“What happened?”
“She came to me in tears to cancel the wedding. She wouldn’t tell me why.”
That explains why she looked so sad when I first saw her, Berengar thought. “How well do you know her intended?”
“Only by reputation, though the lad seems to be well-liked. Why?”
“Maybe he didn’t take rejection well. Maybe he tried to persuade Leona to change her mind and things got heated. After we finish with Varun, we’ll find him and get to the truth of it.”
Godfrey stopped in front of a modest hut near the heart of the village. From the look of things, they’d arrived just in time, as a loaded wagon was waiting outside. It was a sign of just how frightened the villagers were by Laird Margolin that Varun would risk traveling through the approaching tempest to reach Blackthorn. Godfrey knocked on the door with his wooden hand, and hushed voices came from inside. For a moment no one answered. As Godfrey raised his hand to knock again, the door slowly cracked open, revealing a rotund man with a round face and a long, flowing beard.
“Come back later.” When Varun caught sight of Godfrey, his expression brightened immediately. “Oh, Friar Godfrey—it’s just you.”
“It’s good to see you again, Varun. This is Warden Berengar. He’s come to Alúine at Laird Margolin’s request.”
Varun’s smile faded immediately at the mention of Margolin, and he stared intently at Berengar with obvious unease. “Where are my manners? Do come inside, the both of you.”
“Wait here,” Berengar ordered Faolán before entering.
The floorboards groaned under their host’s considerable weight. Candles illuminated the interior of Varun’s home in the absence of sunlight. Each window was shuttered to keep out wind and rain.
“Coleen, bring our guests something to drink,” Varun called to his wife. He reached for his cloak, which hung nearby on a chair, and fastened it around his shoulders. “What can I do for you? I’m leaving for Castle Blackthorn soon, but I’ll help you if I’m able.”
There was something awkward in Varun’s manner that suggested he was uncomfortable with Berengar’s presence in his house. Such behavior wasn’t all that unusual—Berengar was often an unwelcome guest—but worth noting nonetheless.
Godfrey reached into his satchel and passed Varun a rolled-up piece of parchment. “When you arrive at the castle, I’d like you to deliver this message to Saroise the bard. It’s for her eyes only.”
“Understood,” Varun said as his wife poured water from a pitcher into two cups. “And you, Warden Berengar?”
When Berengar took a cup from Coleen, he noticed two girls spying from the next room. The younger of the pair was barely on the cusp of adolescence, but the other—a fair-haired girl who watched him keenly—was an adult in her own right. It occurred to Berengar that perhaps the family had another reason for keeping their windows shuttered, given that the young woman was roughly the same age as the others who went missing.
Varun followed his gaze. “These are my daughters, Keely and Oriana. You’ll have to forgive them for prying. It’s not every day a Warden of Fál walks through our door. Tell me, does your business have something to do with Laird Margolin?”
Berengar, more than used to a few stares on account of his face, turned his attention back to Varun. “Aye. Margolin believed an ogre abducted his niece. I tracked the beast to Móin Alúin and killed it.”
“I don’t understand,” Varun said, confused.
“I didn’t find Imogen at the ogre’s lair. I think she’s still out there somewhere. The innkeeper at the Green Flagon tells me you’re acquainted with her.”
“I am. Lady Imogen has been good to us.” Varun gestured to his daughter Keely. “When my youngest fell ill, Lady Imogen had the castle alchemist tend to her. Keely would have died if not for Imogen’s generosity.”
Like many of Margolin’s subjects, Varun was clearly loyal to Imogen. If she was in trouble, she might seek out someone who could be trusted to help her. “Have you seen or heard of her recently? It’s important I find her soon. I think she’s mixed up in danger of some kind.”
Varun looked at him for a prolonged interval before shaking his head. “Wherever she is, it isn’t here. If Lady Imogen was in Alúine, someone would have seen her. A noble lady would attract attention in a place like this.” He glanced quickly in his daughters’ direction before looking away. “What do you want with her?”
