“I might have talked the goblins down if you hadn’t gone charging in with your axe. You shouldn’t have called them vermin.”
“Morwen, they tried to kill us!”
“Even so. Maybe relations between the races would be better if we weren’t so quick to reach for a weapon every time something green jumped out from behind a bush. In Munster, goblins live side by side with humans.”
Berengar scoffed at her. “As second-class citizens, maybe.” Munster prided itself on being tolerant of magic and nonhumans, and while it was true there weren’t bounties for goblins plastered across Cashel’s city square like there were in Dún Aulin, tensions between races had risen considerably in the wake of King Mór’s assassination.
For his part, Berengar had spent too many years at war with goblins to ever count them as friends, but neither did he believe they were all evil, as some in the church taught. Goblins—and most nonhumans, for that matter—were just like people: capable of both good and evil. As an outcast himself, he could understand why Morwen, who would never quite fit in on account of her magic, was sensitive to the treatment of nonhumans.
Although illegitimate, with Mór dead and Princess Ravenna banished, by right Morwen had a claim to her father’s crown. The people of Munster would rather the throne go empty than accept a magician as their queen. The people of Leinster liked magicians even less, which made the danger to her all the more real.
Morwen wasn’t the only one who faced danger in Leinster. Berengar hadn’t told her the whole truth about what happened at Dún Aulin all those years ago. He had more than his share of enemies there who would gladly see him dead. He kept his thoughts to himself and focused on the task at hand. Once they tracked the goblins to their lair and dealt with whoever hired them, they could move on.
The sooner we’re gone, the better.
They hunted the goblins for three days. The trail led through pastures and open fields, and there were fewer trees and forests than he remembered encountering the last time he was in the area. With fewer potential hideaways, the goblins proved easy to follow—almost too easy. It was as if they weren’t even trying to cover their tracks. Goblins were sly and crafty by nature, so why would they risk traveling out in the open? Berengar didn’t like it.
Gradually, the path turned southeast. Berengar said less and less as time went on. After they passed the Hill of Allen, the terrain became more familiar to him, and he had an unpleasant suspicion as to the destination that awaited them. Morwen, who undoubtedly sensed a change in his mood for the worse, wisely chose for once not to press him on the matter. On the third day, they reached the trail’s end at a four-arch stone bridge that ran across the River Liffey, and Berengar’s suspicions were confirmed.
“Blast it. It’s as I feared.”
Ahead stretched the Slighe Chualann, one of five Slighe roads spanning Fál’s kingdoms. Each highway met at the capital at Tara, where the High Queen ruled. At the moment, the road was busy with travelers of all stripes moving in either direction. There were nobles in fine carriages, merchants and farmers with wagons overflowing with wares, soldiers marching in formation, and countless others. Faolán looked back at Berengar with an irritated expression, and it was clear that with so many travelers on the road, the goblins’ trail had gone cold.
Although many travelers stopped at the thriving town of Kilcullen, Berengar looked past it to a great city rising farther in the distance. “Dún Aulin.”
“The City of Thieves.” Morwen stared at the city in wonder.
The one place in Leinster he most wanted to avoid. Worse still, the goblins would be far more difficult to trail in a city of thousands. He sighed and prodded his horse over the bridge. “Come on.”
Morwen followed slowly, and her gaze remained set on the looming city. Although Cashel, Munster’s capital, was more beautiful and prosperous, Dún Aulin was unquestionably the larger of the two cities. Its sheer size was staggering, even at a distance. Morwen’s excitement grew evident as they approached. Their search for the Oakseers’ Grotto had marked her first time beyond Munster’s borders.
There were five kingdoms in the land of Fál. Munster was its southernmost realm while Ulster was its northernmost. Leinster, Connacht, and Meath fell in between. For much of recent history, the five kingdoms had quarreled and warred among themselves, until Nora of Connacht assumed the High Throne after her defeat of Azeroth. At the moment, Fál was enjoying a time of tranquility not seen since the days of the high kings of old, but always there were threats seeking to unravel the peace.
