Morwen lowered the crossbow. “You’re wrong. My companion helped your friends escape the Institute. He risked his life to get them out of the city.”
Elias stared at them with new interest. “Who are you?”
“My friend is Esben Berengar, Warden of Fál. And I am Morwen the magician.”
“Magician, you say? What on earth are you doing here? They’ll kill you if they catch you.”
“I lost my staff in battle. I need another, and with the Oakseers’ Grotto burned, my companion thought I might find one here.”
“I see. Thought you’d do a bit of thieving, did you? Well, you can bugger off.” He stopped short and stroked his beard, as if pondering some hidden matter. “Wait. As it happens, there are several magical items the rioters failed to find that I managed to salvage. I can help you attain what you seek.”
Morwen’s face lit up with excitement.
Elias held up a hand. “Not so fast. I would be willing to part with such a valuable possession only for a price. And it’s no use threatening me, either. I know these halls in a way you can’t even fathom, and you’ll never find what you’re looking for without me.”
“Out with it,” Berengar said. “What do you want?”
“You might’ve heard of the fairy dust epidemic sweeping the city.”
Azzy perked up at the mention of fairy dust. “What of it?”
“I want you to put the distributor out of business and bring him to me. If you really are the Esben Berengar the tales speak of, you’ll have no problem with such a task.”
Morwen regarded Elias with suspicion. “Why? What’s in it for you?”
“That’s my business. Do the job, and we can both get what we want. Otherwise, good luck finding another staff in this city.”
They returned from the Institute the way they came.
Morwen scratched Faolán behind the ears when they emerged from the secret door. Evening had fallen across the face of Dún Aulin in their absence, and the sun hung low. “Don’t look so glum, Berengar. We found what we were looking for! I thought it would take ages to acquire a new staff.”
“Assuming he even has a staff. Maybe he was lying to get us to do his dirty work.”
“I’m a magician, remember? If he was lying, I’d know. Besides, you remember what Tavish told us. The fairy dust is causing a real problem in the city. This is a chance for us to do some good. And with a staff in hand, it’ll be easier to cast a spell to help us locate the rune.”
“This is exactly what I meant by getting dragged into other people’s problems. Have it your way.” He turned to Azzy. “You’re good. I’ll give you that much. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help us with the job?”
Her face remained unreadable. “I’ll help—on one condition. When we return, I get to keep anything I find in the Institute.”
“Deal.”
“Good. Then meet me tomorrow night, just before dark. Send word to the Thieves’ Quarter.” She gave a self-satisfied smile, raised her hood, and disappeared into the impending night.
Berengar and Morwen returned to their mounts and began the journey to the alehouse. Even on horseback, there was a considerable distance from the Scholar’s District to the Coin and Crown.
Morwen stifled a yawn. “How much farther?”
“Not far now.” Berengar glanced over at her. “Tired?”
“Not at all.” She yawned again. “Well, maybe a little.”
Berengar laughed. “I thought you didn’t get tired. What was all that talk about drawing on your magic to keep awake?”
Morwen offered a weary smile. “I think I might have pushed myself a little too hard today. Do you mind if I ride with you for a while?”
Berengar pulled back on the reins and slowed his pace. Morwen dismounted, and after fixing Nessa’s lead rope to his saddle, climbed onto the saddle and put her arms around him. Berengar resumed the journey to the alehouse as Faolán followed alongside, keeping watch.
The horses’ hooves reverberated against the paved road. The streets of Dún Aulin were relatively quiet, which Berengar found a welcome change. A curfew was in effect in advance of the Ceremony of the Cursed Blade, and although some unsavory elements lingered about, most of the city’s occupants had returned to their homes and lodgings. The city watch was out in full force, and guards told loiterers to move on in no uncertain terms.
Morwen rested her head against his shoulder, and within moments she was asleep. Berengar chuckled softly and readjusted his positioning to make sure she was comfortable. Sometimes he forgot just how young she was. For all her vast knowledge of magic, she was really just a girl.
