The Blood of Kings

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Faolán came sailing out of the darkness and onto the back of the man farthest from him. Berengar countered the other’s sword with such force the man lost his grip on his blade. His next swing cut through muscle, bone, and sinew. The mercenary was dead before he hit the ground.

  “Look out!” Morwen shouted.

  When he looked up, Berengar saw one of the men on horseback riding toward him, wielding a spear. He braced himself for impact, holding his axe at the ready.

  Morwen said something he couldn’t hear and drove her staff into the earth. The ground shook and erupted around them in a deafening roar. The explosion knocked Berengar off his feet. The déisi was thrown from his horse, and they landed beside each other in the mud. The man pulled a dagger from his belt and lunged at Berengar, who caught his wrist and broke it. When he smashed his forehead into the mercenary’s face, the man spit out a mouthful of teeth and crawled away as Berengar climbed to his feet and snatched his axe off the ground. Just as the déisi’s hand closed around his spear, Berengar severed the man’s head from his body.

  He searched for the group’s captain, but the man on horseback had disappeared.

  “He’s gone,” Morwen said.

  “What were you thinking, using a spell like that?” Berengar demanded, heart still racing from the heat of battle. “You could have killed us both.”

  “I’m sorry.” She spoke quietly and leaned on her staff for support. It was clear the attempt had taken its toll. “I thought I could make it work.”

  The sadness in her words caused his anger to abate, and for the first time he was reminded just how young she actually was. It occurred to him she’d been trying to protect him and her magic had failed. Berengar lowered his axe and glanced at the bodies littered across the mud, staining streams of rainwater with their blood. All lay dead.

  He looked again at Morwen, who seemed as if she might topple over at any second. “Let’s get you inside.” She started to resist his assistance but stumbled and then allowed him to help her back inside the inn. “It’s over,” he told the innkeeper and his helper, who emerged from hiding. “You can come out now.” He sat Morwen beside the fire. “And bring her some food, if you can spare it.”

  “Thank you,” Morwen said to the innkeeper, who quickly arrived at their table with a loaf of warm bread and a bowl of soup.

  Berengar watched her eat in silence. It wasn’t until she finished her meal that he remembered the message from Cashel. The warden reached into his cloak and removed the letter he’d tucked away for safekeeping. “Now let’s see what’s so blasted important that it couldn’t wait until our return.” He broke the seal and unfurled the message, reading it under the light of the fire. He let the letter fall away after reading it, and it landed beside the flames.

  “What is it?” Morwen no doubt sensed his unease. “What’s wrong?”

  “The letter is from Queen Alannah. She requests we return to the castle immediately.”

  “I don’t understand,” Morwen said, trying to read his expression.

  A long moment passed before he answered.

  “The king is dead.”

  Chapter Four

  As the two riders approached the Rock of Cashel, anguished cries greeted their return.

  Weak sunlight poked through the remnants of storm clouds, which shrouded the land in a somber pallor. Puddles and mud were all that remained of the tempest that followed them all the way from the inn. The warden pushed toward the castle that lay beyond the city walls, and his horse’s hooves kicked up mud as they galloped over the damp earth.

  Berengar exchanged glances with Morwen when they passed through the gate. She had hardly spoken since he broke the news of the king’s death. Initially he’d been concerned the girl would prove unable to keep up with the rigorous demands of such a swift journey, but she rode like one possessed, nearly outpacing him.

  Bells tolled from the castle on the hill, one after another. The sound echoed loudly across Cashel. Berengar pulled back on the reins, slowing his horse to a trot to better navigate a course through the teeming crowds, and Morwen followed suit.

  Apart from the High Queen’s coronation and the great battles of the Shadow Wars, the warden had never seen so many gathered in one place. From the city gate to the castle stair, people of all walks of life lined the streets. They had come from far and wide in tribute to their fallen king.

  There was a grim mood in the city, which had changed dramatically since his departure. All commerce and trade appeared to have ceased, and everywhere he looked businesses were shuttered. Many wept openly, including a significant portion of those meant to keep the peace. The guards’ numbers had been bolstered. Berengar appreciated the show of force. Scanning the faces of those in the crowd, it was evident that many were on edge. Several jeered at Morwen as she passed by, and Berengar noticed more than a few nonhumans standing apart from the crowd, afraid.

  “Mark my words, ’twas magic to blame,” he heard someone say.

  “The act of some foul sorcerer,” another replied.

  “There hasn’t been a dark sorcerer in Fál since the High Queen began her reign,” Morwen muttered under her breath.

  Berengar understood her frustration. There will be trouble now. Unless the people were given answers soon, grief would quickly turn to anger. He’d seen it before. Human beings rarely needed an excuse to turn on each other, and for all its fabled civility, Munster was no exception. Berengar wanted answers too. Queen Alannah’s letter made no mention of the circumstances surrounding her husband’s death. He thought back to his last conversation with the king, when Mór spoke of an unspecified threat to the kingdom. That Mór should die while Berengar was away seemed too much of a coincidence for his liking.