Berengar and Morwen made their way onto the road, which was unusually crowded, even by Dún Aulin’s standards. He wondered if there was some occasion of interest drawing spectators to the city. The heavy traffic turned what might have been a short ride into an hour-long slog. Leftover mud from recent rains caused a number of carriages and wagons to become stuck just off the road.
So much for slipping into the city unnoticed. The lines ran all the way to the city, where guards carefully screened newcomers at each gate to determine whether to grant entrance. It seemed the city watch had learned its lesson from the riots, when an out-of-control populace completely overwhelmed the guards. “Let’s stop at Kilcullen first. We might get lucky and pick up the goblins’ trail.”
It was a few hours past noon, but already the sky darkened with ominous clouds. He doubted they would have reached the city before the storm. Besides, Kilcullen was the best place to find information on current happenings in the city, and Berengar had no intention of heading into the dragon’s den unprepared.
They continued along the main road until they reached Kilcullen. Though by no means small, the specter of Dún Aulin dwarfed the town. Kilcullen was also known as Kingstown, for in centuries past it was where kings and queens from neighboring kingdoms stayed as guests at Leinster’s royal coronations. The name was a bit of a misnomer, as nobles and lords mostly eschewed the town, whose population consisted mostly of commoners.
“We should resupply here. The merchants in the city gouge their prices.” As a warden, he rarely wanted for coin, but that had not always been the case. In any event, spending too freely invited unwanted attention.
Berengar and Morwen dismounted and led their horses through town. Numerous travelers bolstered an already booming population, and the narrow streets were cramped and congested. Berengar’s size made it difficult to maneuver, and he quickly grew annoyed at the number of times strangers bumped into him.
Morwen paid a stableman to put their horses up for the night, and the pair ventured into the market in hopes of making their purchases before the storm hit. Despite the impending weather, the market was lively, and it appeared many fellow travelers had similar ideas. Fish fresh from the waters of the Liffey were on abundant display, and farmers from surrounding lands traded in produce and livestock.
“Do my eyes deceive me? The Bloody Red Bear, right here in Kilcullen.” Three men barred their path forward. The men were dressed like soldiers, but their armor bore the insignia of a sword drenched in blood in place of the sigil of a noble house.
Monster hunters. The insignia belonged to the Acolytes of the True Faith, a group of fanatics so brutal the church had officially disavowed them.
The man in the middle took a step forward. “What’s the High Queen’s Monster doing off his leash?” His companions laughed with malicious intent.
Berengar’s jaw tightened in anger. “Get out of my way. Now.”
The monster hunter’s smile, and those of his companions, faded. “You should watch your tongue, dog.” He turned to his friends. “What do you say, lads? Shall we teach him some manners?” His hand inched toward his sword.
“Do it, and you won’t live to regret it.” It wasn’t Berengar’s first run-in with the Acolytes, who had played a key role in the purges. Bad blood ran deep on both sides, and the people of Leinster had long memories.
“You killed the grand marshal’s son during the riots. We’ll not let that pass.�
�� The man unsheathed his blade, and his companions did the same. “You’re a fool to show your face here. Last I heard, you were excommunicated after what happened at St. Brigid’s. You have no protection here.”
Berengar reached for his axe. “This is all the protection I need.” Ready for a fight, Faolán let out a menacing growl and bared her teeth beside him.
“You lot are making a serious mistake. I’ve seen what happens when he loses his temper.” Morwen shot Berengar a look, as if to remind him to keep his head. “He’s a Warden of Fál. He can kill with impunity.”
It was true, at least in theory. When Nora of Connacht became High Queen of Fál, she appointed five wardens to keep the peace between realms. As a warden, Berengar answered to Nora alone. In practice, there were limits to even the High Queen’s influence, and Berengar was often required to back up his authority with force.
The monster hunter ignored Morwen’s warning. “Save your fancy words, wench.” He glanced at his friends. “Warden or not, we’ll be celebrated as heroes for killing the Bloody Red Bear.”
