Morwen shook her head defiantly. “You cannot tempt me, witch. I am the Court Magician of Munster, not some power-starved conjurer.”
“Munster,” Agatha scoffed, her voice rife with contempt. “Munster is a kingdom built on lies. And you, dear magician, are at the heart of those lies.”
“What do you mean?” Morwen demanded.
Agatha turned away and glanced back over her shoulder. “You never thought it odd that King Mór just so happened to father a bastard who became the court magician, in a realm so bereft of them?”
“I—” Morwen hesitated, confusion on her face. “How do you know the king was my father?”
At that moment, Berengar realized what the witch meant when she said fate had brought Morwen back to her, and his skin crawled at the horrific nature of the agreement Mór had reached with the witches. Meanwhile, Faolán continued growling from the back of the room, and Berengar’s attention fell again on the red curtain.
“Mór was so desperate to safeguard Munster against a magical threat,” Agatha said. “He wanted a magic child he could call his own. He was willing to pay any price, no matter the cost. He came to me one night, and nine months later I gave him that child—our child.”
“No.” Morwen looked as if an arrow had struck her. “The king said my mother died years ago.”
“Of course he did. The honorable King Mór couldn’t very well have his adoring subjects learn that his prized court magician was the bastard spawn of his unholy union with a witch.”
Morwen tried to form a response, but she fumbled for words, staggered under the weight of Agatha’s revelation.
While the witches were occupied with Morwen, Berengar slowly began inching backward. Before the coven could react, he ripped the red curtain from the wall, revealing a sacrificial chamber on the other side. There was a large circle on the floor, encircling a second, smaller circle. Both circles were drawn in blood, as were the unfamiliar symbols between the two circles.
Though no expert, it seemed to Berengar this might be the circulum onerariis Morwen had described in the dungeon—the magic circle used for teleportation. If the witches had one, they could have easily used it to murder Calum, which meant they could have lied about everything else as well.
Last of all, he noticed the human remains at the center of the circle.
“The delivery wagons from Cashel—what did they carry?” Berengar asked.
Agatha fell away from Morwen. “Sacrifices,” she said in a low hiss. “The king sent one every month.”
“You’re lying,” Morwen said, her face full of horror. The staff began shaking in her hands. “My father was a good man. He would never…” She trailed off, her head bowed.
“The king wanted to keep us quiet,” Agatha continued. “I already told you he would pay any price.” An evil gleam appeared in her eyes that had been absent only a moment ago. “It seems your father isn’t the man you thought he was.”
There it was at last: Mór’s secret—the terrible truth someone would kill for. The revelation of Morwen’s parentage alone would have crippled his reign, but the fact the king had been supplying human sacrifices to witches to keep the peace? The news would have destroyed everything.
The blackmailer must have discovered the truth, Berengar realized. Mór would have paid any price to prevent the facts from coming to light.
“This ends now,” he said. “When the queen learns of this…”
“She’ll do nothing—as will you. One word from us will bring this kingdom to its knees. Leave us the girl and be on your way, Berengar One-Eye. There is time yet for you to find the king’s killer.”
Berengar shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The candles flickered across the room, and the light grew dimmer. The witches’ shadows crept along the wall. Unlike the women who cast them, the shadows were twisted, bent, and deformed. When he started to reach for his axe, he heard a voice in the back of his mind and suddenly found himself unable to move. He struggled to speak, but an unseen force held him completely immobilized.
“Berengar!” Morwen exclaimed as the witches began to close in around her. “What have you done?” She held her staff out like a defensive weapon.
“I’m afraid your friend can’t move,” Agatha answered. “Cora is quite an adept telepath.”
Even as she said the words, Berengar felt the fair-haired witch clawing her way into his mind, searching for a foothold.
Soon you will be mine, her voice whispered inside his head. Give in.
“Release him!” Morwen thrust her palm out toward Berengar. “Lig dó dul! I break the bonds that hold your mind.”
When nothing happened, Morwen’s brow arched upward in distress. Cruel, mocking laughter from the witches filled the chamber.
“It appears you’re not as powerful as you think you are,” Agatha said. “Cora, stop playing games and finish the warden.”
Berengar stared hard at Cora, who shifted in place, wearing a pained expression.
“He’s resisting.” Her facial muscles twitched.
“Fool. He’s only mortal,” Agatha said.
“His will is iron,” Cora replied through clenched teeth. Blood had begun to run from her nose.
“You won’t touch him.” Morwen took a step back, putting herself between Berengar and the witches. She ran a hand the length of her staff and held her palm over the red rune. Orange firelight from the rune leapt down one of the charms etched into the wood, and a small flame danced on the staff’s head.
“A flame rune,” Agatha said. “Mór must have paid a fortune it. I very much doubt you are powerful enough to control it.”
Morwen flinched at that, and the flame at the staff’s tip wavered as she lowered the staff.
“Forget the warden,” Agatha said. “The king is dead. The life you knew before has ended. You know it in your heart. The human world will never accept you. Here, you will be young and beautiful forever. Reject my offer, and you will never be anything more than a weak magician.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Morwen looked up at Agatha with a resoluteness that reminded Berengar of himself. “But I believe in good, and I choose the light all the same.”
