Berengar excused himself and left at once. He did not want her to see his fists shaking at his sides.
When he reached the tower, Morwen was already reading King Mór’s journal under the candlelight.
“Have you found anything of note?”
“Not yet,” she said without bothering to look up. “The journal contains a detailed account of the king’s daily life.” When she flipped to the next page, her brow arched suddenly, as if she had read something that troubled her.
Berengar started to speak, but she held up her hand to silence him and turned to the next entry, and the one after it.
“No,” she muttered to herself, repeating the word several times in rapid succession. “It can’t be.” Morwen practically leapt from her seat and hurried across the room, hastily removing a collection of books and scrolls from their shelves. When she returned, she swept everything apart from the king’s journal aside and dumped the contents onto the desk.
“What is it?”
“See for yourself.” She slid the journal toward him.
Berengar took the book into his hands and began to read.
The dreams are getting worse. I’m losing track of time. Sometimes I wake in the strangest places, with no memory of anything that came before. My head is in a fog. I’m sleeping more and more, and yet I’m as tired as I’ve ever been. Is it the weight of my years, or is it something more? There are moments when it feels as if there’s something stirring in the back of my mind, something else staring out of my eyes…
Berengar frowned. Mór’s writings sounded like the ravings of a madman. He continued reading.
I dare not voice these concerns openly. A shadow has fallen over Munster, and I no longer know whom to trust. I am certain I did not issue that proclamation, and yet my seal is unmistakable. I have begun to suspect that my mind is not always my own. Something else has its claws in me…something evil and familiar. I have dispatched Morwen to Innisfallen to look into these matters, though I have not told her the true reason behind my request. I think I am cursed. Perhaps I have brought this evil upon myself. My sins weigh on me like a stone around my neck. I fear it is far too late to make amends. There is one I could turn to, but would he heed my call? The war was so long ago…
Berengar didn’t have to read any more. He knew what had happened after that.
“I took these tomes with me when we left the monastery,” Morwen said, racing through the pages of a large volume in black binding that appeared to be a book of curses. “I didn’t know what I was looking for at the time. Now I do.”
She pointed out an illustration of a man with a vacant expression and empty, blank eyes. Another pair of eyes stared back at the viewer, just above the man’s head. Berengar found the drawing oddly familiar, and he remembered where he’d seen a similar expression not long ago.
“Ronan,” he muttered. “When he killed the crone, he had the same look on his face. Afterward, he couldn’t seem to remember doing it, as if—”
“As if someone else made him do it,” Morwen finished for him.
“Was he possessed?” Berengar was familiar enough with entities that attempted to take possession of their hosts, including ghosts and evil spirits.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think someone used magic to take over his mind, and they did the same thing to the king.”
“How is such a thing possible?”
Morwen shrugged. “Even those with lesser magical abilities can often sense or even manipulate the feelings of others. Remember when you came to retrieve me from the monastery, and I put the siege’s leader into a trance with a simple touch? Then there are those like Cora, who can enter the minds of others to read their thoughts, or even bend their will. To fully take control of another person’s body for any length of time would require a tremendously powerful individual.”
“I don’t understand. If this individual had Mór under their control, why kill him at all?”
She just looked at him. “I would have thought the answer to that was obvious—it was your arrival that changed everything. When King Mór sent for you, the conspirators must have been afraid you would discover them. They killed the king to cover it up, perhaps hoping to seize control of the throne using other means. Or maybe they planned to kill him all along.”
She pointed out one of the spell’s requirements, and Berengar felt his blood turn to ice.
A lock of the victim’s hair.
“The same as in the Demon’s Whisper.”
“Did your father’s journal make mention of Laird O’Reilly?” He was still unsure why the old man was so concerned with the journal’s contents.
“Only in the earlier entries, when he wrote of day-to-day affairs.”
“You mentioned earlier he was educated in Cill Airne. That would have been well before the purges, before the school of magic was shuttered. He might have crossed paths with a mage or magician. Maybe even picked up some of their tricks.”
Was there another magician in Cashel under his very nose? If O’Reilly was secretly allied with such an individual, he could have elevated them to a high rank in his capacity as royal adviser, with none the wiser. Then there was Desmond, who was also from Cill Airne and might have access to former students from the school of magic.
“Morwen, if this person can truly control the mind of another, then…”
“It could be anyone,” she finished for him. “Anyone at all.”
Chapter Fifteen
At last the day of the queen’s coronation arrived, and even with what they learned from Mór’s journal, Berengar was no closer to uncovering the identity of the king’s assassin. He had faced down the déisi, infiltrated an underground market of criminals and thieves, taken a poisoned arrow for the princess, and clashed with a coven of witches, yet the danger seemed greater than ever before. He returned again to his final conversation with the king, whose only real concern had been Morwen’s safety. Though Mór had fallen a long way from the man Berengar once knew, in the end he expressed remorse for his actions. Berengar hoped that was enough for him to find peace in the afterlife. Now it fell to the warden to honor his friend’s last request and keep his kingdom safe. Berengar planned to do just that, no matter the cost.
