“Blood magic? Sounds serious.”
“It is. It’s evil, black magic of the highest order. But from what I hear, these witches are careful not to violate the terms of their agreement with the king. They’re said not to harm anyone unless provoked, and most of their clients leave satisfied.”
“You don’t look convinced.”
“There are rumors,” she said quietly. “King Mór forbade me from pursuing the subject.”
“Curious.” From everything he had learned, Mór was fixated on protecting Munster from all magical threats. So why would he keep his court magician in the dark about the Witches of the Golden Vale? Was it out of a desire to protect his daughter, or was it yet another attempt to hide the truth? “Maybe the locals can tell us more.”
By all appearances, it was an ordinary village. Fishermen fished salmon and trout from the river. Chickens, pigs, and even a few dairy cows were penned up outside the villagers’ huts. Tradesmen plied their wares in a centrally located marketplace. Nevertheless, something about the village felt off. Berengar was well accustomed to receiving strange looks, but this was different. As he and Morwen approached, most of the villagers stopped what they were doing and watched with unmistakable suspicion.
“Hide your staff,” he said to Morwen.
She quickly used a blanket to cover the staff, which was barely visible where it was fixed to her horse’s saddle.
“Come on.” He headed in the direction of the local tavern.
It was quiet inside, not that he expected to find it otherwise in the middle of the day. Berengar passed an adolescent girl cleaning tables as he approached the tavern’s owner, who stood behind the bar.
“Can I help you, strangers?” the man asked without a hint of a smile.
“I’d like something to drink, to start with.” Berengar slid payment across the counter.
The man behind the bar looked them over for an uncomfortable moment before filling a meadair and setting it before Berengar.
Berengar didn’t touch the drink. “We’re here to see—”
“I know why you’re here,” the man interrupted. Like the other villagers, he was clearly not pleased to see them. “There’s a path at the end of the village that leads through the forest. It will take you to what you seek.”
Berengar put another coin on the counter. “I’d like to know more, if it’s not too much trouble. Where did these witches come from? Have they caused you any trouble?”
The man looked him square in the eye. “Keep your money. I’ll not answer any further questions, nor will anyone here.”
Berengar took a step forward, towering over the man across from him. “I am a warden of Fál, here under the authority of Queen Alannah. You would be wise to remember that.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you were the High Queen herself. You had best be on your way, stranger. Either through the woods, or back the way you came—it’s no concern of mine.”
It wasn’t that he didn’t intimidate the man. As Berengar searched his face, it suddenly occurred to him that the man was afraid of something worse. He turned and left the tavern without another word, leaving the money on the counter.
“Well, that went well,” Morwen said under her breath when they departed.
“These people are all terrified. It explains why they’re so mistrustful of outsiders.”
“Excuse me, sir,” a quiet voice said as they unhitched their horses. It was the girl who had been cleaning the tables when they entered the tavern. “You said you were a warden. Are you the same warden who slew the Hag of Móin Alúin?”
Berengar looked down at her. “Why do you ask?”
The girl shot a nervous glance at the village and motioned for Berengar and Morwen to follow her behind the tavern, where they were out of sight of the others. “You can’t tell anyone that I’ve told you this. You must give me your word.”
“I swear it on the High Queen’s name.”
The girl lowered her voice. “They never come into the village. We aren’t supposed to talk to anyone about them, not even to the people who come to see them. Sometimes…I can hear them in my head.” Suddenly the words came pouring out of her in a rush. “They don’t want us telling what we know. Old Tom wrote to the king once, pleading for help. He went mad after. The elders found him in the woods, living like an animal. Then there was Father Buchanan, who came from the abbey at Cashel itself. He went missing and was never seen again.” Her whole body seemed to shudder, and Morwen used a comforting hand to steady her.
“I don’t understand why the king didn’t send anyone to look into these reports,” Morwen said to Berengar, clearly upset. “What else can you tell us, my friend?”