Thunder sounded above, and a light rain began. Berengar’s hand tightened around the axe’s handle in anticipation of violence. Unlike the soldiers he had brawled with at the Forgotten Stop, the Acolytes were lethal warriors trained to hunt and kill dangerous creatures.
“Stop this at once!” The voice belonged to a stout man in brown robes. A crucifix hung from his neck. He carried a walking stick in one hand and jabbed the other, made of wood, at the monster hunters. “What is the meaning of this?”
The monster hunters’ leader kept a wary eye on Berengar. “Friar, it is our sacred duty to kill this man where he stands. He has been excommunicated for violating the right of sanctuary and committing murder in the house of the Lord. He’s—”
“I know who the Bear Warden is. I expect mindless violence from a man like him, but the three of you should know better than to draw blades on today of all days.”
The man hesitated and lowered his sword.
“It’s the first day of the Festival of Atonement,” the friar went on. “Surely devout men such as yourselves should know it is a grievous sin to spill blood on this day.”
“Of course. The Festival of Atonement.” The monster hunters’ leader returned his blade to its sheath, and his companions reluctantly followed suit. “Forgive us, friar.” He bowed and shot Berengar a withering look. “This isn’t over.”
“Many blessings, brothers.” The moment the monster hunters were gone, the friar’s face broke into a wide grin. “It’s good to see you again, Warden Berengar, though I’ll admit you’re the last person I expected to meet today.”
Morwen looked from one man to the other, confused. “Wait—you two know each other?”
Berengar nodded. “It’s a long story. Morwen, this is Friar Godfrey. Our paths crossed in Alúine when I was last in Leinster. Godfrey, meet the Lady Morwen of Cashel. We owe you one.”
Morwen raised an eyebrow. “I’m no expert on church lore, but I’ve never heard of the Festival of Atonement.”
Godfrey winked at them. “I’d imagine not. I just made it up.” Thunder crackled loudly overhead, and the rain intensified. “Have you found lodging for the night?”
Berengar shook his head. “We’ve only just arrived.”
Godfrey lifted his hood and beckoned them to follow him. “Then come! Have a drink with an old friend and tell me what the devil has brought you back to Leinster, of all places.”
“Lead the way.”
Morwen leaned over and lowered her voice. “So you can make friends. I thought I was your only one.”
“Who says you and I are friends?”
She punched him playfully on the shoulder.
They followed Godfrey past a round tower and the churchyard to a secluded monastery at the edge of town. According to local legend, Padraig himself started the monastery, and judging by its apparent age, Berengar almost believed it. Moss crept up the sides, and there were signs of neglect everywhere he looked. He suspected the church preferred to spend funds on the extravagant cathedrals and churches in the city instead of a lonely abode of solitary monks and dusty scrolls.
Although the worship of the Lord of Hosts extended throughout Fál, nowhere was the church’s influence greater than pious Leinster, and Dún Aulin served as its political center.
Centuries ago, most of Fál worshiped the elder gods, which included the benevolent Tuatha dé Dannan and the monstrous Fomorians. That changed with the arrival of Padraig, who brought the word of the Lord of Hosts to Fál. The old ways persisted in many parts of Fál—especially in the north—but were almost nonexistent in Leinster, which had made the worship of the Lord of Hosts the official state religion and prohibited shrines to the elder gods.
“It’s quiet,” Morwen said once they were out of the rain.
“Most of the monks have traveled to the city.” Godfrey lowered his hood. “Old Bishop McLoughlin has finally died, and all the holy men in Leinster have come to Dún Aulin. Officially, they’re here to attend the funeral, though I suspect a great deal are really here to ingratiate themselves to McLoughlin’s eventual successor in hopes of advancing their position. You’ll be safe here, at least for the night.”
Berengar appreciated the irony. “I doubt many would think to look for me at a monastery, at any rate.”
Godfrey chuckled. “It would be quite a shock, arriving for prayers to find the Bloody Red Bear. Now if you don’t mind waiting here for a moment, I’ll see about food and rooms for the two of you.” He set his walking stick aside and disappeared down a forlorn corridor.