Blasted ceremony. The whole thing seemed pointless to him. He didn’t care for public events as a rule, but what was the point in holding another coronation when Alannah was already queen of Munster? Though the purpose was to mark her full acquisition of Mór’s powers and responsibilities, in reality she was simply swapping out her existing crown for her husband’s. It was the kind of pageantry typical of Munster. Such a thing would certainly never be done in Ulster. As far as Berengar was concerned, it was foolish to hold such an event with the king’s killer still at large. The last time Alannah and Ravenna ignored his advice it hadn’t gone so well, but the queen seemed determined to proceed as planned. He supposed he could understand her desire to start anew, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
As he readied himself for the day, there came a knock at the door. “Stay put,” he said to Faolán, who let out a low growl. If anyone was foolish enough to attack him in close quarters, his axe was within reach. “You may enter.”
The door opened, revealing a young woman. Berengar recognized her as one of Ravenna’s attendants. In her arms she carried a set of dress clothes. “Apologies, my lord. Princess Ravenna wanted you to have these for the coronation. She picked them out herself.”
The woman left the clothes behind and departed with a bow, leaving him to inspect them. He liked dressing up in fancy garments about as much as he enjoyed formal events, but it was clear the princess had put much thought into her selections, and he had no intention of disappointing her. Berengar removed his cloak and put on the elegant high-collared doublet over the simple white tunic Ravenna had chosen, coupled with a matching trias—wool pants that fit tightly around his calves. It was nearly impossible to find formal attire in his size, but the clothes Ravenna selected fit
him perfectly. Although he left his cloak behind, he took all his weapons with him, save for his bow. He was still a warden, after all.
Berengar left the castle and made the walk to the wall, where he stared down across the city. An audible roar came from those gathered below in anticipation of the coronation. The staggering numbers stretched all the way from the foot of the hill back to the city gate. None would catch more than a glimpse of the ceremony itself, which was to take place behind closed doors. Only those who were invited were permitted entrance past the sentries at the gate, mostly Munster’s nobles and representatives from each of the neighboring kingdoms, along with foreign dignitaries from Albion and Caledonia.
Berengar made inquiries of the guards and discovered there was still no word of Corrin. Given the extent of Corrin’s devotion, the warden thought it highly unlikely he would miss Alannah’s coronation of his own accord. Had he uncovered something that put him in the assassin’s path? If the goal was to throw the ceremony into disarray, it seemed to have failed. Upon Berengar’s inspection, Corrin’s replacement appeared to have done an admirable job of arranging the defenses.
Before returning to the castle, he sought out the guard who had informed him of Corrin’s disappearance. The young man took a step back at his approach and swallowed uncomfortably, likely remembering the warden’s displeasure when he failed to recognize him on their first meeting.
“You,” Berengar said. “What’s your name?”
“Seamus, sir.” The young man’s gaze lingered on Faolán, who’d nearly attacked him when he had threatened her master with expulsion from the castle grounds.
Although the guard’s behavior had caused him some annoyance—Berengar hadn’t forgotten how hungry he was after the journey from Leinster—it was born out of the young man’s sense of duty, and perhaps a desire to prove himself.
“There’s something I want you to do for me.”
Seamus bowed. “Of course, Laird Warden—whatever you ask.”
Berengar flashed his teeth to express his irritation at being called a lord for the second time that day before explaining the task he needed Seamus to perform. “Choose three men you trust to accompany you. You must leave with haste if you are to return in time. Do you understand what I ask of you?”
When Seamus nodded, Berengar slipped off his ring and put it in the young man’s palm. “Take care not to lose this. It is precious to me. You now go with the authority of the High Queen.”
After the guard departed to carry out the task entrusted to him, Berengar cast one final look over the city before following the road that led from the castle gate. Music played in the background as the arriving guests admired Cashel’s splendor under the watchful presence of the guards. The warden wandered the grounds, observing the festivities. The people of Munster were certainly fond of their parties—overly fond, in his opinion. Examples of Munster’s culture and arts were on full display for all to see. There was even a ficheall tournament for renowned players from all five kingdoms. Watching them play, Berengar suspected Morwen was more than a match for any of the participants. More than one of the bards and troubadours in attendance did a double take when he went by, recognizing his description from their songs and stories even in the absence of his bearskin cloak.
Berengar tugged uncomfortably at his collar. He was so accustomed to his armor it felt as if a part of him were missing without it. There were more than a few faces he recognized in the crowd, especially members of the official delegation from Tara. Several lords—mostly those from Leinster—turned up their noses as he passed. Others still, including one of the Ice Queen’s many sons, regarded him with cold indifference. No matter how much he dressed the part, he would never be one of them. The scars were a reminder of that.
The warden was on the verge of inquiring if any among the messengers from Tara brought word for him from the High Queen when he crossed paths with Morwen. The magician’s gaze swept over him, and she held her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, unable to hide her amusement.