“Men from the village are paid well to bring them whatever they require. They are very rich.” The girl paused and stared in the direction of the forest. “Once a month, a delivery wagon arrives from the city with an armed escort.”
“What makes you say it’s from Cashel?” Morwen asked in a tone that conveyed she found the news particularly troubling.
“The guards. I overheard them once.”
“What’s in the wagon?” Berengar asked.
“I don’t know—it’s covered.” She hesitated before continuing. “But just once, after the wagon vanished into the woods, I heard a terrible scream. When the guards returned, they were all ashen faced.” She shivered at the memory and tugged on Berengar’s sleeve. “Please, sir, you must help us.”
“I will do what I can. You have my word.”
The girl remained behind as Berengar and Morwen made their way on foot to the unmarked path where the trees had been cleared away. The villagers continued to watch them until they were out of sight.
“Wait.” Morwen rifled through her satchel before they ventured farther along the path. “Let me see your axe, will you?”
Berengar regarded her with puzzlement, as the battleaxe was far too heavy for her to wield, but did as she asked.
The battleaxe didn’t budge when she attempted to lift it from the spot where he placed it, and Morwen looked at him with an embarrassed grin before withdrawing a silver runestone from her satchel and fixing it to the axe. “Just in case.”
Berengar lifted the axe and turned it over in his hands. It didn’t feel any different. “What’s it for?”
“The rune is infused with a charm of resistance—a ward of sorts.”
“Mind explaining that again in words I can understand?”
“As formidable as you are, you’re still vulnerable to magic. With the rune, your axe can block or even absorb lesser spells cast in your direction.”
Berengar looked at the rune with new appreciation before returning the axe to its harness. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. You’re welcome to keep it. I’m sure it will come in handy, given your vocation.” She took out her staff and switched out the purple runestone fixed to the head of her staff, replacing it with a red one from her satchel. “The witches would be able to see through any illusion I cast,” she said in reference to the purple rune, noticing his gaze. “As for this…” Her hand passed over the red rune, and another of the charms etched into her staff glowed with a fiery hue. “I hope I don’t have to use it, but it’s better to be prepared if I have to.”
Berengar remembered watching Morwen’s stand against the mob during the Feast of Remembrance. Pacifist or not, she was ready to put up a fight if the cause was just. Berengar wondered if she would be willing to take a life, if it came to it, and hoped she wouldn’t have to. She deserved better than to have her inner light diminished by such an act.
When they resumed walking along the path, he expected to find the woods marred by the witches’ presence, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Blackbirds sang cheerily from healthy broadleaf trees, which were nourished by the pleasant air. Neither Faolán nor either of the horses showed signs of alarm.
They didn’t have to travel far. A clearing emerged farther down the trail, where a great hall loomed atop
a sunlit hill. Morwen stopped at two misshapen stones on either side of the path.
“Look,” she said with a quiet reverence. “Ogham stones—two of them, no less.”
Both stones were vertical slabs, though one was a rusty iron color and the other was a dull gray. A series of strange-looking markings ran down each stone from top to bottom.
“What are they?”
“Relics from an age long past, when the world was young and magic was new. Ancient spells are inscribed on the stones, and those who wield magic can gather magical energy from them. They’re very rare. It’s no surprise the coven would choose to dwell here when they have a constant supply of power available to them.” The nearest stone seemed to reverberate with an inner energy as Morwen reached toward it. She promptly withdrew her hand just before it would have touched the stone surface. “These stones have been corrupted,” she said with a frown, examining the markings more closely. “Someone has altered the spell with dark magic.”
Berengar didn’t answer. Something else had caught his attention. Music had begun to emanate from within the witches’ abode. The soft, alluring tune spread to the forest’s border, carried by the wind. Berengar followed the sound to the witches’ doorstep as Morwen started after him. Proud and tall—almost the size of a manor house—it was an impressive structure, especially compared to the huts in the neighboring village. In a perverse way, it reminded him of an abbey or monastery.