  Eventually the pair made their way through the crowd and started up the castle stair. The guards stationed at the summit parted to allow them past the wall, where Berengar recognized Corrin, the captain of the guard. A number of helmeted subordinates with spears and shields on full display flanked the captain on either side, but it was to the man who stood with him that Berengar’s attention was drawn. He was clean-shaven with noble-looking features, and Berengar put his age somewhere around forty, probably only a few years older than himself. A yellow cloak fell from the pauldrons at the shoulders of his breastplate, which he wore over a long gambeson. A two-handed sword was sheathed in a scabbard that hung from his back.

  Morwen dismounted at once and rushed to meet the others.

  “Lady Morwen,” said the stranger at Corrin’s side. “I am glad to see that you are safe, though I am sorry you have returned under such circumstances.”

  Berengar climbed from the saddle and approached them, and the stranger took note of him. The man was tall—only a few inches shorter than Berengar, though Berengar was the larger of the two.

  “You have our thanks, Warden. I regret that we did not have the chance to meet when you arrived earlier. I am Ronan, the king’s thane.”

  Berengar had guessed as much from the insignia on Ronan’s breastplate. A thane was someone who oversaw the daily affairs throughout their kingdom, second in command only to the king or queen. As such, they wielded a tremendous amount of power and influence.

  “We received Queen Alannah’s message.”

  Morwen interrupted before he could continue.

  “Is it true, Ronan? Please, I need to know.” Her voice broke with the final words, and despite himself, Berengar felt a stab of pity for her.

  “I’m to escort you both to Queen Alannah at once,” Ronan said simply. “She will explain the rest.”

  Berengar and Morwen accompanied the cadre of guards inside the castle. This time there was no mention of surrendering his weapons. Nor did anyone remark on Faolán following at his side.

  “Something is amiss,” Morwen whispered. “I can feel it.”

  Berengar agreed, though he made no reply. He expected Ronan and company to take them to the throne room. Instead, the men escorted them inside the great hall
, where Queen Alannah was deep in conversation with a bearded old man who wore an elegant green tunic and multiple silver rings. When Alannah noticed Ronan and the others, she stopped speaking, and the hall fell still.

  Alannah held up a hand to silence the herald before he could speak, and he bowed gracefully and quickly joined the ranks of guards along the chamber’s walls. Corrin and the others remained behind as Berengar and Morwen approached with Ronan. When they drew nearer to the queen, Morwen bowed and sank to one knee in Alannah’s presence.

  “Arise, Lady Morwen,” she said to the court magician, though her gaze was on Berengar, who had remained standing. The queen was adorned in mourning black, and a veil shrouded her face. In Munster, property was shared equally between men and women, which meant the throne had passed to Alannah, while Ravenna remained the heir. Berengar scanned the room, but the princess was nowhere in sight. He returned his attention to Alannah, whose expression was masked by her veil. “I see you fulfilled my husband’s request. Thank you for answering my summons, Warden Berengar.”

  “King Mór was a man worthy of great respect, Your Grace. I am sure his death will be mourned throughout the kingdom.”

  “My husband’s death was no accident,” Alannah said, and Berengar saw Morwen’s lower lip tremble at the words. “He was murdered.”

  Berengar didn’t bother hiding his surprise. “Murdered, Your Grace? Are you certain?” Although it was rare for a man of Mór’s age and health to succumb to natural causes, there was no charge more serious than regicide. Few would be bold enough to make such an attempt, and the royal family was well protected.

  “It happened within this very castle. One moment he was seated on his throne, and in the next he was on the ground, gasping for air as he tried to call for help. He died with your name on his lips.”

  “These are grave tidings. If King Mór was the victim of an assassin, you and your daughter could still be in danger.”

  The queen drew nearer until he could see her eyes peering back at him through the veil. “My husband had great faith in you, Warden Berengar. He trusted you with his life, in fact. That is why I have summoned you here. I want you to deliver the High Queen’s justice. I wish to know who killed the king and why. I entrust this task to you and you alone, in my husband’s name.”

  Berengar clenched his teeth. What began as a simple task to retrieve the king’s magician had just become far more complicated than he ever could have guessed. “Very well. You have my word. I will find the truth of this.”

  “See that you do.” The queen turned away, apparently satisfied by his answer. “Let it be known that I grant the warden full authority to investigate this matter.” A scribe produced a piece of parchment, which Alannah marked with the royal seal and presented to Berengar. “This is Marcus O’Reilly, Chief Royal Adviser to the throne.” She gestured to the man with the white beard and silver rings. “I can see you’ve met the other members of the court. They will assist you with anything you require, unless you have anything further to ask of me.”

  “I just have two questions at present, if you’ll permit me, Your Grace. Would it be possible for me to examine your husband’s corpse?”

  “I thought you might make such a request. I ordered his body left undisturbed until your arrival. Be quick with it—we’ve delayed the funeral too long already. And your second question?”

  “Were there any witnesses to the king’s death?”

  The queen’s tone softened unexpectedly. “My daughter was in the room with him when it happened. She saw it all.”

  With that, Alannah motioned for her handmaidens to follow her and swept out of the room, accompanied by a host of guards.

  Any lingering doubts that the king had been murdered dissipated the moment Berengar saw his corpse.

