The Blood of Kings

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Berengar turned his attention to the meal prepared for him. Anywhere else, the vast assortment of richly prepared dishes would have constituted a lavish banquet or feast. Given Munster’s considerable wealth and commercial prominence, the king’s table boasted foods found nowhere else in Fál. There was wild boar; rashers, strips of salted bacon; salted butter; mulchán, a delicious milky cheese; plums; blackberries and sloes; hazelnuts; and many other foods. In addition, the dishes at the king’s table had been prepared with herbs and spices including garlic, chives, and peppers. Most impressive was salted beef. In other parts of Fál, the number of cattle owned by a lord was a sign of social status. Only the exceedingly wealthy served beef, and rarely on an ordinary occasion.

  The warden picked up the cutting knife with one hand and a loaf of wheat bread in the other. He ate hungrily, though he remained mindful enough of his present company to display a modicum of manners. As warm food filled the space in his empty stomach, his spirits lifted considerably.

  “How have you been these long years, my friend?” Mór asked. “There were rumors you had taken a wife.”

  “Just rumors, I’m afraid.”

  “But you were married once,” Mór observed.

  “That was a long time ago—before the Shadow Wars. At present, I’ve been rather busy about the High Queen’s interests.” The remark was a not-so-subtle hint to steer the conversation in another direction. Some things were too sacred to discuss lightly with anyone, even a king. The death of his wife was one of them.

  “And how are affairs at Tara? I trust the High Queen is in good health.”

  Mór spoke of the Hill of Tara, the capital of Fál where Nora ruled as High Queen. The Hill lay within the borders of the Kingdom of Meath, though the territory was considered separate. Tara was also home to the wardens, but Berengar spent so much time on the road that, in truth, he no longer considered anywhere home.

  The question was intended as small talk, to be sure. Berengar was certain the king’s messengers kept him well informed of current events. He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the king of Munster had at least one spy among the High Queen’s court.

  The warden swallowed a portion of bacon. “From what I hear, she’s close to reaching a peace accord with Caledonia. It’s been some time since I was last at the Hill. I’ve only just come from an ogre hunting expedition in the Bog of Móin Alúin.”

  Mór’s eyes danced in the candlelight. “Ogres? Fascinating.”

  Berengar held up a single finger. “One ogre, though the bastard was almost the size of a troll.” His gaze fell on the others seated at the table, and he quickly cleared his throat. “Pardon, Your Graces.”

  The king’s wife and daughter sat beside Mór on the other side of the table. Queen Alannah’s hair had not yet begun to gray, though it was not as luminous as Berengar remembered. She wore a silver crown to match her husband’s, adorned with a single, prominent sapphire. The queen’s reserved expression did not so much as twitch at the coarse language.

  On the opposite side to the queen sat the princess. Ravenna was her name, and Berengar thought it suited her well. He had heard the princess of Munster was a great beauty, and for once the stories were true. Her hair was black as the night sky, her complexion fair and milky smooth. She could hardly have been older than twenty, if that. Berengar saw little of her father in her appearance, except for the same appraising, calculated gaze. She said little, but he felt the weight of her attention on him throughout the meal.

  When Berengar glanced in her direction, she held his gaze, which was unusual in its own right, regardless of sex or age. Her face was an expressionless mask, but there was something about her dark eyes that seemed older than the rest of her, almost weary. Ravenna wore a simple silver tiara with no stones, probably a statement of some kind, but he wasn’t sure of what, or whose message it was.

  “How did you get involved in something like that?” the king prompted.

  “I was hunting a group of mercenaries known as the Black Hand. There was…an incident in a church. The local lord agreed to keep the matter quiet if I rescued his niece, who’d been taken by the ogre. There was a vengeful witch involved, and a curse, but I managed to recover her.”