He thought on the day’s events. After a series of false starts, at least they were headed in the right direction. The Ceremony of the Cursed Blade would be over soon enough, and if Elias proved good on his word, Morwen would have a new staff. Then they could return to the task of locating the stolen thunder rune. With any luck, Tavish and the watch might come through on that end as well. Still, with various Brotherhood factions and the Acolytes after blood, he couldn’t rest easy so long as they remained within the city’s walls.
Streetlamps lit their path as night descended over the City of Thieves. By the time the glow of the torches and lanterns in the windows of the Coin and Crown appeared, Berengar realized—much to his surprise—he was humming the tune Azzy sang earlier that day. Unlike Morwen, Berengar wasn’t musically inclined, and yet he couldn’t get the thief’s voice out of his head. There was something about her he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
He gently shook Morwen awake when they neared the Coin and Crown.
“Is it morning already?” she asked, half-asleep.
Berengar helped her from his horse and led their mounts to the boarding stables. He tossed a coin to the stableboy. “Make sure they’re fed and well looked after.” Then he gathered their recovered belongings and started on the path to the Coin and Crown on foot. Although the numbers inside had diminished in the aftermath of the Revels, there were no shortage of patrons inside, and lively music again filled its halls.
Morwen leaned against him for support, oblivious to the sights and sounds that had so captivated her the night before.
“Come on. Let’s get you to bed.” Berengar helped her up the stairs to her room and eased open the door.
Morwen stirred. “Wait. Something’s not right.”
A cold chill permeated the room. Moonlight filtered inside through an open window. Bedsheets were scattered and drawers and cabinet doors were ajar. Someone had turned the room upside down. Fortunately, thanks to the prior theft of their belongings, there was nothing for the would-be thief to find.
Morwen looked around the room. “Who could have done this?”
“Whoever it was, they were looking for something. I’ll give you three guesses what.” The blasted thunder rune was still causing them trouble, and they didn’t even have it anymore.
“Do you think it was the Brotherhood?”
Berengar gestured to the mess. “It’s too obvious. If it was the Brotherhood, we would never know they were here.”
Morwen started toward the nightstand to light the candle but stopped short, instantly alert. “We’re not alone.”
A floorboard creaked somewhere in the darkness. Berengar inched forward and reached for his sword. He caught a glimpse of movement to his right, and a goblin scaled the wall and dropped down behind him. Berengar pulled his blade too slow. The goblin tackled him, and they crashed against the floor. When the goblin’s eyes fell on Morwen, he launched himself at her, but at the last moment Berengar seized the creature’s ankle to restrain him. The goblin kicked him in the face and broke free in time to pounce on Morwen, who lost her hold on her satchel.
When the creature went for her satchel, a strange expression came over his face, and he toppled over and hit the floor.
It looks like her enchantment worked.
Morwen stooped down to retrieve her satchel. “The goblins must have fol
lowed us to Dún Aulin.”
“I’m guessing they led us here. We thought we were chasing them, but the slippery bastards tricked us. Who knows how long they’ve been following us. With any luck, this is the only one who knows where we’re staying. I say we kill him and be done with it.” Berengar started forward with his sword, but Morwen held up a hand to stop him.
“Wait! Don’t kill him.”
“Morwen…”
She knelt over the goblin. “It’s alright. I won’t hurt you. You’re feeling the effects of a spell, but it won’t last long.”
The creature studied her with interest. “You’re a magician?”
Morwen nodded. “Enough blood has been spilled over the stone already. Tell us what we want to know, and we’ll let you go. You have my word. Now, who sent you? Why do they want the stone?”
The goblin regarded her with an unblinking gaze. For a moment, it seemed he might speak, but then Berengar stepped forward. When the goblin’s eyes settled on him, he let out an angry hiss.