When he reached for the door, it opened of its own accord, inviting them inside. He’d seen a similar spell at work in Morwen’s tower, but this had a distinctly more sinister feel. Berengar and Morwen quietly entered, searching for any hint of the coven. The interior was illuminated by candlelight, and there were no windows that might permit natural light inside. The faint light revealed a spacious hall, as well furnished as any at the Rock of Cashel. The music came from the strings of a harp, which played on their own from some enchantment. Incense burned in ornate censers made of silver, casting an agreeable aroma across the room. Plates of grapes, cheeses, and other delicious-looking foods topped several tables. Jewelry, mounds of gold, and objects of other precious metals were on full display.
“There’s no one here,” Berengar muttered, though he knew appearances could be deceiving where witches were involved.
Morwen raised her hand slightly in the air, with only her first three fingers pointed up, and moved her arm from right to left. “A powerful spell of protection lies over this place—perhaps more than one,” she said with her eyes closed. “Touch nothing.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” He inspected the room. The number of scrolls and spell books exceeded even the contents of Morwen’s library. His gaze came to rest on a black orb at a table surrounded by three chairs.
“We were right to travel alone. That’s a seeing stone. It allows the wielder to observe faraway events, though it requires a tremendous amount of focus. They’re very difficult to come by.”
Faolán sniffed the floor, following a scent that led her to the back of the room. She stopped in front of a red curtain and let out a low growl. When Berengar walked toward the curtain to see what was on the other side, the front door swung closed. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he knew at once they were no longer alone.
“Welcome,” a soothing voice declared, and he turned around to face its origin.
The Witches of the Golden Vale couldn’t have looked more different from what he had imagined. The Hag of Móin Alúin was so monstrous she no longer resembled anything human. The three women before him were young and beautiful. Each wore a fine silk dress of a different color, and on their heads were wooden crowns.
Berengar’s fingers inched toward his axe.
“There’s no need for that, Berengar One-Eye,” said the woman in the middle. “I assure you we mean you no harm.” Her long, brown curls showed a hint of gray, suggesting she was older than her companions. She wore a distinctive diamond-shaped ring that seemed to emit a faint glow. The woman flashed a haughty smile as Berengar released his grip on the axe’s handle. “You need no introduction here—one benefit of having a telepath in our coven.” Her eyes seemed to glow in the candlelight when they came to rest on Morwen. “As for you, Lady Morwen, I’ve waited a long time for you to walk through my door.”
When Morwen shifted in place under the weight of her gaze, Berengar came to stand beside the magician in a show of support. “The last time a witch tried to sneak up on me, I cut off her head and put it on a spike.”
At that, the other witches bared their teeth, but the woman in the middle remained undaunted. “You speak of Móin Alúin. It seems you’re every inch the man the stories say you are. But where are our manners? I am Agatha, and this is Cora and Minerva,” she said in reference to the fair-haired women at her right and left. “We are the Mistresses of the Vale.”
“Then you must know why we’re here,” Berengar said.
“Naturally.” Agatha pursed her lips. “The king’s death. Such a tragedy. It must have hit you especially hard, Lady Morwen.”
Morwen’s eyes widened in surprise, but she said nothing.
Agatha lifted a goblet from one of the tables and raised it to her lips. “You’ve both traveled a long way. You must be thirsty. Can we offer you some wine?”
Berengar didn’t need to see Morwen shake her head to know eating or drinking anything the witches offered was a bad idea.
Agatha only laughed. “Come, you two. Not all witches eat children. Despite what you may have heard, we’re good witches.” Her eyes again lingered on Morwen. “Surely you know what it’s like to be hated for what you are.”
Her companions’ expressions were decidedly less amiable. Both stared at Berengar with faces that might have been carved from stone.
“What was the nature of your agreement with the king?” he asked.