  Berengar lifted his drinking horn to his lips and gulped down a mouthful of sweet honeyed mead. There was more to the story, but Mór clearly wasn’t interested in the details, whatever he said to the contrary. It was common practice for royals to deal in subtexts and hidden meanings with their words, a game Berengar had little patience for. Since he was dealing with a king, he would have to take part in the dance regardless, until such time as Mór chose to reveal what was really on his mind.

  A strong voice interrupted the lull in conversation. “What’s she like?” the princess asked. “The High Queen, I mean. I’ve seen her thrice before, but never spoken to her. If she’s anything like the tales say, I daresay she’s quite formidable.”

  Mór slammed his drinking horn against the table a bit harder than necessary. Irritation was evident in his expression. “You must forgive my daughter, Warden. She speaks her mind far too readily.” His gaze fell upon his daughter. “You would do well to remember your place.”

  Ravenna shot her father a dark look but did not reply.

  “She would have to be,” Berengar said, “to bring an island of kings to heel. Not counting the Ice Queen, of course, who is formidable in her own right.” Berengar casually raised the horn to his mouth. The mere hint of a smile on the princess’ lips was reward enough to risk the king’s displeasure.

  “Will you be staying long, Warden Berengar?” Queen Alannah’s hand fell gently on the king’s shoulder, as if to defuse the tension between her husband and daughter.

  Berengar shrugged. “That depends entirely on your husband, Your Grace.” He hesitated for a moment before addressing her again. “I was sorry to learn of the passing of your son.”

  Though the queen’s expression did not change, it took a few moments for her to speak. “Thank you. You are very kind.”

  “I am young enough,” Mór declared, as if the remark was addressed to him alone. “There is still time to produce another heir.”

  They ate the rest of their food in relative silence. The meal ended with a course of black pudding, made from blood, barley, and seasonings. Though served at breakfast in other parts of Fál, in the south the dish was considered a dessert. Once the table had been cleared, Mór waved a hand at the musicians, and the music promptly ceased. The others filed out of the chamber until at last Berengar was left alone with the king and his guards.

  “Leave us,” the king commanded Corrin, and the guards left without a word. Mór pushed away from the table and stole closer to the hearth’s warmth. Berengar followed suit, ready to hear what the king had to say. “I need your help, old friend.”

  “I guessed as much, though I’m curious why I received your summons when you could have sent for Darragh, or Niall.” The remarks were in reference to two wardens more closely associated with Munster. “You know I rarely travel south of the Silvermines, Your Grace.”

  Mór stared into the flames. “I would trust no one else with the task I set before you. It is true the others are all men of great renown, but you have no equal.”

  A gruff chuckle escaped Berengar’s throat. “Darragh might argue with that, but I’ll accept the compliment.” He saw that Mór’s expression remained serious, so he added a hasty addendum. “I mean no offense, Your Grace, but I’m still not entirely sure why I’m here.”

  Mór appeared to weigh his next words carefully before turning away from the fire. “You will have to forgive my secrecy, for reasons I will explain presently. There are two matters with which I require your assistance. The first and most pressing concerns Morwen, my court magician. A fortnight ago I received word that superstitious farmers have laid siege to the monastery at Cill Airne where she currently resides. She’s been trapped inside since then.”

  “You want me to deliver her to yo
u.”

  “She is…precious to me,” Mór replied with an expression that was almost pained. “That is why it must be you. Of all the wardens, soldiers, and means at my disposal, there is no one alive I trust more than you to return her safely to the castle.”

  This is what comes of earning a reputation steeped in blood, Berengar thought. “And the second matter?”

  The king began pacing the floor. He peered past Berengar into the shadows, as if to ascertain that they were still alone. “Now I must explain the reason my letter did not say more. A darkness has fallen over the kingdom, and I’ve begun to suspect powerful magic is involved.”

  Berengar kept his arms crossed. “Magic, Your Grace?”

