The Blood of Kings

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  “The prisoner Calum was found dead inside his cell moments ago.” Corrin’s head hung low. “Murdered. I came as soon as I learned.”

  The entire chamber went deathly still.

  “We were tricked,” Berengar muttered as he realized what had happened. “The attack on the feast was a distraction.” While the guards were occupied with upheaval in the city, the killer was free to strike undetected. Berengar had used Calum as bait, hoping to draw out the thief’s co-conspirators, but the assassin had outsmarted him. With Calum dead, any secrets he knew he took with him to his grave, and the king’s murderer had again shown that no one in the castle was safe.

  “Impossible,” Ronan said. “The prisoner was under constant watch. How could this have happened?”

  Berengar too looked to Corrin for answers, but the captain of the guard sounded equally perplexed. “The guards never witnessed anyone enter or leave the dungeon. They claim to have no memory of anything that happened since yesterday. When I spoke with them, it seemed they were coming out of a fog. It’s as if they were under some kind of…” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “Enchantment.”

  Alannah’s normally stoic expression gave way to shock. Ravenna seemed to take the news in stride, but the Rí Tuaithe murmured uncomfortably among themselves.

  Morwen muttered something under her breath, and Berengar had a feeling he knew what she was thinking.

  “I’d like to see the body,” he said.

  No one spoke during the descent into the castle depths. Wavering torchlight reached into the darkness along the stair as Corrin led the way down. The guards at the rear exchanged nervous glances, as if half expecting the shadows to swallow them whole. Those who waited for them at the bottom seemed especially fearful. Berengar knew the word at the tip of their tongues, the one each feared to speak aloud. He needed more facts before he could be certain.

  The dungeon air was colder than he remembered. Faolán’s fur bristled as Berengar followed Corrin down the lonely corridor that led to the prisoner’s cell. The wolfhound uttered a low growl when the torchlight revealed Calum’s motionless body, left slumped against the wall, his head hung low. The door to the cell had been left ajar, probably by whichever guard discovered the prisoner’s demise.

  “The door was locked when he was found like this?” he asked.

  “Aye,” replied a stout, bearded guard who refused to meet the warden’s eye. “We had to send for the key so we could get inside.”

  Berengar reached for Corrin’s torch and entered the cell with Morwen. He crouched beside the corpse. “There are no signs of trauma,” he said, inspecting the body. “No blood that I can see. He might have been poisoned—the assassin has a fondness for it. When was the last time he took a meal?” he asked the guards without looking away from the prisoner.

  “That’s just it, sir,” the guard replied. “The prisoner refused all food. Seemed he was afraid of poisoning.”

  “And none of you remember seeing anyone come or go?”

  “No sir.”

  That doesn’t mean magic was involved. Although Berengar was no expert on alchemy, there were other herbs, other powders an assassin might have employed that would temporarily stun the guards.

  Morwen ran a finger over the stone floor and Berengar held the torch closer to her as she held the dust up to her eye for closer inspection. “No sign of residue.” She sniffed the air. “There’s no hint of chemical fumes in the air, either.”

  “Perhaps someone gained access to the cell in spite of your spell.”

  Morwen shook her head. “I would sense it if the charm was undone.”

  Berengar studied her face in the dim light, wondering what she was thinking.

  “Magic has left its mark on this place,” she said, as if in response to his unspoken question. “I can feel it.”

  He heard once there was a small amount of magic in everything, at the heart of all life. Its presence was usually imperceptible to most humans, though when the magic was strong enough, even an ordinary human might experience a feeling of dread, or perhaps a cold chill. Some, like magicians, were far more sensitive to its presence.

  As if struck by a new thought, Morwen rose from her spot and took his torch, pacing about the room.

  “What are you looking for?”

  She bent down and cast her light across the floor. “Signs of a circulum onerariis. It’s a magic circle,” she hastily added by way of explanation. “A link between two places drawn in chalk or blood.” She frowned. “I don’t see one here.”

