Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  “Someone was threatening to attack Carmine. You can’t ignore that.”

  “Lord Carmine’s safety is always our concern. What would you have us do that we aren’t already doing? Build the walls higher? He is accompanied by guards at all times—guards that are much more fit and ready to serve than some…” Nathaniel caught himself.

  “Some washed up drunk.”

  Nathaniel frowned, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I know you still blame yourself for James’s death. But you weren’t the only one with him. You did everything you could…”

  Geyer shook his head, cutting Nathaniel off. He didn’t need some hollow reassurance. He knew better than anyone how he’d failed. “Forget it. It’s probably nothing. I know Lord Carmine is in good hands.”

  Geyer read the concern in the younger man’s eyes. Was he worried about Geyer or was he worried he could end up as old and broken himself one day?

  “My offer still stands, Geyer. If you ever want to clean up your act. We could use a good swordsman to train my men. Most haven’t ever seen any real battle. They could learn a lot from you.”

  Geyer lowered his head and spun the wheel of his pommel. “That part of me is gone, Nathaniel. There’s no getting it back.” He stood up straight, chest out, in his best show of attention. He raised a flat hand to his brow in salute. “Just keep your eyes open, will ya?”

  Nathaniel returned the gesture. “Always.”

  The captain of the guards moved down the castle wall, inspecting his men and their stations. Nathaniel had an attention to detail that was necessary for a leader. It was something Geyer never had. Perhaps if he had been more attentive, things would have worked out differently.

  Geyer headed back along the castle ramparts, his bad leg shuffling behind. Guards snickered and jeered as he passed, but he continued on towards the northern tower. As much as he despised working at the Castle, there was nowhere else for him to go. Traveling town to town in search of adventures was a young man’s game. And if Geyer still possessed anything from his younger days—it certainly wasn’t his youth.

  The hidden sun hung low over the fields when Briton caught up with Carmine. He was outside the castle walls watching the field hands finish their day’s work. With the orange haze lighting his face, the young lord looked more than his twenty-six years of age.

  “Master Briton,” Carmine said. “I hadn’t seen you today. I’d thought you were ill.”

  “I apologize,” Briton said, crossing the hard soil to Carmine’s side. “I was caught up with—”

  “Entertaining our young guest. I know.”

  Briton ignored Carmine’s tone. If the lord could understand what the boy meant, the answers they could discover… “He’s like no Descendant I’ve ever seen. Not just his blood, he’s—”

  “They are amazing creatures, aren’t they?” Carmine interrupted without taking his eyes off the field. Briton followed his gaze to where the workers toiled. Nearest to them were the field Descendants. Low bloods digging up the ground with picks and shovels as guards stood over them. “We run their bodies ragged all day, and, in the morning, they wake up good as new.”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple, my Lord,” Briton said. “The Descendants are more like us than most like to believe. Pain takes its toll, only slower.”

  A crunch rang through the air as a nearby Descendant swung a pickaxe, breaking up the rocky terrain. The man was old but strong, his skin darkened by years of work for House Carmine. Though his body moved, his eyes were as vacant as those of a horse ridden well beyond its years.

  “When I was a boy, I had a maid named Pearl. A silly name for a Descendant. Pearl used to draw my bath…sweep my room. She showed me a silent kindness and affection my mother never had.” Carmine’s eyes drifted to the horizon and the setting sun. “One day, when I was seven years old, my father took me to the courtyard just outside the Descendants’ barracks. His men had caught a runaway in the Hidden Wood. I almost didn’t recognize her when I saw her; her clothes were torn and her hair was down in wild tangles. She was on her knees, sobbing—not begging, just sobbing like she knew there was no changing what was to come. My father made me watch as the guards beat Pearl with broom handles.”

  Briton did not remember this moment. Though beating of escaped Descendants was common, even at Castle Carmine, for James Carmine to force his seven-year-old son to watch…Where had I been that day?

