Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  “First, we get you safe,” Briton said. “Then, we’ll figure it out.”

  “Wow,” Geyer said. “I feel much better knowing you’ve planned this out so thoroughly.”

  The old guard slapped the horse’s reins; the tired animal neighed stubbornly but moved all the same. This time, Geyer kept the speed down so Briton could keep up. They rode on, their way lit by what moonlight escaped the clouds. Ara turned in the saddle and looked back the way they had come. Castle Carmine was now but a small light in the distance. Growing smaller.

  Part II

  THE ROAD

  14

  “The others say Hemo will not forsake his chosen people. But when I call out in the night, I find only silence.”

  The mood inside the Temple’s outer sanctuary was somber. Believers and Fathers of the Faith came from all over to mourn for the fallen Lord Carmine. Lords from surrounding areas came partly to pay respect in the eyes of the Fathers, and partly to exchange gossip about the circumstances surrounding the young lord’s death. The most intriguing stories centered around a magical Descendant boy.

  As Bale passed through the sanctuary, he stopped to look at the body. Carmine was hung upside down at the altar. The ceremonial bowl beneath him was nearly full. The last of his blood fell in sporadic drops. Soon the body would be empty of mortal blood, a vessel ready to be filled anew in the afterlife.

  To Bale, it was just a rotting corpse.

  Guards stepped out of his way as Bale passed through the sanctuary doors and into the main Temple, leaving the soft murmuring of prayers behind. Three floors up, in the Highfather’s study, Bale found the mood did not match the peaceful reverence below.

  “How could you have lost the boy?” Aeilus Haemon shouted as he swung his arms, knocking the quills and scrolls from his desk.

  “It seems Carmine’s men were more prepared than we anticipated,” Bale said, his voice low. He was not used to reporting failure. “The assassins never made it out.”

  “You should have done it yourself with your men instead of hiring some cheap cutthroats.” Haemon smashed his fist on the empty desk.

  “If my men were discovered, it would lead back to you.”

  Haemon shook his head, winded from his outburst. “How is it your men failed, yet the boy is not at Castle Carmine? Is it a ploy to confuse us?”

  “Our reports from inside the castle confirm the boy has escaped with the aid of Carmine’s advisor and a guard.”

  “An old man and one guard made a fool of the great Blood Knight.” Haemon fell back into his chair and caught his rasping breath. The old man needed blood. Bale could see how dependent he had become, how weak he was without it. “At least you managed to kill that ingrate Carmine. With House Carmine destroyed, no one has claim to the boy. He will be all ours—once you and your men find him!”

  “I will bring you the boy,” Bale said, standing to his full height. He detested Haemon’s whining and was eager to get back in the field to and fulfill his mission. This was twice Carmine’s advisor had gotten in the way of his plans. “What do you want us to do with his companions?”

  “You mean the traitors who kidnapped the boy and orchestrated the death of their own lord?”

  Bale had to marvel at the old man; he seemed to actually believe the lies he spun. As physically weak as the Highfather had become, he was still dangerous.

  “You think the people will believe that?”

  “They will believe whatever their Father tells them,” Haemon said. “You just see to it those traitors are silenced.”

  “They will be.”

  Haemon pulled a case of blood vials from his drawer and slid it across his desk. Bale collected the blood. This was enough to keep his blood poison at bay for two weeks if he stretched it. He better find the boy in that time.

  “Take as many men as you need,” Haemon said, tapping his spidery fingers on the desk. “Turn over as many cities, burn as many villages, do whatever you have to do…it is Hemo’s will that we find that boy!”

  Bale took the vials and bowed, sweeping out of the room. Outside the Highfather’s study, he hurried down the hallway with new energy. With the full army of the Faith at his command, he would find the boy in no time. Then, once the boy was in his possession, perhaps he would do his own little experiment. Find out if he even needed the Highfather and his team of Curors, or if the boy’s good blood was cure enough.

  If so, the next conversation with Haemon would go quite differently.