“Laird Margolin asked me to bring her back to Blackthorn, and that’s what I intend to do.” Berengar set the empty cup aside, and Godfrey did the same.
“As I’ve said, I haven’t seen her.” Varun started toward the door, leaving them to follow him outside.
It was appearing more likely than ever Imogen was still alive, a prospect raising even more questions. If the ogre didn’t take her, what happened to her? Whatever the truth, if Imogen was out there somewhere, he needed to find her before the brigands did.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” asked Varun, who was loading the wagon with his back to them. “I really must be going soon.”
“Aye,” Berengar answered as Varun’s daughter Oriana emerged from the hut. “I want you to take the ogre’s head with you to the castle.”
Although he doubted Margolin would be satisfied until his niece was returned, the head might at least persuade him to uphold his side of their bargain and keep what happened in Kildare quiet. He hadn’t forgotten why he was doing Margolin’s bidding in the first place.
Varun winced at the mention of the ogre, as if superstitious that traveling with a monster’s head might bring misfortune.
“I assure you, you’ll be well compensated for your efforts,” Berengar said.
“I can help him, father,” Oriana volunteered. “I’ve never seen an ogre before.”
Varun looked at her with hesitation, appearing reluctant to leave her in Berengar’s company unattended, before finally relenting. “Very well. But hurry—the storm’s coming soon.”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to discuss something with Varun in private,” Godfrey said.
Berengar merely shrugged in response.
Oriana followed him back to the stables. “How did one of the High Queen’s wardens come to be in the employ of Laird Margolin?”
Berengar kept walking. “Hasn’t your father told you it’s impolite to pry into the affairs of strangers?”
Oriana ignored the remark. “Whatever Margolin’s promised you, you can’t trust him.”
Berengar unstrapped the ogre’s head from the saddle and stuffed it into a sack. “What would a girl like yourself know of Margolin?”
“I’ve accompanied my father to Castle Blackthorn many times before. Laird Margolin is an evil man. You would do well to be wary of him.”
He dusted off his hands and looked at her. There was something bolder about her than the other villagers he’d encountered. “I’ll take it under advisement.” He expected that to settle the matter, but still he felt the weight of her gaze upon him. “Got something else on your mind?”
She accepted the bloody sack without reluctance. “When you were at the castle, did you encounter Saroise?”
“Aye.”
“Did you speak with her? Was she safe?” Though conversational, her tone betrayed worry.
“She was. Is she a friend of yours?”
“Saroise did me a great service.” Oriana stopped speaking and looked around suddenly, as if mindful of being observed. “I just remembered I have errands father asked me to attend to before his departure. I must go.”
Berengar followed her gaze and saw Avery watching them intently from across the road. “Wait.” He delved into his cloak and handed her the message he’d written earlier. “Give this to your father. Tell him to deliver it to Laird Margolin for me.”
Oriana took the message and hurried off without another word.
“Warden Berengar,” Avery called out as he approached. “I finished mending your armor. I should ha
ve known armor of its quality could only belong to someone with a famous name.”
“Word travels fast.” He took the armor and looked it over. “Good work.” For a humble village tanner, Avery had done an admirable job at repairing it.
“I was Laird Cairrigan’s tanner before the castle fell. Iain tells me you’re searching for Lady Imogen. Any luck finding her?”
Berengar narrowed his gaze. Avery was curious for a simple tanner. “Not yet. Why so interested?”
“I heard a rumor a stranger showed up at the church a few nights back. Well, not just any stranger—a woman, and a noble at that.”
“What happened to her?”
“That’s just it—no one knows what happened to her after that.”
Godfrey. Did the friar know more than he was telling?
He peered through the thinning crowd and saw Oriana stop outside the baker’s shop, still carrying the letter he gave her. She checked to make sure no one was looking before unfurling his letter to Margolin and reading its contents. Berengar frowned. Apart from a man of the cloth like Godfrey, he doubted there were more than a handful of literate villagers in the whole of Alúine, if that. It seemed strange that Varun’s daughter would be among them.