  The bells had ceased, leaving the vast throne room in silence. The doors were shut behind him. Morwen, Ronan, and the royal adviser were the sole other occupants of the room, save perhaps the corpse. The others said nothing as Berengar looked over the throne room. He was fortunate that there was both a witness and a body to examine, which was more than he usually had to go on.

  Mór lay on his stomach, sprawled on the stone floor in a shallow layer of dried blood. His right hand seemed to be reaching out for the doors, as if seeking help that never came. It was an ignoble end for such a storied figure. Berengar, who had always believed he would die with his axe in his hand, wondered briefly if a similar fate awaited him. Contrary to the queen’s words, the body had not been undisturbed, strictly speaking. Someone had closed the king’s eyes, an intimate, respectful gesture.

  “The king was seated on his throne when it happened,” Berengar said, more for his benefit than for the others. Saying the words aloud helped him think better. “He toppled to the floor, spilling his goblet.” The warden pointed to the spot where the goblet had rolled. Berengar’s eye followed the trail of dried blood from the throne to the place where the corpse lay. “He managed to crawl several feet before he died.” He glanced back at the others. “What time was it when he died?”

  “The hour was late,” Ronan said. “Most of the castle was asleep. Save for the guards stationed outside, King Mór and Princess Ravenna were alone.”

  “What were they discussing?”

  Ronan shrugged. “A private matter, I’m sure.” A reluctant shadow crossed the thane’s face, and it was evident he continued against his wishes. “The guards reported raised voices coming from the chamber.”

  They were arguing about something, Berengar thought, taking note of the loyalty Ronan just demonstrated to the princess. “Did anyone hear what was said between them?”

  Ronan shook his head. “No. I questioned the guards myself.”

  “Did anyone else enter the throne room during that time for any reason?”

  Ronan seemed to consider the question carefully for a moment before his brow arched as if a thought had occurred to him. “The king’s cupbearer, Matthias, entered briefly, though he was not present for King Mór’s passing. The boy was in a state of shock when the guards questioned him, but I’m told he answered most of their questions satisfactorily.”

  “I would like to speak with him all the same.”

  “Very well.” Ronan knocked on the door to the throne room. “The warden wishes to have a word with Matthias,” he said to Corrin when the doors opened. “Find the boy and bring him here.”

  The captain of the guard bowed low. “It will be done, Thane Ronan.”

  Berengar waited until the doors were closed before touching the body. Footsteps sounded behind him as he crouched in front of the corpse, and when he looked up, Morwen was standing at his side. He recognized the look in her eyes all too well—it was the sting of loss.

  He gently turned Mór onto his back and heard an audible gasp from the magician. “The queen was right. This was no accident.”

  From the bloodstains around Mór’s mouth, it was clear the king had vomited a great deal of blood. Berengar inspected the body carefully and found no signs of other injuries, indicating all the blood on the floor had been regurgitated. The corpse was swollen and nearly translucent, a pale shade of the man Mór had been in life.

  Morwen knelt beside him. “These are not normal signs of decomposition. Look at his skin.”

  The corpse’s skin was a grotesque composite of sickly green and purple hues. Berengar followed Morwen’s gaze to a multitude of black, threadlike cords that ran along Mór’s veins and grunted in assent. “This was poison, and a nasty one, from the look of it. Whoever did this wanted him to suffer.”

  “They knew what they were doing. Only a very clever alchemist or herbalist could have concocted such a poison.” Morwen’s hand went to the king’s black curls. “Look. Someone cut his hair recently.”

  “Why would someone do that?” Berengar felt fortunate to have a magician on hand, as he was far out of his depth when it came to the subject of alchemy.

  Morwen shrugged. “Perhaps it was an ingredient in the po
ison. Certain spells or potions are more effective with something belonging to the victim, such as a lock of their hair.”

  So the murderer might have taken the trouble to get close to Mór beforehand, Berengar thought. “Can you tell me what poison was used?”

  “Not without knowing more. There are too many possibilities. This was either the work of a particularly skilled assassin or…” She trailed off, as if struck by a horrifying thought.

  “Go on,” Berengar prodded.

  Morwen shot a nervous glance back at the others and lowered her voice. “Or else magic was involved.”

  Berengar examined the goblet, which lay on its side. Most of the wine had spilled over the floor, but a portion had been left behind. “There’s still wine inside. Could you identify the poison based on the contents?”

  “Possibly. I can try separating the poison from the wine through distillation, though it will be a challenge with such a small amount of substrate. Afterward I would still have to break down the poison and analyze its components. It will take time.”

  As Berengar started to reply, he discovered a piece of parchment stuffed into the folds of the king’s cloak. “It looks like the king left a message for us.” He removed the parchment, which seemed to have been intentionally hidden away. The small scrap of paper was uneven at the edges, as if it had been torn from a book or scroll.

  “Maybe it contains a clue to the killer’s identity. What does it say?”

  Berengar unfurled the parchment and saw letters written in blood. “It was meant for me,” he said as his gaze passed over the brief message. “King Mór reminds me of the debt I owe him and…” He paused.

  “And what?”

  “‘Protect my daughter with your life,’” he read aloud.