  The king came to a halt. Mór must have sensed his skepticism, for a flash of agitation came over the king’s face, and he spoke through clenched teeth. “You think I don’t know my own lands?” He lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard. “Famine has tainted our harvests. Our ships are sunk by strange storms that appear from nowhere. Bandits openly attack our merchants on the road.”

  “With respect, I fail to see what bandits have to do with magic, Your Grace.”

  Mór drew closer, until there was only a hair’s breadth between them. Few dared such close proximity to the warden under most circumstances, but the king was blessed with that volatile mix of boldness and arrogance known only to those of royal stock. “Mark my words, there is a larger force at work here.”

  “Why not ask your advisers to root out the source of upheaval in your kingdom?”

  “I am not sure whom I can trust. I sent Morwen to Cill Airne for this purpose. It was not an accident her location was betrayed. Perhaps she is close to the truth of the matter.”

  Mór led Berengar outside the room onto a balcony overlooking the surrounding lands. He gestured to the city at their feet, which slept quietly under the cover of night. “I dare not speak openly of these matters. There is peace between men and nonhumans, it is true, but it is tenuous at best. I fear that voicing my suspicions will stir long-simmering resentment between the races, and I will not suffer a repeat of the massacres that marked my grandfather’s reign.”

  The king’s concern was genuine. Berengar knew Mór cared for the Kingdom of Munster above all else. The king was stern and fair, and he took his responsibility seriously. He was far from perfect; in addition to a quick temper, it was rumored the king had a string of mistresses. Berengar had a number of vices himself and was not one to pass judgment. Whatever his faults, Mór was by all accounts a good ruler.

  “I see.” Berengar remained unconvinced by the prospect of a magical conspiracy. However, Munster’s court magician was in danger, at the very least, and that was a matter he could do something about.

  “Thus, these two tasks I lay at your feet: deliver Morwen here and assist me in unraveling the threat to my kingdom. Do this, and I will consider any debt you owe me repaid.”

  The request seemed simple enough. Rescue the king’s court magician from a group of peasant farmers and return her to the castle.

  He reached out and clasped hands with the king. “I will see it done, Your Grace.”

  Chapter Two

  He was being watched.

  Two days had passed since Berengar forsook the safety of the Golden Vale for the wilds. The southern roads were more secure than those of the kingdoms to the north, but they were not without perils. Munster was a vast kingdom, and despite its wealth, the king’s soldiers could not be everywhere. It was largely left to the Rí Tuaithe and the local lords to provide security to their territories, and their numbers were spread thin enough as it was.

  The warden traveled alone on the road to Cill Airne. Berengar had departed the Rock of Cashel under the cover of night shortly after his conversation with the king. None might have known of the warden’s presence in the capital at all but for those few with whom he had crossed paths upon his arrival. This was by Mór’s design. The king’s insistence on secrecy was the reason Berengar had not been formally presented at court, lest the circumstances of his task come to light and jeopardize the court magician’s safety. It was why Berengar went alone, without a band of soldiers under his command. That suited him perfectly well, as he mostly preferred the open road to the company of others.

  Dusk stretched across the sky. It would be dark soon. Berengar brought his horse to a halt and scanned the hilltops, searching for any hint of figures hiding in the shadows. The warden’s vision was sharp—he could hit a deer with his bow at one hundred yards more often than not—but he saw no sign that someone was following his trail. He listened carefully and heard nothing—not even the wind, which had only moments ago caressed the back of his neck. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, and Berengar had learned long ago to trust his instincts.

  He glanced at Faolán, whose ears pricked forward alertly.

  “That settles it.” He would not be making camp that night, nor would he risk the attention a fire would surely draw. He would seek the company of men, if it was to be found, or else ride on. Perhaps the king’s concerns were well founded after all.

  Fortune proved doubly kind. When the sky grew dark, the waxing moon illuminated the road before him. Not long after that, the warden spotted the dim outline of a human settlement where smoke rose from the valley basin below. The settlement was rather humble in size; there were a few modest farms clustered around a smattering of buildings, without even a fence around them. Berengar half smiled in surprise at the welcome sight. If someone was following him, they would be forced to keep their distance or risk revealing themselves. Even if not, he could enjoy a night’s rest free of the hard earth before setting out the next day.