“In time, you will learn to love the dark,” Agatha said. “We’ll just have to break you first.”
As the witches advanced on Morwen, Berengar managed to unclench his fist.
Let me in, Cora shouted with all the force of her mind.
Fine, he replied. Berengar had spent a lifetime learning to hide his rage—to conceal the white-hot fury he carried behind a mask of steel—but it was always there beneath the surface, sharper than his axe and brighter than any flame. In that instant, he let his walls fall away and showed her what had happened at the Fortress of Suffering, subjecting her to full strength of his anger. The witch’s mind recoiled from his in terror, enough for him to reach for his axe.
“Faolán,” he called. “Maul.”
Faolán lunged at Cora, savagely tearing at the witch with her claws. While Cora shrieked in pain, unable to fend off Faolán, Berengar broke through the lingering effects of her spell and charged at her. Minerva hurled a red powder in his direction, but Berengar deftly spun out of its path and brought his axe up in a clean sweep, cleaving half of Cora’s face from her head. Writhing like an insect that had its legs plucked from its torso, the witch retreated across the room with a dissonant hiss.
“Kill him,” Agatha said. “The girl is mine.” The witches began chanting in unison, and the light dimmed as the room began to shake.
Morwen swung her staff around. “Dóiteán!” she shouted, and all the candles inside burst into flame as the rune ignited and a stream of fire shot out of the staff.
The flames began to spread, engulfing the walls.
Berengar started forward, but Agatha reached out at him with a claw-like hand, and a root shot out of the floorboards and wrapped itself around his boot, anchoring him to the ground. With Berengar pinned, she hissed another spel
l, one likely meant to kill him. Just before the spell hit him, he held out his axe. The silver runestone Morwen had attached emitted a shrieking sound as it deflected the spell. The collision’s force knocked him on his back, and the axe went sliding across the floor.
Morwen aimed a fireball from her staff at Agatha, but instead the flames shot through the roof, sending rubble crashing between them. “I can’t control it,” she screamed. Fire from the rune burned her hand, and the staff fell from her grip.
The witches spoke the words of a black tongue in unison, and the flames began to encircle her.
Berengar broke free of the root trapping his ankle, grabbed his axe, and threw himself at Minerva. She turned aside his axe with a spell, but it was too late for her to stop him. As she tried to cast another spell, Berengar tackled her to the ground. He drove the axe through her chest cavity and into the floor before ripping it free of her heart. The flames around Morwen dissipated instantly as the witch breathed her last.
Agatha screamed with unbridled fury, unleashing a terrible curse, and planks began tearing themselves from the building as a black maelstrom gripped the entire structure in its wake. Berengar tried to reach her but was knocked back, barely able to keep to his feet.
She’s going to bring the building down on our heads, he realized.
Morwen stepped in front of him, staff in hand.
“You should have joined me,” Agatha shouted above the sweeping winds as the building continued to burn. “Now you will die with him.”
Morwen shook her head and pulled out a golden amulet that hung around her neck. “This amulet was enchanted by Thane Ramsay of Connacht, and you cannot match its power.”
When Agatha reached forth her hand to crush them, the amulet began to glow, and Morwen’s staff shone with white light. The magician’s feet lifted off the ground, and a sphere of white light exploded outward, temporarily holding the witch’s curse at bay. “Get to the circle,” she yelled at Berengar. “Now!”
They ran together toward the circle, but Morwen’s movements were slowed, a sign the casting had sapped her strength. The structure again began to shake, and planks began falling down around them, exposing the sky.
“Veterum,” Morwen said as she stumbled after him into the circle. The circle’s lines shimmered in the dim light.
Morwen held out her hand to him. When Berengar reached for her, she vanished just before their hands met.
Chapter Ten
The world spun around him. There was a rush of wind, he felt a sensation of falling through the air, and suddenly everything stopped. Berengar landed on his back, staring up at the sky. He sat up and looked around. His axe lay beside him in the grass. Morwen’s spell had dumped him in an open field, with no signs of human civilization within view. As far as he could tell, he was in the middle of nowhere.
“Magic,” he muttered with considerable disdain. As far as he was concerned, the whole unpleasant business was further proof that no good ever came from mixing with witches, not that he needed the reminder. Mór should have known better.
He didn’t see Morwen anywhere nearby. Faolán too was gone. Berengar called once for the magician, and again more loudly. There was no response. He wasn’t sure if that meant she simply landed elsewhere, or if she hadn’t made it out of the witches’ abode. In either case, she was alone. He glanced up at the sun. There was still plenty of light, but sunset was only hours away. He needed to find her, and fast.
The warden climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. He stooped to retrieve his bow and a map of Munster, which had landed several feet away, before setting off in search of Morwen. The peaceful meadow seemed to go on for miles. There were no distant mountains looming overhead, which suggested he was far removed from the Glen of Aherlow, though still somewhere within the Golden Vale. He might reach the castle by heading east, but that wouldn’t bring him any closer to finding Morwen. Instead he decided to search for higher ground.
