Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  GOOD BLOOD

  THE DESCENDANTS OF TERENE

  Billy Ketch Allen

  Copyright © 2018 Billy Ketch Allen

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9886365-6-9

  First Edition 2018

  Thank you for supporting my work.

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  Requiem for House Octavian (Descendants of Terene, #0.5)

  To Kyle, and our two-man writing group.

  Contents

  Map of Terene

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part II

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Part III

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Part IV

  Chapter 38

  Requiem For House Octavian

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Part I

  CASTLE CARMINE

  1

  “One day, when the history of our people is written, it will be said that up until the very end—we did not see it coming.”

  The boy shook awake, blinking into darkness. The ground moved, bouncing his stiff body up and down. He groaned and hot air slid from his lips, dry as dust. Grabbing at his screaming side, he touched ribs, shooting in different directions, like rungs on a broken ladder.

  The ground shifted with a thump, and he slammed into a wall. Wheels creaked beneath him. Horses galloped somewhere up ahead. He was moving.

  Where…am I?

  It wasn’t complete darkness. Cracks of light broke through slats in the wooden box. It was enough light to see the bruises that colored his bare torso like spilled ink. He reached a hand up to his throbbing head, and it came away with flecks of dry blood.

  How did he get here? The boy gritted his teeth to block the pain in his head and searched through his memory. Nothing. He couldn’t remember how he got into this windowless box that reeked of blood and sweat. He couldn’t remember why his body was covered in cuts and bruises. He couldn’t even remember—

  The boy froze.

  “No,” he screamed, or tried to, for the plea came out as a broken whisper. Leaning against the wall, he pulled himself to his feet; his muscles cried for rest. As small as he was, the boy still had to duck under the low wooden roof.

  “Stop,” he groaned and struck the wall. The blow landed with a dull tap. He pounded again and again, his strength returning along with his voice. “Stop…Stop…STOP!”

  The clomping horse hooves slowed, and the squeaking wagon wheels settled to a stop.

  The boy pressed against the wall, catching his breath. Small clipped breaths so as not to stretch his ribs.

  After a moment, he made out the voices of two men.

  “I know what I heard. It came from the cage.”

  “You’re still spooked. How is it a big man like you can be afraid of bed-time stories?”

  “Cause I’ve been doing this long enough to know to stay away from this cursed place. This heavy fog. Ghost Mountains that rise up without end. It’s not natural. Too many people have ventured this far north, never to come back.”

  “Right. And you also believe the fog brings corpses back to life?”

  “I told you something moved in the cage. You’re so certain I’m wrong, go and check it out.”

  The back of the box creaked and swung open. The boy staggered back, raising his hands to block the light.

  “Great Hemo,” one of the men shouted. “He’s alive.”

  Two men stared with open mouths. They had tan skin that almost matched their dusty travel coats. The small, thin man stepped back beside his companion, a large brute with a flattened nose. The boy recoiled to the back wall of the cage. The big man raised a club in his oversized hand.

  “I thought you checked him,” the smaller man yelped.

  “We both did,” the big man said. “His head was cracked open, and he looked like he’d been trampled under a dozen horses.”

  “Well, he’s not dead,” the big man said. “But doesn’t look too far from it.”

  “Please,” the boy said. “What happened to me?”

  The men exchanged looks.

  “Looks like you got beat and left for dead,” the smaller man said. “You don’t remember?”

  The boy reached out. “Help me.”

  The smaller man smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes. “You’re lucky we found you and hauled you away. Tell me, where is your mark?”

  The boy shifted, confused.

  The big man turned to his companion. “You think he’s…”

  “I don’t need the test to tell a Descendant. They have a stink to them. Isn’t that right boy?”

  The boy stared back blankly.

  “Not very bright either,” the smaller man said. “Generations of breeding left them good for only one thing.”

  “But how? He doesn’t have a house brand.”

  “Which means he’s all ours.” He slapped the bigger man on the arm. “The Temple auction is in three days. If we clean him up, I think he’ll fetch us a good price. Even for a low blood.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up. When it comes to spending their shrines, Noble lords aren’t complete clots.”

  The boy touched his aching head. Though he understood the words, they didn’t make sense. It was like reading a book with holes cut in the pages. He had to get out of here, had to figure out what was going on. He had to remember.

  The boy made a break for the cage door. He kicked at the men as he scrambled free, but his legs gave out and he toppled to the ground. The boy clawed at the dirt, using whatever strength he had left to get away from his captors.

