, and soldiers, but musicians, merchants, and commoners too, from across Fál and beyond its shores. More than a few muttered a word of thanks when he went by, though despite all he had done in service to the realm, there were those who met him with insults or averted their eyes in the face of his scars. A merciful number didn’t recognize the warden or ignored him altogether.
With the defeat of Gorr Stormsson and the deaths of those who conspired to murder King Mór, life had more or less returned to normal. To the people of Cashel, it was simply another ordinary day in the bustling, prosperous city. Talk of the evil crone that haunted the Devil’s Bit had given way to rumors of a werewolf ravaging the countryside near Beaufort. Peddlers offered amulets and medallions to ward against dark magic in the wake of the princess’ edict. All were blissfully unaware of the danger at their doorstep. If the people knew what he did, there would be panic in the streets, but the hour was far too late to evacuate the city.
Berengar immediately set out to find Corrin, who was busy settling a dispute between two nobles in the marketplace.
“Hail, Warden Berengar,” Corrin said, pleased to see him. “I thought you’d gone.”
“Never mind that. I need your help.”
“For the man who saved Munster? Anything.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. This will not be easy, for anyone involved.” Berengar scanned the marketplace. Never had he seen such a meager number of guards. “Where are all your men?”
“I’m afraid our numbers are depleted at the moment. Ronan has not yet returned from the coast, and the princess sent several hundred soldiers to Cill Airne to determine the degree to which Laird Tierney’s brothers were involved in the plot against her father’s life.”
“And Morwen? Where is she?”
“She’s gone too—left just yesterday morning. Said something about not being needed anymore.”
“That will make this harder,” Berengar said. “Muster all the soldiers under your command. We’ve no time to waste.”
Corrin’s smile faded.“What’s happened?”
When Berengar told him, the captain of the guard looked back at him in disbelief. “That’s impossible.”
“Trust me, I wish it was. Ready your men for battle, Captain.”
Corrin just stood there. “What you’re asking me to do…it’s a betrayal of every oath I’ve sworn to uphold.”
“If you refuse to help, every person in this city will die. They may die anyway. You swore to protect the people of Cashel, did you not?” Berengar took a step closer and stared at Corrin, his gaze hard and unyielding. “The time has come to choose sides. Whom will you stand beside?”
Corrin nodded slowly. “I will give the order.”
“Good.” Berengar swung himself back onto his horse.
“And where are you going?”
“To the castle.” He spurred the horse forward and never looked back.
When he neared the top of the hill, it became clear the castle’s defenses were abandoned. There were no sentries manning the walls or standing watch at the gate. Gone too were the advisers and monks who so frequently traipsed about the grounds. Berengar, who had faced more battles than he could count, felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as he passed through the courtyard and encountered not a single living soul.
His horse rebelled against him as he neared the end of the road, and Berengar dismounted to continue on foot. The wind howled in disapproval at his approach. Muted thunder rumbled in the background as clouds covered the sky, and though the sun still cast its light over the city below, the sky above the castle grew hazy. When they reached the castle’s entrance, Faolán growled, her fur bristling at danger within. Still Berengar did not reach for his axe.
The air was colder inside. The torches and candles had all gone out, leaving shadows to creep freely along the walls. The only sound came from his boots against the floor. He took the familiar path he had followed so many times before, certain of his destination. Again he looked around for guards, servants, nobles—anyone. Everyone was gone. There was something unnerving about walking through such grand, lofty halls while devoid of human companionship that made him feel utterly alone, even in a city of thousands. It was too late to turn back now, even if he wanted to.
The doors to the throne room had been left open. Berengar steeled himself for what waited ahead. It was utterly quiet inside. Gray light entered through the rose window behind the throne, where the room’s sole occupant lingered.
Ravenna’s back was to him. “I knew you would come.”
“It was you. It was always you.”
She turned to face him, her father’s crown atop her head. She still wore a dress of mourning black, but now a purple cloak hung from her shoulders, falling to the floor.
“You’re a sorceress, aren’t you?”
She didn’t answer, but her expression said it all.