  They’d ridden two days with little rest. Ara finally convinced Geyer to stop when Briton fell from his horse. The old man’s body was so locked up they had to carry him to cover. Ara didn’t feel much better. As soon as they set Briton down, he walked a few paces and curled up to sleep beneath a tree. Briton forced him to eat something he pulled from his pack, saying the same thing that had been repeated to Ara again and again during their time at Castle Carmine: “You need your strength.”

  You need it so we can take it from you.

  Fatigue replaced fear, and Ara closed his eyes, no longer caring if they were caught by Carmine’s guards or a whole company of assassins, as long as he could close his eyes for a moment. So, despite the rough ground of rocks and pine needles that hadn’t been properly swept away, despite the cold air that seeped into the folds of Chancey’s oversized coat, despite the hunger clenching up his belly like an angry fist, Ara slept like a stone.

  In the morning, Ara woke to a snort and turned to see the two horses tied to a nearby tree, heads hung in exhaustion, steam rising from their snouts. Daylight leaked in through the thick trees and warmth came with it. Briton slept a few feet away, his skin pale enough he’d pass for a corpse if not for the steady snoring. Geyer was nowhere to be seen.

  Birds chirped in the branches above, not morning songs but what sounded like a warning to the rest of the forest about intruders. Briton’s eyes opened as Ara crawled close to him.

  “How are you?” Ara asked.

  “I feel like I was the one ridden for the past two days,” Briton groaned. He tried to sit up, but his body had other plans. “Do yourself a favor, Ara. Never grow old. The pain is not worth the extra years.”

  Ara helped Briton, leaning the old teacher against the trunk of the nearby tree.

  “How do you feel?” Briton asked.

  When Ara stopped to think about it, he was surprised by the answer. Yes, he was cold and uncomfortable and certainly hungry, but he did not feel as travel-broken as he should. In fact, when he tested his legs, he felt stronger than he had in some time. His blood hadn’t been stolen in two full days.

  “I feel good.”

  “Then you can collect the wood for a fire,” Geyer said.

  Ara was startled to see the figure walking toward them through the trees. No longer wearing his guard’s armor, Geyer looked much leaner in his simple green stitched shirt and black pants. His wavy, yellow-gray hair hung down to his shoulder, and his stubble had grown to the beginnings of a proper beard.

  “Is a fire wise?” Briton asked.

  “Unless you want your breakfast raw.” Geyer tossed a rabbit carcass to the ground. Its dirty brown fur was speckled with blood.

  “Only one?” Ara asked.

  “You’re welcome to try yourself. Took me all morning to spear that one, but maybe you’re better with a knife.”

  “I didn’t mean…” Ara began, then fell silent. A third of that rabbit wouldn’t go towards filling his empty stomach, but he had no place to complain. These men had risked their lives to save him, and he still didn’t know why. “I’ll get the wood.”

  “Careful not to go too far, Ara,” Briton called after him.

  Ara nodded and looked to the ground for sticks, hoping to make himself useful and do his part. Hoping to make breakfast come sooner, even if it was rabbit.

  Geyer didn’t get up early that morning to hunt rabbit. He walked the woods around their camp kicking himself for getting into this mess and thinking of ways to get out of it. E
veryone was looking for the boy, they didn’t care about him. It was dark and chaotic at the castle, they might not even know who had helped him escape. If he left now, Geyer still had a chance at freedom. Darker thoughts had also entered his mind. Thoughts of what reward awaited the one who delivered the boy to the Faith.

  But, being the fool he was, Geyer had returned to the camp. As he cleared away pine needles to create a bed for a fire, he couldn’t help but think where he could be if he left. On his way to an inn. A drink waiting for him along with a much better breakfast than rabbit.

  “You’re sure he’s okay out there on his own?” Briton asked. Carmine’s advisor watched the trees where the boy had disappeared to collect firewood.

  “There’s nobody else around,” Geyer said.

  “The boy doesn’t remember anything before the castle. He’s like a new fawn tripping around the woods.”

  “No memory,” Geyer scoffed. “How is that?”

  “I don’t know. He’s obviously suffered some kind of trauma. Something severe. When I first saw him, he was covered in bruises, and his head looked like it had been split open. And that is with his healing ability.”