  He noted her concern. “Is that bad?”

  “It could be. The use of a circulum onerariis requires a skilled magician, but it would take a very powerful magic to appear somewhere without one, or to kill someone sight unseen.” Her voice was a mixture of fear and awe.

  “Could this be the work of a monster? A banshee could have killed him without leaving a mark.”

  “I don’t know. We’re not dealing with any ordinary magic.”

  That was the last thing Berengar wanted to hear. The circumstances surrounding the king’s murder were mysterious enough without throwing magic into the mix. “If the assassin can use magic to kill, why poison the king at all? Why not just stop his heart? Unless…” He lowered his voice so the others could not hear. “What if the killer wanted to draw attention to Mór’s death?”

  Morwen had no answer for him.

  Perhaps Mór’s killer had purposely left a trail to follow, while taking precautions to keep their identity concealed. Berengar felt a rush of anger at the prospect. He hated the idea of his actions being manipulated by anyone, let alone someone who murdered a man who was once a friend. The use of royal gold had led Berengar to the Exchequer, who in turn shed light on the blackmail of the king. The killer hadn’t simply wanted Mór to suffer a painful death—they wanted his secrets exposed. No matter which way he approached the murder, Berengar kept coming back to the selection of such a malevolent poison. His instincts told him there was something he was missing—something that was hiding in plain sight for him to see.

  He lifted Calum’s head and found two empty eye sockets looking back at him. “Look at this.” There was no blood, no sign of stab wounds, and yet the thief’s eyes were missing all the same. “Why would they take his eyes?”

  “It might be a warning against looking too closely for the truth. Or perhaps whoever took them needed the eyes for a spell.”

  “What kind of spell?” Hunting a murderer was one thing, but this was far outside his realm of expertise.

  Morwen shook her head. “I’m not sure. Black magic isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

  Berengar swore and released his hold on the corpse. “Then we’ve reached another dead end.”

  “Maybe not,” Morwen said. “There’s one place we could go for answers, though it would not be without danger.”

  Berengar offered a rare smile. “Go on then. If magic is your domain, then danger is mine.”

  “Do you remember the silver medallion given to Matthias by the déisi?”

  “Aye.”

  “Matthias was told it would heal his ailing mother, but in reality the medallion was enchanted with a paralysis curse. The déisi could only have obtained such an item from the Witches of the Golden Vale.”

  “Laird O’Reilly told me King Mór had a truce with the coven,” Berengar said as they looked over the corpse that lay against the wall. “You think they might have been the cause of Calum’s death?”

  Morwen shrugged. “Apart from the crone that dwells in the Devil’s Bit, the witches are the only other practitioners of magic in Munster. Even if they aren’t somehow caught up in all this, they’re sure to know something.”

  Berengar nodded. “Very well. We set out at first light.”

  Ravenna found him in the stables, readying his horse for the road. The princess looked out of place amid the dirt and hay, but Berengar suspected she wasn’t a woman who let appearances get in her way.

  “I meant t
o join you at your table,” he said by way of apology. “I was making preparations for the journey and lost track of time.”

  “Mother told me.” Ravenna ran her hand along the horse’s mane. “A pity.”

  Berengar had informed Queen Alannah and Thane Ronan of his discoveries soon after leaving the dungeon, as well as his intentions regarding the Witches of the Golden Vale.

  He fastened a strap on the saddle and their hands nearly met. He took a step back and looked at her in the torchlight.

  “I wanted to thank you again for what you did. I’ve not known much selflessness of the sort you showed.”

  “It was my duty,” he replied gruffly. “I would have done the same for your mother.”

  Her brows drew closer in displeasure, and he could tell he’d chosen the wrong words, though he wasn’t entirely certain why. They stood in silence for several moments before Ravenna spoke again. “I would like to show you something.”

