Blood Requiem

by Christopher Husberg

  Agerta laughed, too, the sound bubbling up from her. “Should I wake the little lord? And the baby? Both are sound asleep, my Lord, but they will be so happy to see their elder sister returned home…”

  Tarlen smiled through his tears. “No,” he said, his voice husky, “no, give me a moment with her. Her younger brother and sister will have all the time in the world with her, just… let me have this moment.” He leaned down, embracing Astrid, but the girl groaned.

  “Papa, not so tight,” she whispered. “I feel… quite awful.”

  “Of course, dear, I am sorry. I am sorry, and I am so happy you have returned home.”

  “Returned?” Astrid asked, looking around her. “Did I leave?”

  Tarlen and Bannabus exchanged a glance. A crease of worry dented Tarlen’s forehead.

  “Yes,” Tarlen said slowly, “my dear, you have been gone for more than a month. Goddess, we thought you were dead. You don’t remember being gone?”

  Astrid shook her head slowly, her eyes roving the room in which she lay. For the first time, Knot noticed how strange her eyes looked. Not glowing, or their typical daytime green, but rather a sickly yellow color.

  Agerta arrived back in the room, somehow managing to carry blankets, a tray of food, and two different pitchers of water all at once. Bannabus rushed to help, and they laid out the supplies on a low table near the couch. Tarlen stood, making room for Agerta to tend to his daughter.

  “Papa,” Astrid whispered, reaching up to him. “I… I feel so sick…”

  Tarlen’s crease of worry compounded, but he kept his voice jovial. “You’ll be feeling right as sunshine soon, my dear, just let Agerta—”

  With a deep retching sound, Astrid sat up sharply and vomited dark red liquid all over herself and Agerta.

  Agerta looked down at herself, turning slowly to face Tarlen. If her face had been pale before, it was as white as snow now, contrasting sharply with the dark blood that splattered her once pristine apron.

  “My Lord…” Agerta said, still looking down at herself.

  “Goddess,” Bannabus whispered. “Is it… is it the blood blight?”

  Tarlen frowned sharply at Bannabus. “My daughter does not have the blood blight,” he said firmly. He continued speaking, but Knot did not hear the words. He was staring at Astrid, now slowly standing behind Agerta. Her own vomited blood covered her mouth and chin, dripping down to mix with the mud all over her body. The weakness that had weighed her body down only moments ago was gone, as was the sickly yellow color from her eyes. While they did not yet glow, they were the bright green Knot was used to seeing.

  “No,” Knot whispered, already knowing what would happen, knowing it had already happened, and that he could not stop it. Bannabus and Tarlen continued to talk, heedless of Astrid as she reached her hands around Agerta’s head, and twisted sharply.

  The two men stopped talking when Agerta’s body hit the floor. Both looked up at Astrid, eyes wide.

  “Lucia,” Tarlen said, taking one step slowly forward, hands raised before him, “you are sick. You need help.”

  Astrid looked down.

  “So… thirsty…” she rasped.

  Then, she leapt onto Agerta, and tore a chunk from the woman’s neck with her teeth.

  Bannabus turned and spilled his own sick on the floor. All Tarlen could do, however, was stare.

  When Bannabus had emptied his stomach, his face was pale. “This is not Miss Tarlen,” he said quietly. “This is a daemon.”

  Tarlen could only shake his head, his mouth moving without sound.

  After a few moments, Astrid looked up, her entire face now dripping with blood.

  “Thirsty,” Astrid whispered.

  “Lucia, please,” Tarlen said, finally finding his voice. “I know you’re in there, you—”

  Astrid sprang forward with a screech, colliding with Bannabus. The two fell to the ground as Bannabus screamed and Astrid buried her face in his neck.

  “Lucia, no!” Tarlen wrapped his arms around his daughter in an attempt to pull her off Bannabus. But she snapped her head back, smashing the back of her skull into Tarlen’s face. She elbowed her father, sending him stumbling backwards, and then resumed feeding on Bannabus.

  “Lucia!” Tarlen fell to his knees with a sob. “My daughter,” he said, more quietly.

  Astrid stood, turning to face her father, her entire body a muddy, bloody mess.

  “I’m so thirsty…” she said, taking a step forward, “Papa.”

  This time, when Astrid said the word, Knot only felt sick.

  The worried crease finally left Tarlen’s face, however, and he looked at his daughter with nothing but love in his eyes.

  “I love you, Lucia,” Tarlen said. “I don’t know what has happened to you. I don’t know why. But I want you to know I love you. It doesn’t matter what you are. It doesn’t matter where you’ve been. All that matters is what we do—”

  And then Astrid was upon him.

  Just as she finished feeding, Knot heard another sound echo within the manor. The cry of an infant.

  Should I wake the little lord? And the baby? Knot remembered Agerta saying. Both are sound asleep, my Lord, but they will be so happy to see their elder sister returned home.

  “Thirsty…” Astrid rasped, and began making her way up the stairs toward the sound.