  Geyer nodded. He’d been around the boy’s kind enough to know their powers varied Descendant to Descendant. Where one could take a sword to the stomach and appear the next day as if nothing happened, others wore the same scars for weeks. It was hard to believe this scrawny little boy was anything special.

  “The boy has recovered from the ride, but you haven’t. Now, I’ve never been a proponent of Curors but—”

  “No,” Briton cut him off. “I got him out so he would never have to give up his blood again.”

  “I understand. I’m just saying we would move a lot faster if you were at full strength.”

  “What about you?” Briton gave him a scrutinizing look. “You’ve had that limp since James Carmine’s assassination. Why didn’t you fix it when you had the chance?”

  Geyer looked down. He’d been rubbing his left leg. “Sometimes we need reminders of our mistakes.”

  “Mistakes? As I recall, you were outnumbered three to one.”

  “I never should have let Lord Carmine go hunting in the Hidden Wood. It was a time of war. It was too dangerous a risk, even with four guards.” Geyer took in the silent forest that was their new home. “I can’t help thinking how different things would be if James was still alive. Castle Carmine would be a much different place.”

  “What I have learned in my years serving both Carmines is there is no changing a lord’s mind when it’s set on something. It is just as much my fault as yours not to see an ambush coming. And now I have betrayed Jonathan Carmine. What a family advisor I turned out to be.”

  “We all keep our scars,” Geyer said. “Even in a world of magic blood.”

  Geyer pulled the hidden knife from his left boot and began working on the rabbit. As he cleaned it, his mind drifted back to that day in the Hidden Wood; he’d gone over the events countless times in the years since James Carmine’s death. James loved the Hidden Wood. Probably more than he loved the castle and its garden. Riding through the forest, they had stopped at the sight of the fallen deer. The animal was splayed out in the clearing, its throat slit. Geyer should have seen it right there at that moment. If he’d acted in time maybe they’d have gotten away from the company of assassins that fell upon them.

  Geyer’s sword cut through the attackers, but he couldn’t reach Carmine. A longsword cut James down from his horse. He was dead before he hit the ground. The killer’s dark eyes still haunt Geyer’s sober nights. The one who stormed through Geyer’s men like they were farmers. Geyer had the chance to avenge James and Maddie right there. He met the assassin’s black blade. Geyer, who’d fought for shrines and trophies, now fought for his honor as a knight—and failed. The assassin cut Geyer to ribbons, nearly taking his leg off.

  But if Geyer was going to die, he’d take the killer with him. In a final desperate move, he got to his feet and hurled himself at the assassin, plunging his sword into the tall man’s chest. The assassin fell, choking on his own blood as his men dragged his body away. Geyer fell to the forest floor beside the bloody bodies of James and Madeline Carmine.

  Geyer had blood on his hands. He set the skinned rabbit aside and wiped his knife clean.

  “Do you have a plan from here, Briton?”

  “Get as far away as we can for now,” Briton said. “Both Carmine and the Highfather will have men after us. There’s no noble house that will grant us sanctuary. We’ll have to stick to smaller towns and villages.”

  “And when did you last spend time outside a noble castle’s walls?”

  “Quite some time, I’m afraid. I guess in that respect, you are saddled with two fawns tripping around the woods.”

  “I already did my good deed helping you escape the castle. I didn’t sign on for adventures with the old man and his magic boy.”

  Briton’s face went flat. “Sir Geyer, we’ll never make it without you. The boy will go right back to a prison cell, or worse if the Faith gets their hands on him. You must help.”

  “Playing on a sense of honor only works with the honorable.” Geyer stood and dusted himself off. “I’m not a young fool anymore who dreams of having stories written about him. I’ve found it’s better to live to sing the songs of others. Preferably beside a warm fire and with a good ale.”

  “You’re leaving now, then?”

  “I’ll help you get moving again first,” Geyer said. “If you’re lucky, you’ll stay ahead of trouble for a few days, maybe a week. But I don’t see any way this ends happily for you two.”

  Briton didn’t argue, but simply looked down. Despite spending his life pampered in a lord’s castle, the old man understood how the world works.

  “Don’t tell the boy,” Briton said, his voice low. “Not yet. Let him hold onto some hope for a little longer.”