“He hasn’t forgotten you, Berengar Goblin-Bane.” The goblin bolted from the floor, crossed the room, and crawled out the window before Berengar could catch him.
“Blast it!” Berengar hurled his sword to the ground and turned back to Morwen. “This is on you. If we’d done things my way…”
“You would have done what, exactly? Cut off his fingers until he talked?” She put her hands on her hips, her exhaustion temporarily forgotten in her anger. “There’s a reason the goblins hate us.”
“So you just let him run back to the others? What happens when they come for us in the night?” He closed the distance between them and felt his temper rising. “You believe he’s going to care that you spared him? You think that man from the Acolytes you let go won’t still burn you for a witch?”
“And you think killing is always the answer and compassion is a weakness!”
“Because it is.” Berengar shook his head with disdain. “In the real world, monsters don’t change just because you show them mercy. Do you want to know what happened the last time I was in Leinster? A woman named Rose rescued me from the bog—saved my life. She was good and kind. She was also a werewolf.” He stared hard at her. “She ate her fiancé. I put her down. Put a blade between her ribs. That was mercy.”
“What about Ravenna?” Morwen shot back. “Should you have killed her too?” There was silence between them for a moment. “I’m sorry, Berengar. I’m just tired, I guess. I didn’t mean that.”
He said the next words before he could take them back. “Maybe if you had found out what she was earlier and done the job yourself, your father would still be alive.”
Morwen’s mouth opened in shock. “You don’t care at all what I think, do you? I thought you wanted me as a companion, but you just want me as your pet magician.”
“I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”
Anger flashed across her brow. “You’re impossible! Get out and let me sleep.”
“Fine by me.” He marched from the room.
“And Berengar? If you’re going to lie to me, you should at least try to be good at it!” She slammed the door shut behind him.
Berengar let out a frustrated sigh. She’s too stubborn for her own good. Then again, so was he. She was who she was, and he was who he was. There was no point to either trying to change the other.
It was the mention of Ravenna that had stirred his anger. Although he hardly spoke of Ravenna, he still thought of her more than he would like. His feelings for her were complicated, to say the least. With Ravenna, Berengar felt something he hadn’t felt for anyone since the death of his wife. Like him, Ravenna was deeply broken. She had suffered greatly at the hands of her father and others, resulting in scars—visible and otherwise—Berengar understood only too well. Maybe it was on account of what happened with Rose, but when the moment came, he found he couldn’t kill her. Stripped of her crown and kingdom, Ravenna fled Munster on the back of a winged serpent. He often wondered what became of her after that. Berengar suspected Morwen sensed his feelings but chose not to pry.
He knocked on the door to Morwen’s room to apologize, but she was already fast asleep. Berengar hesitated, pulled a blanket over her, and sank into a chair in a corner of the room. He kept his sword across his lap and took turns with Faolán standing guard in case the goblin returned.
Before long, his eyes grew heavy.
“He hasn’t forgotten about you, Berengar Goblin-Bane,” the goblin had said.
Who the devil was he talking about?
Chapter Seven
That night, Berengar dreamed of the purges for the first time in years. The rioters’ screams for blood built to a deafening roar. The air reeked of smoke and death. He remembered crushing Cathán’s hands and listening to the shrieking cries as he forced the druid’s face into the flames. He watched himself cut down everyone in his path until the streets ran red with blood and all who looked upon him trembled in fear.
He woke covered in a cold sweat. Faolán, perched at the foot of Morwen’s bed, regarded him curiously. Berengar leaned back in his chair and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. It was early, and weak sunlight streamed inside through the window. Morwen remained fast asleep. He considered waking her but thought better of it. He wasn’t sure if it was because she needed rest to recover her strength or because of the harsh words that had passed between them.
Sorry, old friend. I’m sure you would have picked a better guardian for your daughter, given the chance. Mór wasn’t exactly a saint himself—there were his numerous affairs, not to mention an illicit agreement with the Witches of the Golden Vale—but Berengar knew he was the very last person who should be entrusted to look after a sixteen-year-old girl.