  * * *

  Knot never thought he would be happy to escape through the Void and back into his cell, but he could not move quickly enough. The people in the memory genuinely seemed to have known and cared for Astrid—Lucia—when she was human. And yet she had killed them? She’d seemed disoriented when she’d arrived at the manor, and if Knot had to guess he’d say she’d recently undergone the transition process. But her lethargy and sickness at the beginning could have all been feigned to lure those she once knew into her grasp.

  Knot could not think about it any longer. He never wanted to return to that scene again.

  As he made his way through the Void, something flickered in the corner of his eye. Knot turned sharply, his spine tingling, but he saw nothing but Astrid’s memories.

  “Who’s there?” he called out, feeling foolish the moment he said it. This was Astrid’s voidstone, not the actual Void. No one else could possibly be here.

  Knot left the voidstone and the memory behind, returning to the relative comfort of his bare stone cell.

  Interlude: Broken Things

  The Red Community, northern Maven Kol, at the base of the Taimin Mountains

  THE FLAMES ROSE IN Alain’s mind as the king entered the courtyard of the Red Community. He prayed—to what or to whom he did not know—that they would stay there. He hated to think what the king, what Brother Maddagon and everyone at the community might think of him if he had an episode now. His hands shook at the thought, and he cracked his knuckles one by one to hide the motion.

  He focused on the tall sandstone walls surrounding the courtyard. A dull red-brown color, worn and weathered, but comforting in their dullness. The walls had once belonged to an abbey that pre-dated the Denomination itself. Rebuilt decades ago, they now housed the Red Community, one of several locations in Maven Kol that accommodated the sick and afflicted. The courtyard itself was bare, not much more than dust, a few trees, and the dried-up remains of what was once a small brook.

  The king’s carriage moved along a narrow road that split the courtyard in half, from the main gate to another opening in the east wall. The sun blazed down brightly on Alain; he could feel it on his face, baking through the long, dark overcoat he wore despite the heat. He felt exposed, in danger, if he did not have his overcoat on. He felt that way most of the time, really, but taking the coat off only made it worse.

  The carriage rolled to a stop, and the driver descended to open the door closest to Alain and the community monks. Then the king descended, his smooth, chiseled jaw clenched as he looked at Alain. His brown skin, like Alain’s, shone with sweat. The king’s eyes and hair were almost matching sha
des of gray, the color of the sky before a storm.

  King Gainil Destrinar-Kol smiled.

  Alain frowned. He had learned to spot when his father was pretending. His father smiled and stared a man in the eye when he lied. When Alain was young, he’d thought his father was just a cheerful person. Now he knew better.

  Alain fidgeted as Gainil stood there, smiling. Alain’s breathing grew sharper, more rapid, louder and louder in his ears. He began humming a wordless tune, the notes dissonant and unrelated.

  Brother Maddagon rested a hand gently on Alain’s shoulder, bringing him some measure of comfort. Alain’s breathing slowed. He clenched his fists to keep himself from cracking his knuckles again.

  Brother Tam, on Alain’s other side, walked forward to greet Gainil. Tam’s long white robe flowed out behind him.

  “Your Majesty, we thank you for gracing our humble community with your presence. Welcome.”

  Tam led the Red Community, where Alain had spent the last few months of his life. It was supposedly the best of the four communities, but Alain had his doubts about such claims. Other than his friendship with Brother Maddagon, he would take away nothing positive from this place when his time to depart came.

  The king stepped forward and gripped Tam’s forearm. They conversed in hushed tones as Alain, Brother Maddagon, and the other monks in the courtyard looked on.

  Alain did not care much for what his father and Tam were doing. He craned his neck, popped his knuckles again despite himself, and looked at the carriage, wondering whether his father had brought Taira Seco.

  “You’re ready for this, Alain,” Brother Maddagon said, his hand still on Alain’s shoulder.

  Alain turned. Where Tam was tall and imposing with long white hair, Brother Maddagon was short and round, nearly bald. Where Tam shouted, Brother Maddagon encouraged. Tam never ceased dispensing advice and counsel, while Maddagon knew when to listen, or just sit quietly next to Alain. There was a strength in Brother Maddagon’s eyes that Alain had never found in Tam’s.

  “We both know how impervious I am to your lessons,” Alain said quietly.

  “Daresay we do,” Maddagon said with a soft chuckle. “We both know how obstinate I am in giving them, anyway.”

  The corner of Alain’s mouth twitched upwards, a brief ray of calm shining in his mind.

  Brother Tam turned back to Alain and the ray of calm disappeared. “Good news, my boy. Your father has come to take you home.”

  A soft groan escaped Alain’s lips. A few months had not been enough time.

  “I’m not going.”

  Gainil’s face darkened, just for a moment, before his smile returned. “You’ve at least made some progress here, I see. You may develop a backbone, yet. Fortunately, I prepared for this.” He turned back to the carriage. “Lady Taira,” he called, “Brother Tam informs me it is safe for you to see your betrothed.”

  Alain’s heart twisted. Gainil had brought her.