As he watched, Oriana tore the letter to shreds, lifted her hood, and went on her way.
Chapter Ten
Clad in armor once more, Berengar trekked down the dirt road that led through Alúine. Most of the villagers had already taken refuge indoors. Storm clouds from Móin Alúin descended on the village, leaving the darkening sky caught somewhere between gray and black. He needed to solve Leona’s murder quickly so he could return his attention to other matters.
At least the shops and stands were mostly clustered together, so he didn’t have to go far. It was always easier to find someone in a rural settlement than in a city, where it might take him half an hour just to walk from one district to the next. He didn’t like people much to begin with, and a smaller population was just one reason he preferred towns and villages to cities, even if he favored the road over both. Berengar had come of age in a village not unlike Alúine. It wasn’t a place he ever planned to return to. Sometimes the past was better left in the past.
“Keep up.”
“Right behind you,” Godfrey muttered, hurrying to match his pace. “That’s it, just ahead.”
Although Berengar could have found the blacksmith’s forge on his own, he wanted to keep a close eye on Godfrey. He hadn’t yet confronted the friar with what he’d learned from Avery. Berengar made it a habit not to trust anyone, no matter how they appeared. He’d sensed from the beginning Godfrey was a man with secrets. If Avery’s story was true, it was possible the friar was somehow involved in Lady Imogen’s disappearance, but to what end?
“You there,” he said to the blacksmith. Warmth radiated off the cooling forge. “I want to talk to you.”
The blacksmith scowled at the sight of him. “We’re closed on account of the storm. You’ll have to come back later.”
“It’s not your business I’m interested in. It’s your son, Maddox.”
The blacksmith wiped sweat from his brow with a cloth and crossed his arms. “What do you want with him?”
“I understand he was close to Leona.”
“What of it?” the blacksmith snapped. “Working for Hirum, are you? If you’ve come to tell me that a blacksmith’s boy wasn’t good enough for his precious daughter, you can bugger off.”
“I’m looking into Leona’s murder on behalf of the guards.”
“Maddox is a good boy. He’s done nothing wrong.”
“Where is he? I don’t want to have to ask again.”
“He’s not here,” the blacksmith said. “I haven’t seen him all day. He’s probably grieving somewhere.”
He’s protecting him. Berengar put his hand on the hilt of his blade. “You sure about that?”
The blacksmith’s gaze darted to the door to his shop. The glance only lasted an instant, but it was enough to tell Berengar where the son was hiding. He pushed the blacksmith out of the way in a sudden motion. The door fell open under his weight, and he barged inside, sword drawn. Faolán barked loudly, alerting him to another presence as a young man climbed out the window before Berengar could intercept him.
“Blast it. After him, Faolán!”
Having failed to notice Friar Godfrey waiting outside, Maddox didn’t get far. Godfrey struck him across the chest with his walking stick, and he went down hard. Faolán pinned him to the ground before he could recover his footing.
The blacksmith grasped at Berengar’s cloak. “Stop. He’s my son.”
Berengar shoved him aside and seized Maddox by his long leather apron. “Talk.”
“I’d do as he says, if I were you,” Godfrey said in a jovial tone. “This one tends to get his way.” He aimed a wink in Berengar’s direction.
“Leona,” Berengar demanded. “Did you kill her?”
Maddox stopped struggling at once, and all the fight went out of him. “You think I murdered her? I loved her, you bastard.”
“If you’re so innocent, why run?”
Maddox stared at him with contempt. “After what happened to Silas? Everyone knows he didn’t do it, including the guards.”
Berengar tossed him to the ground. “If you didn’t kill her, who did?”
“If I knew that, I’d kill the man that did it myself.”
“Word is you and Leona were to be married.”
Maddox bowed his head, and his lip quivered. “Aye.”
“But she called it off—why?”
Maddox allowed his father to help him into a sitting position. “On account of her father. We tried to keep our engagement a secret, but somehow Hirum found out about us and forced her to cancel the wedding.”