After an hour or so, Berengar came across a stream and took the opportunity to fill the drinking horn he kept with him. When he knelt beside the running water and lifted a mouthful to his lips, he noticed movement at the edge of the forest. Just as he started to reach for his axe, Faolán came sprinting out of the trees. Despite her size, she crossed the space between them in moments. Berengar barely had time to return the lid to his horn before the wolfhound leapt to meet him, wagging her tail with unbridled affection. The blood on her muzzle from their battle with the witches disappeared as she dipped her face into the stream and lapped up water.
Berengar scratched her behind the ears and climbed to his feet. “Come along now, girl.” He started up a hill to get a better sense of the lay of the land.
Faolán didn’t budge. Berengar whistled, expecting her to follow, and still she remained where she was. He glanced over his shoulder with a perturbed expression, unaccustomed to having his commands disobeyed. The wolfhound barked and retreated to the border of the woods.
“Not that way.”
Faolán would not be swayed. She barked again, signaling him to follow. Berengar stopped cold. Maybe she knew something he didn’t. The warden left the grassy field behind and stalked after her.
It was dark inside the forest. Scores of ravens watched with shrewd eyes from their perches in the tall oaks and birches. The ravens deserted their branches and took to the sky when Berengar and Faolán passed underneath. He frowned. It was well known that witches, sorcerers, and the like used crows and ravens as spies. Minerva might have fallen to his axe, but either of the remaining witches could be out there somewhere, looking for them. He walked with his axe in hand, just in case.
Faolán led him deeper into the dense wood. She stayed a healthy distance ahead, forcing Berengar to hasten to keep up. The terrain sloped upward, and he had just grabbed hold of a tree trunk to steady himself when he noticed one of Morwen’s runestones on the ground, shimmering in the dying sunlight. More were strewn across the hill’s summit, all in close proximity to the magician’s satchel, the contents of which had spilled out over the earth.
Faolán nudged the satchel with her snout.
“That’s what you were trying to tell me. She’s close, isn’t she?” Berengar put the axe away and collected the scattered runestones, spell books, and potions that had fallen out, returning each to the satchel. Then he spotted her staff, which lay partially concealed by the bushes. No magician worth their salt would leave their staff lying around—at least not willingly. It was an unpleasant thought.
His gaze fell on the edge of a steep cliff, where the soil had recently been disturbed. The spell brought her here. Berengar stared down from the cliff. She must have lost her balance and fallen. Such a drop would not have been lethal, but it was a perilous descent nonetheless. He slung the satchel over his shoulder, grabbed the magician’s staff—which to his surprise felt no different from an ordinary piece of wood in his hands—and carefully made his way to the bottom, where a clear impression had been left in the dirt.
His hand went to the grass. “This is where she landed.” There were no footsteps leading from the place of impact. Instead, it appeared she had dragged herself away. She’s hurt. “Come on. She can’t have gone far.”
The sunlight ebbed above. He followed the trail until at last he found her, curled up in the bushes underneath the shade of the trees, nursing a wounded leg.
“If you’re going to tell me it was foolish to attempt that spell,” she said weakly, “don’t bother.”
Berengar shook his head and crouched beside her. “I was going to say it was brave. Now let me take a look at that leg.” Morwen winced at his touch, and he withdrew his hand.
“I broke it in the fall,” she explained as the wolfhound licked her face as if to cheer her up. “My staff and potions were all out of reach. I tried sending Faolán to find you, but without my spell book I wasn’t sure it would work. I thought—” Her voice wavered from the pain. “I thought I was done for.”
“Not today.” Berenga
r handed her the satchel. “You’ll live, although the sooner we get that leg taken care of, the better. Wounds like that have a tendency to fester. I’ve seen it before.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I’ve been tending to the sick and injured since I was old enough to use a cauldron.” Morwen glanced inside the satchel. “All my healing potions are broken.” She withdrew a small vial with a murky maroon liquid in it. “This will help with the pain, but only a little, and there isn’t much of it. I don’t have the right ingredients to brew a healing draught.”
“Then we’ll just have to find a village somewhere and get you looked after properly. In the meantime, I can bandage the wound. I learned how during the war.” He glanced at the sky, which had begun to dim. “Now if I were you, I’d drink that potion, because this is going to hurt.”
After Morwen pried the lid off the vial and swallowed the contents in one gulp, Berengar bandaged her wound, gathered her into his arms, and carried her away.
“Where are we going?” She held on to him tightly. She seemed so small in his arms, much like the child she was.
“It’s getting dark. We need to make camp for the night somewhere safe. In the morning, we’ll find our way back to civilization. I’ll carry you the whole way if I have to.”
“You continue to astonish me, Warden Berengar,” she said with a yawn, apparently tired from the potion’s dulling effects.
Berengar started to reply, but her eyes fluttered closed. He sang instead, a soft lullaby from a time long past, surprising even himself.
It was dark before she woke again. Berengar was standing beside a roaring fire when he heard her stir.
“How’s the pain?” he asked without looking away from the flames.
The Blood of Kings Page 17