As if sensing his mood, Faolán approached and pushed her muzzle against his knee.
Berengar patted her head and scratched her behind the ears before rising. “Keep an eye on her for me, will you?” He cast one look back at Morwen, eased the door open, and shut it behind him without making a sound.
Despite the early hour, the alehouse was crowded again. Berengar coughed over payment for another night’s stay, along with a little something extra to repair the damage the goblin left in its wake. The managers didn’t ask for the specifics; he expected the Revels had resulted in a fair amount of property damage, though not enough to offset the influx of coin. He helped himself to another generous portion of breakfast—the only perk of staying at the Coin and Crown, as far as he was concerned—and took a seat by himself.
A barmaid handed him a message from Vicar Flaherty, summoning him to the cathedral to oversee final preparations for the ceremony. The visit was timed to coincide with the bishop’s funeral to keep the knowledge of Berengar’s presence on sacred ground to as few as possible.
He had just begun eating when he noticed Friar Godfrey making his way toward him.
“Ah! Just the man I was looking for. I heard I might find you here.”
Berengar gritted his teeth. Does everyone in this blasted city know we’re here? He kicked a seat out and motioned for Godfrey to join him. “Finally abandoned that monastery of yours, I see.”
Godfrey laid his walking stick against the table, leaned closer, and lowered his voice. “Just between us, I’m glad to take my leave. Father Ulrich’s cooking is starting to take its toll.” He glanced around the hall. “Where is your charming companion?”
“Still asleep.”
Godfrey rapped his wooden hand on the table. “Youth is wasted on the young. I’ve come to the city to tie up some business before the funeral. The bishop’s successor will be chosen shortly—just in time for the Ceremony of the Cursed Blade. Word is you’re caught up in that, by the way.”
“Don’t remind me. You’re not in the running for bishop, are you? Maybe you could see about lifting my excommunication.”
“I’m afraid I’ve broken a few too many rules for that.” Godfrey smiled and paid a passing barmaid for a drink. “I expect you know a thing or
two about that.” He stopped to take a swig from the cup. “I suppose you’re wondering why I sought you out—other than the pleasure of your company, of course.”
“Get on with it, friar. I haven’t had a particularly enjoyable last few days, and it doesn’t appear that will change anytime soon.”
Godfrey laughed, undaunted. “Same old Berengar. Very well, I’ll get to the point. There’s been some strange talk around the monastery of late.”
“What sort of talk?” The friar wouldn’t have bothered him if it weren’t important.
Godfrey’s manner was no longer jovial. “Talk of things better left buried and forgotten. There are whispers of someone in the west who seeks to resurrect the old ways. I’ve heard of accounts of human sacrifice remarkably similar to what we encountered at Alúine.”
Berengar raised an eyebrow. Godfrey’s implication was clear. “Laird Margolin is dead, and the cult of Balor died with him. You were there. We stopped the ritual.”
Godfrey appeared unconvinced. “We prevented Margolin from sacrificing Lady Imogen, but not before he began the invocation. What about the entity you saw?”
Berengar clenched his teeth. He hadn’t forgotten. “I don’t know what I saw.” It wasn’t entirely true. After they thwarted the ritual, a nightmarish being of shadow and flame attempted to possess him.
“If someone is attempting to revive the Fomorians…”
Berengar cut him off. “Look around you. The Fomorians are gone. The old ways are done.”
“All the same, there is a man in the city who has witnessed these things firsthand. A scout by the name of Horst who barely survived a goblin ambush with his life. His companions were not so fortunate, I hear.”
That must be the scout Tavish spoke of, Berengar thought. So that was the business Godfrey referenced earlier. “And?”
“I would like you to come with me to meet him.”
“Godfrey, in case you haven’t noticed, I have enough to worry about at the moment.”
“I would consider it a personal favor if you would accompany me.”
The City of Thieves Page 11