  She left the stall and emerged from the stables before he could reply, and Berengar headed after her into the moonlight. “Perhaps I should call for the guards.” He glanced over his shoulder as they walked farther away from the castle.

  “I am not afraid,” Ravenna said. “Only a madman or a fool would try to attack me while you are by my side.”

  When they arrived at the crypt, Berengar realized she had seen him the night he’d heard her singing, and the princess’ desire for privacy became clear. He followed her to the same grave she’d stood beside that night, which was still topped with the lilies she’d left behind.

  “The grave is my brother’s.” She laid her hand on the stone with reverence. “Aiden was his name. When I had nightmares as a child, Aiden would sing to me. His voice was sweeter even than Father’s, though he was too shy to share it with others. Now I sing for him.”

  “I had heard King Mór’s son died.”

  “We were inseparable,” she said pensively, staring into the darkness as if Berengar wasn’t there. “My brother wanted to be a knight. He was always running off from his lessons to go on one adventure or another, usually pulling me along with him. It caused our father no small amount of frustration. He wanted a prince who would follow in his footsteps and a princess who would play the part and make a good wife when the time came.”

  “How did he die?”

  “We went riding too close to the Devil’s Bit. Aiden had it in his head that he would slay the crone who dwelled in the mountain. I knew when we drew near that something was wrong. An evil hung about the air. Our horses bolted. I held on, but Aiden was thrown to the ground, and he struck his head on a rock. I watched him bleed to death.”

  There were no tears in her eyes, but from the bitterness in her voice, Berengar knew that even now, the sting of her brother’s loss had not diminished.

  “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”

  “Your wife?”

  He nodded.

  “The stories about you make no mention of her.”

  “She came from my life before the stories. I was a different man then.”

  “You must have loved her very much,” Ravenna said. “And after her? Was there no one else?”

  “No,” he answered. “There isn’t room for anyone else.”

  Ravenna was quiet for a long while, and the wind began to stir at the graveside. “The pain changes us, doesn’t it? Grief hollows us out and hardens what is left behind. I sometimes wonder if my brother would recognize me if he saw me today.”

  Berengar understood Ravenna’s words all too well. He didn’t want to dwell on what his wife might think of the man he became after her death.

  “It is said that when my father returned from the Shadow Wars, he was determined to secure magical protection for the realm. Perhaps that is why he showed such favor to Lady Morwen. She was the daughter he wanted. Yes, I know the truth. I suppose I was always jealous of her for that, I’m ashamed to say.”

  “It only means you’re human. There are worse crimes.”

  “Be careful with the Witches of the Golden Vale, Warden Berengar. Magic is dangerous, even for one such as you. I know firsthand of what I speak.” She nodded at her brother’s grave. “And your work is not yet finished.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Golden Vale seemed an unlikely place to find a coven of witches. Berengar had encountered more than his fair share of witches over the years, an unfortunate byproduct of his line of work. They were nasty pieces of work. Almost without exception, they seemed to prefer to dwell in the darker places of the world—bogs, caves, and the like—where they were free to practice the black arts in seclusion. In contrast, the Golden Vale was a region of sprawling lowlands and fertile pastures, considered by many to have some of the best farmland in all Fál.

  Berengar and Morwen departed the capital just before dawn. They went alone. Queen Alannah was reluctant to let them venture into the unknown unescorted, but Morwen insisted it was the only way to catch the coven unawares, as a larger number might draw their gaze. Alannah, who had a distaste for magic in general, expressed deep reservations about the existence of witches so close to her doorstep. The details of the arrangement between King Mór and the coven remained a mystery to her advisers. Now that a new queen sat on the throne, it was not entirely certain the accord would continue. Alannah asked Berengar to report on any findings that gave him cause for concern.