“I’m sorry.” Morwen noted his sour expression. “I wasn’t expecting to see you dressed in such a fashion, that’s all.”
“Careful,” he warned. “I might say the same of you.”
Morwen grimaced in displeasure. A simple blue dress had replaced her robes. Her brown curls, worn loosely instead of in a braid, appeared difficult to manage. The whole getup had the pronounced effect of making her appear even younger than her years.
“I hate wearing dresses,” she muttered with a dark expression. “I hope you’ve had a productive day. I spent most of the night reading up on various spirits and monsters before I fell asleep. Nightmarish creatures. I wanted to rule out possession, so I paid a visit to Prince Aiden’s grave to confirm he hadn’t become a vengeful spirit after his death.”
“What did you discover?”
“Nothing. I believe his spirit has passed on.”
At that moment, a trumpet sounded, and the ornate chapel doors opened. Berengar recognized the priest inside as the same man who led Mór’s funeral procession. He wore white and green vestments, which set him apart from the priests in black at his side or the monks in their plain brown robes. Berengar and Morwen entered along with the others. The vaulted ceilings were higher even than those in the throne room, as if reaching out to heaven. Even Berengar felt small in comparison as he passed under a series of wide, rounded arches. Each boasted a carving bearing the likeness of one of Munster’s kings. Elaborate frescos ran along the sandstone walls all the way to the ceiling, each depicting a different scene from Munster’s storied past. A sarcophagus said to contain the remains of High King Brian Boru stood along the western wall. Entwined serpents were carved into its stone surface, a symbol of eternal life from the time of the elder gods that predated worship of the Lord of Hosts.
Ronan was dressed in his finest clothes. “You look lovely, Lady Morwen. Warden Berengar, the queen would like a word before the ceremony.”
Alannah waited in the narrow chamber where Mór had been prepared for burial. He wouldn’t have picked the place for a private audience, but southerners weren’t as superstitious about such things. When he entered the room, Berengar’s eyes fell on the table where the king’s body had lain when he first spoke with Ravenna about her father’s death.
“Leave us,” Alannah instructed her attendants.
“I wish to apologize for my words when we last spoke.”
“There is no need,” she said when they were alone. Her voice was softer than usual, perhaps in the face of the responsibility she was about to assume. “It is almost time. I am ready to do my duty.” She drew nearer, and he could see her features clearly in the candlelight. “The hour grows late, Warden Berengar.”
Berengar lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I swore to find your husband’s killer and bring them to justice. I failed.”
She nodded as if she had known that would be his answer all along. “Do not despair. You have not failed. I’ve watched you from the moment you set foot in Cashel. You saved my daughter’s life, defeated the Witches of the Golden Vale, and avenged my son’s death at the hands of the crone. You have proven yourself a true friend to Munster. I do not know what happened between you and Mór, but when this is finished, you will always have a place in this kingdom.”
“You honor me, Your Grace.”
“My husband was more than a great king when we married—he was a good man. He lost that somewhere along the way. I hope to be the ruler he should have been.” Alannah looked up at him, and for the first time a true, genuine smile formed on her face. In that moment, he knew the kind of queen she would make.
The bell tolled, announcing to the city that the moment of the coronation had come. The queen’s escort arrived, and Berengar was about to leave when Alannah spoke to him again.
“One more thing. With the witches and the crone gone, it seems Munster is no longer in need of magical protection. After speaking with my counselors and advisers, I have decid
ed to follow the example of Leinster and eliminate the position of court magician once your investigation is complete. The time of magic and monsters is coming to an end, Warden Berengar. We must look to mankind to chart a new future.”
Berengar tried not to show his surprise. He understood the way Alannah felt about magic better than most, but despite what she wished to believe, there was no shortage of magical threats. Based on the contents of her husband’s journal, some were perhaps closer than she even suspected. Moreover, Berengar knew the news would crush Morwen. She had been preparing for her service to the throne her whole life, and it meant everything to her.
He returned to the chapel and took his place beside the priest at the head of the room. With Nora at Tara, he would act in the High Queen’s stead in his capacity as a warden of Fál, one who stood apart. Princess Ravenna was closest to the throne, ahead of Thane Ronan, Marcus O’Reilly, and the Rí Tuaithe, though he noticed Desmond was absent from their number. He had difficulty taking his eyes off Ravenna, who was easily the most beautiful woman in the room. It occurred to him that he had rarely seen the princess when she wasn’t wearing mourning black, but the color seemed to suit her well.
The musicians struck up their instruments and the choir began to sing. All heads turned toward the entrance, where Alannah appeared. She walked down the center aisle and stopped before the throne as those gathered in her presence stood out of respect.
The priest draped her in a cloak of gold and bestowed upon her a golden scepter, as the church had since Father Pádraig carried the word of the Lord of Hosts to the island centuries ago. The priest uttered a simple prayer for the queen and her reign before he anointed her with holy oil and made the sign of the cross on her head.
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