  “Little beast!” Hands grabbed his legs. He kicked wildly, pain shooting through his body like knives. He twisted in the man’s grip.

  “What did you do to me?” the boy cried.

  The big man swung his club down, smashing the boy’s knee.

  “Ahhhh,” the boy screamed. His leg stopped working.

  Hands clamped around the boy’s neck and lifted him off the ground. “Don’t get wild now, boy, or we’ll leave you deader than we found you.”

  He threw the boy back in the wooden cage. The boy grabbed the back of his ringing head, and his fingers fell upon a crevice. They sunk into his scalp as if it were mud and vomited on the cage floor.

  “That was a mistake,” the smaller man snorted. “It’s a long ride to the Temple, and you’ll be swimming in that the whole way.”

  “We’re not going to get much for him with those wounds,” the big man said. “Maybe we wait until the next auction. Give him time to heal up. Put some color on him. He looks like a ghost.”
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  “And feed and shelter him for a full season? Are you crazy? We’re getting rid of this little clot while we can. We either get a few shrines for him or they execute him. Either way, we’re free of him.”

  The men’s words were fading like the sunlight through the fog. It took all of the boy’s strength not to pass out. What had he done? Why was this happening to him?

  A half-filled water-skin slid along the cage floor. It came to rest against the boy’s leg, which bent at an unnatural angle.

  “That’s all the water you’re getting. Best not drink it all at once.”

  The cage door slammed shut, and a metal bar slid into place. The men’s footsteps faded and, after a few moments, the cage started moving again.

  The boy sat alone in the darkness, pain everywhere. He didn’t understand what was happening to him. It was as if he’d drifted off into some horrible nightmare. He couldn’t remember anything. He couldn’t even remember who he was!

  This isn’t real. I’ll wake up and it’ll all be over.

  But as the cage bounced along the road, his aching body reminded him how wrong he was.

  Briton’s carriage rolled through the city gates, past statues of Hemo. The Faith had settled on this depiction of their god, long ago. Though the facial features changed from artist to artist, Hemo’s beard was constant—pointed and always well-trimmed. As if a god had nothing better to do than manicure his facial hair.

  No matter how many times Briton came, he never got used to the sight of the Temple. A series of connected buildings of white stone, each one bigger and more marvelous than the last. The large, golden domes that topped the buildings glowed, even in the sunless morning. Whatever hatred people held for the Royals of old, they had to admit, they could build. The Temple appeared all the more majestic in contrast to the hovels that surrounded it; a marketplace of street vendors and merchant shops. Visitors flocked here from all across Terene to exchange goods or worship in the Temple’s outer sanctuary.

  The Fathers of the Faith were unprejudiced when it came to taking money.

  The carriage pulled to a stop, and Carmine’s men began unpacking the carts. Briton threw his empty satchel over his shoulder and climbed to the ground, his old bones cracking from the journey. In recent years, Briton’s duties kept him mostly to Castle Carmine. His body was not used to travel, even travel as gentle as this. Jonathan Carmine had been surprised when his advisor had volunteered to oversee the trip, knowing how Briton disapproved of the Descendant auction. But Briton had his own business in the Temple square. He hoped this trip would not be a waste.

  “Are you coming to supervise the auction, Master Briton?” asked Typher, Carmine’s house Curor. Sarcasm dripped from the title he bestowed on Briton.

  “Go on ahead, Typher,” Briton said. “I have other business to attend to first.”

  “As you wish,” the Curor bowed, his red robes touching the dirt of the street before sweeping away with a company of guards.

  The Temple square was always crowded on auction day. Briton recognized the sigils of other noble houses, some loyal to Carmine, others not. Each was looking for an advantage in the blood trade.

  The remaining party of Carmine’s men stood, awaiting orders. Briton began with Semus, the castle’s gardener. “You have your instructions?”

  “Yes,” Semus said, tightening his floppy hat to hold in those ever-escaping curls of his. “Lord Carmine has high hopes for this trip. Word is out that the traders have retrieved a blood rose from the Endless Desert.”

  “And I’m sure he gave you permission to spend a fortune on it.”

  “It is a rare plant. We’d be the only house in the north to possess one.”

  “Such a high honor,” Briton sighed. “Go, go, you have your instructions. May it be healthy and bring his Lordship eternal happiness.”

  The rest of Carmine’s workers were sent about their business, purchasing everything from food and kitchen supplies to weapons. With everyone about their tasks, Briton crossed the Temple square and followed a small side street to a quieter part of the market. It was here that one could find the more…irregular items.