  Berengar entered the settlement and found his way to the local inn without attracting attention. There wasn’t so much as a night watchman standing guard. Nor did he find anyone waiting at the stables, though given the late hour, that wasn’t entirely unexpected. Berengar slid from the saddle and led his horse into an empty stall, guessing he could simply pay the innkeeper for the spot when he secured lodging at the inn. He removed his horse’s saddle and saddlebags and rubbed the horse down before starting down the dusty trail that led to the inn.

  A savory aroma emanated from within. Roadside Inn, read a sign hanging over the door. The unimaginative name and written sign seemed ill-suited for such a rural location, even if literacy rates were higher in Munster than in most of Fál’s kingdoms.

  A low whine sounded behind him. When he looked back, he saw Faolán sitting on her haunches, watching expectantly.

  He bent down and patted her head. “I’m afraid you can’t follow me inside.”

  The wolfhound wrinkled her face in a show of irritation. Berengar offered to bring her back some food, but Faolán rose and stalked off in the direction of the trees, likely intent on hunting her meal. The warden chuckled softly. Sometimes he wasn’t entirely sure who owned whom.

  He lifted the cloak’s hood over his head to obscure his face and slid on a pair of gloves to conceal the ring he wore. Music spilled out as he pushed open the door, and Berengar ducked underneath the lintel to fit inside. Considering the time of night, coupled with the settlement’s meager size, the hall was surprisingly crowded. Men of all stripes and sizes were spread across the room, though there were no womenfolk in sight. Patrons sang and danced to a lively tune played by a troubadour beside the raging fire. Others tossed back drinks and told stories at the bar.

  The music died without warning, and a deathly silence fell over the hall. Everyone’s attention was locked on the stranger who towered at the doorway, or else on the weapons he carried. No one moved an inch as he crossed the room, the wooden floorboards groaning in protest under his weight. Berengar stopped at the bar, where the innkeeper stared at him slack-jawed. Then the warden produced a pouch of coins and laid it on the counter, and the hall again filled with music and laughter.

  “I’d like a room,” Berengar told the innkeeper. “I took the li
berty of showing my horse to the stables.”

  “Certainly.” The innkeeper was a rotund man with a ruddy face and thick, graying mustache. He reached under the counter and handed Berengar a key. “The room will be up the stairs at the end of the hallway.” His gaze lingered on the short sword at Berengar’s side a moment longer than necessary before looking the warden up and down. “From the look of things, I’d wager you’ve been on the road for some time.”

  “You wager correctly.” Berengar didn’t specify where he was coming from or where he was headed. As a rule, he usually didn’t volunteer information unless it was necessary.

  “A man of your size—you must be famished!” the innkeeper declared. “I can serve you a bowl of stew if you’d like, sir. My lad caught the hares just this morning.”

  Berengar sniffed the air. “I’d like that very much.” He pocketed the key and slid onto the barstool as the innkeeper retreated to a kettle steaming over the hearth. The man returned moments later with a bowl of piping hot stew.

  “Anything to drink, my friend? I’m not one to boast, but our stores of wine and mead are some of the finest varieties around.”

  “Mead would do nicely.” The people of Munster were excessively proud of their wine and mead. As a foreigner, it would have been considered rude not to order some.

  A friendly smile spread across the innkeeper’s face, as if he had quite forgotten his initial reaction to the warden’s appearance. He set a four-handled meadair in front of the warden and watched expectantly for a brief moment before Berengar realized the man was waiting for him to drink. He lifted the wooden cup to his lips and drank the first mouthful. Although the meadair was a far cry from the ornate drinking horn at the king’s table, the honeyed mead was just as good as far as Berengar was concerned.