  “I still remember the sound of her bones snapping,” Carmine continued. “I thought they killed her. She was just a lump of dirt and blood when the guards dragged her away. I hated my father in that moment. I cried for a long time, unable to get the image of the beating out of my mind. I cried again that night when a new woman came to fill my bath.” Carmine kicked the dirt in front of him and scoffed. “Then, a few days later I saw Pearl again, sweeping the hallway outside my room as if nothing had happened.”

  Carmine turned to Briton. “That’s when I realized what my father was showing me. As much as they look like us, the Descendants aren’t people.”

  “I beg your pardon, my Lord, but that isn’t true.”

  “Yes, it is Briton. You just don’t want to see it. While your sympathy is an admirable trait, it is not good for business. Think of what any other noble lord would do if he had this boy. What the Highfather would do.”

  “I know what they’d do,” Briton shuttered. In other castle’s, Descendants were kept chained in dungeons, fed just enough to keep them pumping blood. Never seeing the light of day. “That compassion is what separates House Carmine from the others. This is a place of cooperation, not slavery.”

  “Don’t be naive, Briton. We give them better clothes and food than most and feel good about ourselves—but that doesn’t change what it is. And if House Carmine is going to survive the coming time, we first need to accept the truth.”

  The bell rang from the castle tower signaling the end of the day. The Descendants in the field stopped their work, gathered their tools and trudged back to the castle. Their weary heads stayed low to the ground. They kept their distance from Carmine and Briton.

  “Your time with the boy is over,” Carmine said. “Tomorrow he will be moved to the Curor’s lab, permanently. Typher will take as much blood as he can for as long as he can.”

  “Jonathan, you can’t!” Briton exclaimed. “He’s just a boy. He can’t survive that kind of life!”

  “He’ll survive. That’s what they do.” Carmine sighed and looked down at his advisor. “Remember your role, Briton. It’s time you put the needs of House Carmine above that of a single Descendant.”

  With that, Carmine crossed back towards the castle gate, his guards following behind.

  Briton stood alone, looking over the quiet fields that stretched out from the castle to the Hidden Wood. He thought of young Jonathan as a boy, disobeying Briton’s commands and running through the fields towards the woods. A noble lord with the finest food and comforts imaginable and all he wanted was to run free.

  As the light disappeared behind the cloudy horizon, Briton could not shake Carmine’s words because of the truth that lay within. A truth that despite all his teaching and philosophical debates, he’d never admitted to himself.

  He’d done nothing. He preached compassion for the Descendants but still lived a life that relied on their suffering. These were the actions of a hypocrite. This was the life of a coward.

  Briton lowered his head thinking about the road ahead—the fight Jonathan had picked with the Highfather and what it would mean for the future of House Carmine. Win or lose, it would bring out the worst in all of them.

  As he walked back to the massive stone castle, Briton Moonglass found his concern drifting away from Jonathan Carmine, to the fate of another boy.

  Geyer had gone nearly a full twenty hours without a drink and it was taking its toll. His head ached with the unfamiliar sensation of prolonged sobriety. The darkening sky signaled he was nearing the end of his shift. Down below, vendors packed up for th
e day; the sounds of carts and horses echoed up to where Geyer sat, slumped against the tower’s dirty bricks.

  So this is it. This is what I’m worth to Castle Carmine. Geyer had to chuckle. Here he was, marooned on a far tower with nothing to guard but an abandoned bird’s nest.

  Geyer sighed and looked at the sword in his lap. He had removed it since it was uncomfortable to sit with a four-foot piece of metal strapped to your waist. The sword lay sleeping in its leather sheath. And how many years had it been since Geyer saw any more than the hilt? He’d heard it said that the best sword a knight could have is an unused one. The saying was meant to extol diplomacy, however, not laziness. Though the sword had been at Geyer’s side for over twenty years, he’d never given it a name. He had always thought it silly when knights named their swords.

  Deathbringer and Honorblade—it seemed so childish. A sword was a tool, no more. Blacksmiths didn’t name their hammers, did they? Still, he did have some affection for the weapon that had saved his life on more than a few occasions.

  Geyer’s mind wandered down the shadowy alleys of the past as he spun the circular pommel at the end of the handle that marked the weapon’s only adornment. His pommel was shaped into a wheel with six spokes. It was meant to remind Geyer of the wheel of one’s shifting fortunes—though it seems like his own had been permanently stuck at the bottom.