  At that moment the boy stumbled back towards their camp, a load of thin branches jutting out of his arms at different lengths. A large grin spread across his tattooed face. “I found some wood!”

  Geyer shook his head. “Who taught you to build a fire? We’ll be lucky if those branches last five minutes.”

  “I’ve never made a fire before.” Ara studied the sticks in his arms. “I don’t think I have, anyway.”

  “Right,” Geyer said. He took the branches from Ara and piled them in the cleared area. Luckily, Briton had packed flint in his bag. He wasn’t completely worthless after all. Geyer found a decent log to add to the boy’s kindling, and soon the three travelers sat beside a warm fire—the tiny rabbit meat gone far too quickly. No one spoke for a long time. It was peaceful in the woods with no sound but the crackling fire. Geyer could almost forget they were being hunted.

  “There’s one thing we still gotta do,” Geyer said, “but you’re not going to like it.” Geyer stoked the fire with his boot-knife. The blade was good and sharp, and its metal glowed from the heat.

  “What’s that?” Briton asked.

  “You’re conspicuous enough as it is, traveling with a boy. But you’ve got no chance at blending in while the boy’s got the mark House Carmine on his face.”

  Ara touched at the “C” shaped tattoo on his right cheek.

  “It’s already begun to fade,” Briton said. “He heals faster than other Descendants. With food and rest, it will probably be gone in another few weeks.”

  “You don’t have that kind of time.”

  Briton did not reply, only stared into the dimming fire. Geyer didn’t like it any better than he did, but these two had no hope of traveling unnoticed with a big target on the boy’s face. Everyone in Terene would be looking for the boy with that brand.

  “Maybe we can cover his face with a scarf,” Briton offered. “He can be a Santar traveler from the Endless Desert.”

  “You’d still bring attention to yourselves. Northerners hold as much prejudice against the sand children as they do Descendants.”

 
; “But if I kept him in the woods…”

  “Do it,” Ara interrupted them. “Get it off of me.”

  Geyer turned to the boy, studying the crooked “C” tattoo.

  “I’ll have to cut deep,” Geyer said. “Below the ink.”

  “I said, do it.”

  Geyer pulled the knife from the fire and shook it in the cool air. The tattoo ran along the right side of the boy’s face from brow to cheek. It would not be clean. The boy’s blood better be as powerful as everyone said.

  “I’ll need your help holding him down,” Geyer said to Briton. “And to cover his mouth.”

  Briton shook his head but obeyed nonetheless, moving to Ara’s side. They laid the boy on the ground so his right side faced the light of the fire. Geyer grunted as he lowered down and knelt over the boy. He didn’t have to do this; he could leave now and save the boy a lot of pain. The boy was going to be caught anyway, tattoo or no tattoo. He couldn’t hide forever. But as much as this wasn’t his problem, he had to at least leave them with a fighting chance.

  Ara winced and held his breath. Geyer gritted his teeth and cut over the boy’s screams. It was an awful mess. Geyer didn’t know what he expected—perhaps that the special Descendant boy wouldn’t bleed like a normal person. But metal cut through his skin like it did through every living thing. Like it had through the rabbit earlier that morning.

  The boy was brave and struggled to hold still as Geyer carved around the “C” shaped tattoo, digging his knife deep into his flesh, trying his best to avoid the shaking boy’s eye. Briton wept as he leaned his weight on the boy, one hand clamped over the boy’s mouth, muffling his cries of pain.

  “Stop,” Briton whispered. “Please stop.” Geyer wanted to. He wanted to step away from the blood and the tortured screams. But he kept going until the job was done.

  Afterward, the boy lay on the ground, motionless. A blood-stained cloth covered his face while Briton stroked his hair. Geyer stayed on the other side of the camp, tending to the horses. The screams had spooked the animals, and their ropes needed to be retied. Geyer ran his hands along the brown horse’s neck, calming him while he considered his next move. He’d stay until the boy could travel. He could do that much. Nobody would fault him. Fates, nobody would even remember Briton and the boy in a few weeks. People suffered injustice every day, these two were nothing special.