Agatha lowered the goblet, still smiling. “That’s simple enough. We promised King Mór we would not cause trouble, and in return he allowed us to live here in peace. You can see the results for yourself,” she added, gesturing to the splendor and finery found throughout the hall. “Why would we risk all this, Warden of Fál?”
“King Mór was poisoned with the Demon’s Whisper.” Morwen glared at Agatha. “I assume you’re familiar with it.”
“Of course. We’re witches, after all. I can assure you the Mitragyna and Amanitas did not come from our stores.”
“We already know who sold the ingredients,” Morwen said, “but did you make the poison?”
“Why would we do such a thing?” Agatha asked in a way a teacher might labor to explain a lesson to an errant student. “There was no profit for us from the king’s death.”
Morwen delved into her satchel and retrieved the silver medallion the déisi had given to Matthias. “Mind telling us where this came from?” She tossed the medallion to Agatha.
Agatha took a moment to appraise the medallion before passing it along to the woman at her left. “This looks like your handiwork to me, Minerva.”
Minerva ran her hand along the surface. “Yes. A paralysis curse. I remember it well. It was sold almost two years ago…to a grubby little dealer from Cork, as I recall. It could have changed hands a dozen times since then.”
“Did the crone who dwells in the Devil’s Bit place a curse on Princess Ravenna?” Berengar asked. “Did she cause the prince’s death?”
Agatha’s smile faltered at the mention of the crone. “Perhaps you’re asking the wrong question. Haven’t you asked yourself how the prince came by such an utterly foolish idea as to enter the crone’s domain?”
“That’s not an answer,” he replied with a growl.
“You can always ask her yourself. The place isn’t that far from here. I would caution you not to leave your axe behind, however. The crone isn’t as fond of guests as we are.”
“A prisoner in the dungeons was murdered in his cell,” Morwen said. “I sensed magic at work.”
“We had no hand in it.”
> “His eyes were taken,” Morwen insisted. “What would someone want with them?”
Agatha looked at her as if the answer were perfectly obvious. “To see through them, so they may know what the victim said and did before his death. It’s a difficult incantation to manage, but not beyond the means of someone with enough skill.”
Of course, Berengar thought. Calum was killed because of what the assassin was afraid he might know. Such a spell would have confirmed exactly what secrets Calum shared before his death.
“The prisoner was well guarded. This wasn’t the work of some second-rate illusionist,” Morwen said.
“You said it was a powerful magic,” Berengar said, regarding the seeing stone. Even if Agatha and the others were telling the truth, there was something they were keeping from them. “You see much, witch, so tell me—if you didn’t help kill the king, who did? The crone?”
Agatha’s smile became a leering grin. She laughed again, but this time it was a cruel, harsh sound. The witch returned the goblet to the table and traced the surface of the seeing stone with a long fingernail. “What makes you think she is the only other practitioner of magic in the land?”
A chill ran down his spine. “What?”
“I have sensed a dark presence of late,” Agatha said, her voice no longer remotely soothing. “One strong enough to conceal itself from me, even with our seeing stone. Such power I’ve not felt since the days of the Lord of Shadows.”
“There are no sorcerers left in Fál,” Berengar growled. “The Lord of Shadows was driven out. He can never return.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. But I grow weary of answering your questions, especially since you’ve brought us what we want.” Agatha and the other witches stared past Berengar, their gazes fixed on Morwen. “I always knew the day would come when the hand of fate would bring you back to me.”
“Stay back,” Morwen warned, training her staff on Agatha as she drew near.
Agatha ignored her threat and instead traced Morwen’s staff with her fingers. “Ash—the wood of the scholar, perfect for balance of the mind. You’re a clever one, aren’t you?” She lowered her hand and stopped mere inches from Morwen’s face. “What wasted potential. We could teach you to work such magics as would make the very foundations of the earth tremble. Here you would not be an outcast or a bastard.”
The Blood of Kings Page 16