  With a grunt of pain, Geyer pulled himself to his feet and stretched his stiff leg. He leaned on the tower’s edge and looked out on the night. Lanterns from the Moon Tavern glowed in the distance, the faint sound of lively music that carried on the wind made Geyer smile. Perhaps he would visit tonight after all. Just for the music, of course. Maybe a drink or two as long as he was there. There was no need to be rude.

  Geyer was about to quit a little early when he saw movement below. A guard was crossing Lord Carmine’s garden towards the western tower. Geyer hadn’t seen anyone in the garden all day, except for Semus watering the plants. A single guard strolling through the lord’s prized garden looked out of place.

  Geyer squinted to get a better look. There was something else. Something odd about the guard’s gait. The man didn’t walk with the monotonous rhythm and straight-lined efficiency of a Carmine guard but seemed to slink through the night.

  Geyer’s stomach began to tingle.

  Just before the guard disappeared into the arched doorway leading to the western tower, he glanced back over his shoulder. Though it was a good distance away, and Geyer’s eyesight not being what it once was, he could have sworn he saw, running the length of the man’s face, the line of a scar.

  13

  Night had fallen, but Ara lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He slept in bursts following the Curor’s visits. Food and sleep restored him faster, so he slept and ate as often as he could to be alert for Briton’s lessons. He had learned a great deal from his teacher over the past weeks, but he was still no closer to finding an answer to his most immediate problem. Ara turned his head to the barred window as he let himself drift off, closing his eyes to his reality.

  Footsteps ascended the stairs outside. Ara’s stomach tightened. The Curor was back already? It had been less than two hours since the last blood draw and he was already coming back for more?

  But instead of the Curor’s quick entry, there were voices. The guards spoke to someone. Were they arguing?

  Steel clashed outside. Quick and harsh coupled with unnatural groans and the thud of bodies hitting the floor.

  Ara shot up in bed. His eyes held on the opening door.

  The man standing in the doorway was not the red-robed Curor. He wore the armor and red bird sigil of House Carmine, but his face was out of place. A scar ran along the man’s cheek and over dark hungry eyes. Blood dripped from the wet dagger in his hand. The bodies of two guards lay at his feet.

  “Time to go, boy,” the man said, raising the blade.

  “Who are you?” Ara cried. “What do you want?”

  “You’re coming with me.” The man stepped into the room, returning his dagger to his belt. He grabbed Ara’s arm and yanked him out of bed. Ara’s head spun, and he tried to steady himself as he was dragged towards the door. He was still weak from the blood draw, resisting was out of the question.

  “Quickly now,” the man said. “I’d hate to spill that precious blood of yours.”

  “Wait, I don’t understand.”

  The man dragged Ara out of his room and over the bodies of two guards. Blood pooled around their throats. What do I do? Ara’s mind raced for an answer as they moved down the spiral staircase. Still in his sleeping garments, Ara’s bare feet flinched at the chilly touch of the stone steps. His captor pushed him to hurry and Ara lost his balance and almost toppled down the stairs.

  When they reached the fourth-floor level, the man pushed Ara away from the stairs down a hallway. Moonlight seeped in as the hallway opened to the rooftop garden. Ara’s teeth chattered, the cold night air attacking his thinly covered body.

  “Where are you taking me?” Ara demanded, digging his heels into the ground. “I’m not going another step until you tell me—”

  The man shoved Ara forward, sending his frail body crashing onto the stone steps of the garden floor. Cold pain shot through the bones of his elbow from the impact. Ara felt to see if his arm was broken. He had no choice but to listen. He was at this man’s mercy.

  The man’s scarred face twisted with anger as he stormed towards Ara. “Get up or I’ll throw you off the roof and pick up the pieces later.”

  “You’re in an awful hurry.”

  The man spun around towards the direction of the voice. A Carmine guard stood in the garden’s arched entrance. The guard looked familiar. Where had Ara seen him before? Then he remembered the disheveled guard he’d found sleeping in the hallway on his first day delivering meals. But now the man stood tall, hand on the hilt of his sword, eyeing the scarred face man.