The remnants of the coatl egg lay beside the throne. The egg’s scaled surface, which once pulsed with a steady red glow, had fallen lifeless and cold. A dagger had been discarded beside the egg.
“There’s no stopping it now,” she said, and he saw blood on her palm where she’d cut it. “Now that it’s been fed, the coatl will shed its skin and emerge at almost half its full size.”
“It’s why you sent the soldiers away. You knew the city would be vulnerable. You planned all this from the start. You murdered your father.” He shook his head. “I should have seen it earlier.”
Her dark eyes never left his. “My father deserved to die, so I killed him.”
“Tell me why. You owe me that much.”
“My father wanted a magic child so desperately,” she began. “When Morwen was born, he gave her all the love and attention he denied me.” She examined the cut on her hand, which had already begun to heal. “But the blood of Brian Boru runs through my veins as well. Only my powers didn’t manifest until I was on the cusp of womanhood, and they weren’t pleasant like my half-sister’s middling abilities. No, my magic was too strong to control. I had terrible visions of future events, set my bed aflame, shattered a statue…”
“They thought you were cursed,” Berengar said quietly.
The princess nodded. “I was too afraid to tell anyone what I was, but my powers only grew stronger. There was only one person I could turn to.”
“Your brother, the prince.”
“Aiden thought the crone might be able to remove my powers.”
That’s why they traveled to the Devil’s Bit, Berengar realized. It was never about slaying the crone at all. “Only she wasn’t able to help you,” he said, remembering Lissa’s words.
“No, though she did reveal the truth about my father and the Witches of the Golden Vale. The grim attacked us when we started the journey home. I tried to use my powers to protect us, but I knew so little of magic. Aiden was killed because of me. When I returned home, my father hardly cared that he’d lost a son. He was only concerned that I learned he had fathered a bastard with a witch—that he was sending innocent people to be slaughtered.” Her face tightened with rage. “So the great King Mór shipped his own daughter away like a broodmare to be traded, all to avoid a scandal.”
“What about your mother? Did she deserve to die?”
“My mother, who allowed my father to give me to a monster to be beaten and broken? My mother, who stood by each month as he honored his arrangement with the witches?” The princess laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. “She would have despised me if she ever suspected I could use magic.”
&nbs
p; “Your husband didn’t die of illness, did he?” Berengar asked, though he already knew the answer.
Ravenna shook her head, the hint of a cold smile on her face. “No, he did not. I escaped and fled into the wild. I was near death until fate led me to someone who taught me how magic worked and how to wield it properly.”
“Who taught you these things?”
She ignored the question. “When I returned, I made my husband suffer for the things he did to me, and then I came home to seek justice.”
“I think you mean revenge.”
Ravenna flashed her teeth. “You more than anyone should understand that sometimes they’re one and the same. My father didn’t deserve the crown, so I took it from him. Even then, I would have been content simply to bend him to my will, but when you arrived, I had to alter my plans. I couldn’t risk the chance he would confide in Morwen when she returned from Innisfallen.
“I could have stopped my father’s heart with a single word, but I wanted him to suffer. I wanted to be there in the room when he died, so that I could look into his eyes and remind him of the children he forsook. The use of the Demon’s Whisper made sure his death wasn’t traced back to me, as the path led instead to Desmond, who had the perfect motive to want the king dead. Having suffered at the hands of his own father, he made an ideal co-conspirator.”
She had gone to great lengths to bring about her plan, and very nearly succeeded in it. Even from the beginning, there were so many moving parts. The déisi, the Brotherhood of Thieves, Gorr Stormsson and the Danes, the Witches of the Golden Vale, Laird O’Reilly, and Desmond—they were all pawns in her game, all meant to obscure her involvement. She probably planned the attempt on her life at the Feast of Remembrance and her abduction at the coronation to throw suspicion away from her. She was never in any real danger. With her powers, she could have escaped from the Danes at any time. It would have been easy for her to arrange for the shipments of gold to be stolen with the knowledge the blame would fall on Laird O’Reilly, who had been blackmailing the king. She killed Stormsson to keep him from talking and made Desmond jump to his death to do the same.
The Blood of Kings Page 31