Berengar and Morwen lowered their hoods, and Faolán shook excess water from her coat and curiously sniffed the monastery’s interior. The falling rains produced a sweet, earthy fragrance detectable underneath the musty odor that hung about the air. The entrance hall was sparsely decorated, in keeping with the monks’ austere lifestyle. Rain dropped down from cracks in the ceiling.
Strictly speaking, Berengar was barred from setting foot on holy ground and had no right of sanctuary on account of his excommunication. Still, it was better to risk spending the night in the seclusion of the monastery than in a busy inn or tavern where he might be recognized.
“I bet you feel right at home,” he said to Morwen. They first met when King Mór sent Berengar to Cill Airne to retrieve his court magician. When he found her, Morwen was under siege from a group of superstitious farmers who believed she was responsible for the pestilence affecting their crops. The monks at Innisfallen had given Morwen refuge within their monastery. When Berengar threatened to kill the farmers to lift the siege, Morwen had managed to convince both sides to stand down and achieved a peaceful resolution.
“I’ve spent enough time trapped inside monasteries to last a lifetime, thank you very much—though I do miss the smell of parchment.” She smiled wistfully. “Who were those men?”
“Part of a group of fanatics who call themselves the Acolytes of the True Faith. Their leader is a butcher named Winslow. Calls himself the grand marshal.”
“Did you really kill his son?”
“Aye. Made him suffer, too. Bastard deserved far worse. I would happily have killed Winslow too if I could have managed it, but my hands were occupied at the time.” Berengar knew people thought he was a monster—and deservedly so—but at least he only killed those who deserved it. The Acolytes slaughtered innocents without hesitation, all in the name of their blind devotion to a perverted interpretation of the scriptures. They truly thought they were carrying out the Lord’s will. There were few foes as dangerous as those who truly believed in their cause. “I’ve a feeling we haven’t seen the last of them.”
Godfrey reappeared moments later. “It’s all taken care of. I found a place in our dormitories where you won’t be disturbed. Come, and we’ll see about getting the two of you something to eat.”
Berengar and Morwen followed him deeper into the monastery. Faolán trailed behind and kept to the shadows, her
amber eyes gleaming in the dim light. They passed a library full of shelves stacked with books and scrolls, which Morwen regarded with a longing expression, before starting down a set of stairs leading to the undercroft. Candles and torches illuminated the refectory, a wide, somberly lit chamber that served as the monks’ dining hall. Like the rest of the monastery, the chamber was relatively bare, which made it seem all the more spacious.
Godfrey, Berengar, and Morwen washed their hands in a basin of water and settled at a long bench where simple wooden plates and goblets waited. At the moment, the other benches sat empty. Footsteps echoed across the chamber, and an aged man in brown robes placed a tray of food before them and limped off without a word.
“Don’t mind Father Ulrich,” Godfrey said to Berengar, who watched the old man with caution. “He’s quite blind, but he’s a decent enough cook by monastery standards. I’ll put it this way—I’m glad I’m a friar and not a monk.”
Berengar grabbed a flatbread wafer and helped himself to a piece of tánach, an exceptionally hard cheese, while spooning menedach—a porridge made from kneading grain and butter together—onto his plate. Monks were known for their moderation, and the food in front of him was no exception. The fare was largely flavorless, but Berengar wasn’t particularly choosy, so long as he ate his fill.
Morwen raised an eyebrow. “How exactly did the two of you meet?”
“After I tracked down the Black Hand, their leader fled and took refuge inside a church,” Berengar replied between mouthfuls. “I killed him at the altar. I didn’t know at the time it was St. Brigid’s Church. Laird Margolin promised to keep it quiet if I would help find his niece, Lady Imogen. He told me she’d been abducted by an ogre, but the mad fool really wanted to sacrifice her to Balor, King of the Fomorians. Godfrey gave Imogen sanctuary and helped put her on her uncle’s throne.”
The City of Thieves Page 3