“Leona left her home to meet someone the night she was killed,” Berengar said. “Was it you?”
“No. Hirum wouldn’t even let me talk to her. I never even got to say goodbye.” By the last words, the young man’s eyes were red and misty. “Are you going to kill me or not?”
Berengar returned his sword to its sheath. “Not yet. If I find out you’ve lied to me, or if you try to run again, I’ll break both your legs—and that’s just for starters.” He whistled to Faolán and gestured for Godfrey to follow. “We’re finished here.”
“Where to now?”
“The jail. I still have a few more questions that need answering.”
“Only a few?” Godfrey didn’t bother hiding his confusion.
“Maddox told me what I wanted to know.” Berengar kept his answer intentionally vague. He had his suspicions as to the identity of Leona’s killer, but he needed to be sure.
They walked in solitude, though Berengar caught more than a few villagers watching from their windows as he passed. Varun’s wagon had vanished, suggesting the man was on his way to Blackthorn. It was obvious that Varun had been hiding something from him during their discussion of Imogen. He thought again of Varun’s mysterious daughter, Oriana, and her peculiar interest in Laird Margolin’s affairs. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a reason why she had torn up his letter to Margolin.
The whole blasted village is full of secrets, he mused. He should have forced Varun to talk when he had the chance.
The guards were busy delivering a beating to Gnish outside the jail. Gnish hissed and thrashed about, but stripped of his armor, the hobgoblin appeared rather small and helpless. Tuck held him fast as Phineas struck the captive across the face. After several successive strikes, Gnish's strength gave way, and his knees buckled. Scrapes and bruises covered his skin, and his right eye was nearly swollen shut.
“Scum.” Phineas spat on the hobgoblin and kicked him in the side for good measure.
“What the hell are you doing?” Godfrey demanded. His habitual smile faded, lost to anger.
Phineas wiped the hobgoblin’s blood from his fist. “What’s it look like?”
Godfrey hurried to Gnish’s side and p
ropped him up. “For God’s sake, you’re killing him!”
Phineas scoffed at him. “Not until he tells us where the others are hiding, and maybe not even then. Laird Margolin might want to play with him first.”
Godfrey ignored the guard and reached into his satchel to retrieve his drinking horn. He pried the top from the horn and lifted it to Gnish’s bloodied lips. “Here. Drink this.” It was an unusual act, as few men of the cloth would deign to allow a nonhuman creature to share their water. According to the Church of Leinster, such creatures were lesser beings. “Monsters, the lot of you. And the man you serve.”
“That thing is the monster, in case you’ve forgotten,” Phineas retorted. “And friar or not, I’d be careful who you insult.”
Tuck winced uncomfortably at the threat and took a swig from his flask.
Gnish gagged on the water, which spilled down his chin. His eyes remained fixed on Berengar, and his voice came out as a hoarse croak. “You’re him. Berengar Goblin-Bane. I should have let you die.”
It wasn’t surprising that Gnish had recognized him, now that he was again outfitted with his cloak and weapons. Berengar had a bloody reputation across Fál, but nowhere more so than with goblins and their kin. Goblins were more plentiful in the north, and he fought them often in his youth. He’d killed so many over the years he’d lost count. There wasn’t a goblin across the five realms that hadn’t heard his name.
“They’re just doing their job,” he said to Godfrey. “It’s the way the world works.”
Godfrey just glared at him. “For men like you, perhaps.”
Berengar turned away and pulled Phineas aside. “A word.” He lowered his voice to keep from being overheard. “This isn’t working. This one will die before he turns on his tribe.”
“What’s it to you?” Phineas asked. “I thought you had your hands full at the moment.”
“The hobgoblins took something of mine, and I want it back. I can help you find their encampment, but you have to do it my way.”
Phineas regarded him shrewdly. “What exactly are you proposing?”
“Let him escape. My wolfhound has the hobgoblin’s scent. Throw the creature back into his cell, but give him the means to free himself. When he goes to rejoin his kin, we’ll track him to the others.”
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