  After winding down some back alleys, Briton stopped before an unmarked building with a faded green door. The Hidden Gem posted no signs or window displays. Patrons did not simply stumble upon it. Briton pushed open the stubborn door with a series of kicks and stepped inside. The shop was empty, the shelves bare, save for layers of dust. Briton would have believed the shop was abandoned had it not always worn this facade. He approached the deserted counter and waited, scratching his bald head and batting the dust from his blue-gray robes.

  After some time, the back door opened, and a large woman with curly orange hair squeezed inside. She wore a thin green dress that struggled to hold her substantial body. The top of the dress was further weighted down by a large bosom and a waterfall of colorful necklaces.

  “Welcome to the Hidden Gem, sir,” she said, betraying a slight smile. “How may I be of service?”

  “Is it here?” Briton asked.

  “May I ask what you are referring to?” The woman set down a lockbox and opened a ledger. “I have no memory of your order as all our customers and their requests are kept confidential.”

  “Spare me the act, Barbara, you know very well…” Briton sighed, annoyed at his own impatience, and the advantage it gave the owner of the Hidden Gem. “My name is Briton Moonglass of House Carmine, and I seek the same thing that has brought me into this wonderful establishment two times this past year.”

  Barbara raised a bushy orange eyebrow, no longer attempting to conceal her smile.

  Briton sighed. “Item four-two-four.”

  “Four-two-four,” she repeated, turning the pages in the book. “Ah, yes, here we are. You asked for our services in tracking down a certain book. One year ago next week.”

  “Is it in?” Briton asked, putting his hands on the counter.

  Barbara leaned forward, squishing her bosom on the counter, and whispered one, beautiful word. “Yes.”

  Briton’s pulse quickened. At long last.

  “My net of contacts spreads wide throughout Terene, but this item proved very difficult to find. Plus, they are not as experienced in searching for such an…unusual item.”

  “Not many readers among your clientele?”

  “This will be reflected in the final price.”

  “I expect no less from someone of your reputation.”

  “One hundred and sixty shrines,” Barbara said. “Or twenty vials if you prefer.”

  Briton cringed. This was more than he’d expected. And, as he was paying with his own purse, not Carmine’s, it would nearly drain him.

  But if the book contained what he hoped…

  “If it had taken you another week, I suppose I would have some more bargaining power.”

  “A bit more, yes.”

  “And what happens if I refuse your price? The Hidden Gem can’t have much of a market for old books.”

  “Let us hope you do not refuse,” Barbara said, the playfulness gone from her face. Briton emptied his coin purse on the counter. Good thing he’d brought it all. To have waited this long, only to leave empty-handed.

  Barbara recounted the one hundred and sixty shrines, and then placed the gold coins into the lockbox. She carried the box and the ledger out the back door. Briton’s fingers tapped on the counter.

  A year ago he had come to the Hidden Gem when his own search for the book proved fruitless. Barbara had boasted her contacts could find anything—as long as it existed—but Briton’s hope had diminished as the year wore on. Now, he might finally have answers to the questions that had consumed his studies. The true origin of the Royals’ blood.

  Barbara slid back into the shop and set a small package on the counter. It was no bigger than an earring box.

  Briton scowled. “What is this?”

  “Item four-two-four.”

  His heart sank.

  “It is not what you expecte
d,” Barbara smiled. “That proved an obstacle for us as well. Based on your description, we searched for some ancient tome buried in the Temple vault or forgotten in the back of a lord’s library. We were lucky to find this in the end.”

  Briton gently tore away the protective paper. It was indeed a book, though small enough to fit in his palm. The cover was faded brown and unmarked. He opened it, and the pages stuck together, warped and colored like dead leaves. Carefully, he pushed the pages back, revealing the first page. Briton bent closer. Written in tiny swirling handwriting were the words, The Last Writings of King Garian Kovar.

  This was it. What he’d been searching for.

  “It came enclosed in a case, would you like it as well?”

  “For one hundred and sixty shrines it should come with a carriage.”

  Barbra smiled and pulled a chain out of the pocket of her dress. On the end of the chain hung a square metal locket. She set it on the table. “Thank you for your business.”

  Briton examined the case. The craftsmanship was remarkable; an intricate maze-like pattern carved into the metal. He imagined King Kovar wearing the necklace as he went through meetings and Temple feasts, no one knowing of the secret diary within. Briton held a piece of history in his hands.