  As Cashel itself lay within the Golden Vale, their destination was only a half-day’s journey from the city. It was another peaceful summer day, and the pair rode with a gentle breeze at their backs. They passed a number of towns and farms interspersed with rolling green fields along the way. Faolán, who had grown restless after days cooped up inside the city walls, seemed to relish chasing the never-ending supply of long-eared hares into the neighboring forest.

  Berengar used the time spent in the saddle to fill in Morwen on everything he’d learned from the Exchequer, as well as the potential burglary of the king’s chambers, though he did not mention his conversation with Princess Ravenna. Morwen was at a loss as to what secret a blackmailer might have held over King Mór, but she acknowledged the king had been acting strangely in the days before he sent her away to Innisfallen.

  “King Mór would sometimes to take me riding on days like this,” she said as the sun climbed higher. “We both wore disguises, of course. Those were the only times I saw the weight of his crown fall away.” She glanced over at Berengar. “What was he like, when you knew him? My father, I mean.”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard all the tales of the Poet Prince.” He was afraid she was endeavoring to draw him into yet another protracted conversation.

  She pulled her horse alongside his. “But you knew him. What was he like?”

  Berengar chuckled softly to himself, though there was little humor to be found in his memories of the war. “Prince Mór was reckless—arrogant, even. He was overly fond of women and drink. He seemed a boy to me, while in truth he was my elder by several years. But Queen Nora always believed he would be a strong ruler. Even then she had a way of seeing something in people that others couldn’t.”

  “What did the queen see in you?”

  Berengar let out a frustrated sigh at the magician’s seeming inability to temper her curiosity for even a moment.

  Morwen, who had apparently accepted that he had no intention of answering, simply shook her head. “He was a good father—a good king. I still don’t understand why anyone would want him dead.”

  There were many reasons someone might want a monarch dead, but Berengar could think of no good reason to share them with the man’s grieving daughter. “We will find justice for King Mór.”

  Morwen’s gaze lingered on him, and her brow furrowed. “What will you do when we find the killer?”

  “You already know the answer to that.”

  “Cutting off limbs and killing whoever you deem fit isn’t justice.”

  Berengar was used to being called a killer, but for some reason
when Morwen did it, it made him angrier than usual. “You think your father didn’t kill his share on the battlefield?”

  “Yes, and it weighed on his conscience every day. The older he became, the more it burdened him. That’s why he tried his best to teach me about honor and justice. Not everyone deserves to die. Even someone like my father’s killer deserves a trial.”

  “Conscience is a luxury. The real world isn’t like the one found in the books you read up in your tower. It’s a violent, savage place that needs men like me to wade through the filth and blood for the rest of you.”

  “Sometimes I don’t understand you at all.” Morwen prodded her mare forward.

  Berengar watched without a word as she rode ahead. Morwen soon began to hum a soothing tune to her horse, and the warden’s ill temper quickly subsided. He found her stubbornness somewhat less grating than before, even if the girl was a misguided idealist. He wondered what would become of Morwen once the investigation was complete. Despite her disposition—which was sunny unless she happened to be arguing with him—surely Morwen was aware life at court would be very different now that her father was dead. She hadn’t shown signs of having many friends, and life would always be more complicated for a magician, especially with all the unrest in the city. Should Queen Alannah discover Morwen’s true parentage, she might even lose her position.

  Their road led to the Glen of Aherlow, a narrow valley fed by a tributary of the River Suir. The Galtee Mountains were visible beyond a forest that shared its border with a peaceful-looking village. Berengar and Morwen arrived just after midday.

  “What do you know about these witches?” Berengar asked Morwen as they dismounted and entered the village on foot.

  “Many come to the capital seeking remedies for magical afflictions. Sometimes it’s as simple as curing someone of their nightmares. Other times there might be a curse that needs lifting, or a spirit haunting a dwelling place. I turn away no one with an honest request. The witches, on the other hand, offer their services for a price. They’re willing to do things I won’t—things like love potions, curses, and”—her mouth curled into a frown as she chose her next words—“blood magic.”