  “You know, I don’t recognize you,” the guard said, walking from the archway. “And I know and hate most of Carmine’s guards.”

  The scarred face man drew his dagger and pointed it down at Ara. “Stand back or I’ll kill the boy.”

  The blade hovered over Ara, still red from the blood of the guards he’d killed. The scraggly guard didn’t flinch. “He’s not worth anything dead.” He straightened his helmet, pushing back strands of shaggy blond-gray hair. “I mean even you aren’t stupid enough to come all this way just to kill him.”

  The clomping of boots echoed from the hallway behind the guard. He grinned. “Looks like the cavalry has arrived.”

  From the arched doorway appeared not Carmine guards, but three men dressed in black cloaks, swords in their hands. The smile faded from the guard’s face. “Fates.”

  “Not stupid enough to come alone,” the scarred face man said, turning his dagger to the guard.

  “Well, that’s a shame,” the guard said. He drew his sword from his side scabbard and limped away from the archway towards the garden wall, keeping both the scarred face man and the three swordsmen in front of him. The men moved in on the guard.

  “Kid,” the guard said, raising his sword up in a defensive position. “This would be a good time to run.”

  Ara didn’t need any more convincing. He rolled along the stone ground into a high shrub just as the scarred face man turned back to him. Ara kept rolling, pressing his body under the bush, its branches scraping his skin.

  “Get back here,” the scarred face man cried and swung his dagger, slashing at the shrub. Fire shot through Ara’s calf. The blade caught him. Ara crawled on, pulling himself through the shrub and out the other side. He climbed to his feet and took off running. Behind him, the clang of swords filled the night.

  Ara raced ahead, fear creating strength where there had been none. He zigzagged through the maze of plants, staying low and out of sight. Behind him, his pursuer hurled angry insults. “Come back here! I swear I’ll chop you to pieces!”

  Ara slid behind a potted tree an
d bent over stopped, his lungs stinging and his heart pounding at the thin wall of his chest. He touched the wound on his calf and felt the warm blood that left a trail behind him in the moonlight. Ara looked around for cover. Ahead of him stood the small glass house. He held his calf to stop the bleeding and slipped inside the warm room, closing the door behind him.

  The red flower had grown since he last saw it. Taller now, it drooped limply in the center of the crate of sand as if sleeping. Ara carefully squeezed behind the crate and the glass wall, thankful for his thin frame. He held the rim of the crate for balance, and a drop of his blood dripped into the sand. The Blood Flower straightened up, spreading its petals wide. The boy pulled his hand away, remembering Semus’s warning.

  “There you are,” a voice snapped. The man stood in the doorway, eyes on Ara. “Glass doesn’t make a great hiding place you know.”

  Ara squeezed down into the small space behind the crate. As he did, the flower turned towards him as if following his scent. Ara closed his eyes as if he could simply wish this all away. He realized the clang of swords had stopped. The attackers had made quick work of the old guard.

  “I haven’t time for games, boy,” the man said. He reached a hand over the crate, grabbing the boy’s hair. Ara’s scalp burned as the man lifted him from his hiding place. Ara fought the man’s hands, trying to pry his fingers loose, but the man’s grip was too strong. He pulled Ara over the lip of the sandy crate. The Blood Flower opened fully, leaning towards his face like a blind predator.

  “No,” Ara grunted. He grabbed the man’s hand again but instead of pulling away, he went with it, pushing forward and down towards the flower. The move caught the man off-balance, and his arm fell into the sand and against the flower’s stem. The Blood Flower twisted and latched onto his arm, its red petals digging into his exposed wrist.

  A shrill scream echoed in the glass house. The scarred face man released Ara and reached for his arm. Blood gushed from his wrist into the sand as his hand disappeared in a pool of blood and petals. The flower wrapped its stalk around the man’s arm like a serpent, as its petals expanding to enclose his hand. The screams increased. The man yanked back and fell away from the crate. His hand was gone. He grabbed at the bloody stump in horror.