  The carriage door opened slowly and Taira stepped down, as regal as Alain had ever seen her. She was tall, nearly to Alain’s shoulder, and he towered at least a head over everyone else in the dusty courtyard except his father. Her black hair was pulled back in braids, which made her look older than Alain remembered, but it showed off her high cheekbones and striking blue eyes—an uncommon feature among the people of Maven Kol.

  Alain cracked his knuckles again, humming tunelessly as she approached. Then Taira shifted, her face tilting, and Alain saw the scars.

  Rough, discolored webs and wrinkles stretched down her right cheek, along her jaw, and into the neckline of her dress. The contrast against the smooth brown of the other side of her face made Alain want to run, and never look back. Not because of how she looked—Taira looked beautiful, scars or no—but because he was the one who had caused them.

  I cannot do this. Each breath tore through him, and the flames rose higher in his mind. What must she think of him? She was here to tell him how much she hated him, surely. And Alain deserved her hatred.

  With each jagged breath, the flames rose higher. He took a step back, and the moment he did, the mood in the courtyard changed. The other monks and the king’s guards shuffled away from him. Brother Tam and a few other monks reached into their robes. In the community, there were two ways of dealing with a convalescent spiraling out of control: if the person was willing, and if there was time, a powerful concoction of poppy milk and ether would send them into a deep, black unconsciousness. If the convalescent lost control completely or threatened the life of anyone else, there was another option, immediately lethal. Every monk in the community carried a blowpipe and darts for these occasions, and they were well trained.

  Taira took a step back from him, eyes wide in horror. Even the king flinched, one arm rising to cover his face.

  Brother Maddagon, the only person who did not move away or reach into his robe, squeezed Alain’s shoulder.

  “You can do this,” Brother Maddagon said.

  The panic did not leave Alain; it bubbled and boiled beneath the surface, threatening to spill over. But the feeling receded, just enough for the flames in his mind to recede along with it.

  “Deep breaths, son,” Maddagon said quietly.

  Alain obeyed. His breathing evened out somewhat, and he unclenched fists he could not remember clenching in the first place.

  “You see,” Brother Tam said with a smile, one hand still inside his white robe, “we have made incredible progress. I believe he is ready.”

  Ready? Alain thought. He’d almost lit the community courtyard, and everyone in it, on fire just now. He was far from ready.

  Then, Taira was in front of him.

  I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t face her, I—

  She reached up, touching Alain’s cheek, and a chill ran through his entire body.

  “Is it really you?” she asked. She sounded more suspicious than hopeful, but after what he had done to her, and her parents, he could hardly believe she would touch him at all.

  He was grateful for it.

  Just the sight of her overwhelmed him, made it difficult to think. His father’s presence, the danger Alain himself presented— everything made it difficult to think. So much could go wrong, and it would take only seconds for him to threaten—or destroy— the lives of every single one of these people.

  “It’s him, close enough. Aren’t you going to introduce us, boy?” asked Brother Maddagon.

  Alain blinked, his hands unmoving at his sides. I can’t do this.

  He did it anyway. “Taira, this is Brother Maddagon. He is my mentor. He has been like a…” Alain glanced at his father, unsure of what to say. “He has been a great teacher. Brother Maddagon, this is Lady Taira. She is the heiress of House Seco, and my intended.” Saying her family name brought her parents—and what he had done to them—to mind again. He could still smell the burning flesh, feel the panic in the Decision Room. Alain shut his eyes in an attempt to escape his thoughts.

  When he opened them again, he saw Brother Maddagon bowing deeply. “It is a great pleasure, my Lady.”

  Taira smiled, looking from Alain to Brother Maddagon. For a moment Alain feared she might not say anything, that she might not acknowledge the man who had all but saved Alain’s life these past few months.

  “Well met, Brother,” Taira said, and relief rushed through Alain. But the relief was short-lived, as Taira turned her gaze back to Alain.

  “Will you come home with us?” she asked him.

  I can’t do this.

  “I…” Alain glanced from Taira to his father, then over his shoulder to Brother Maddagon.

  “Might I have a moment with the boy?” Brother Maddagon asked.

  “Of course,” the king said, nodding.

  Brother Maddagon led Alain a few paces away from everyone else.

  “I can’t go back,” Alain said immediately. “Not yet. I’m not ready. I’m still broken.”

  “We’re all broken, Alain. The whole point of living is t
o accept that.”

  Alain shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was broken, there was no denying that, but it was not a condition he could afford to accept. “I must be made whole.”

  Brother Maddagon sighed. “I suppose your intentions do not matter as much as your methods,” he mumbled. Alain was about to ask what that meant when Maddagon continued. “Do you remember what I’ve told you about making amends?”

  “It’s about more than making up for what you’ve done,” Alain said immediately. It was something Maddagon had engrained into him. “It’s about living a decent life, and helping those around me.”

  “You have a chance to make amends to Taira, boy,” Maddagon said. “You can show her how your life is changing—how you are changing. And, Goddess willing, you might be able to help her, too.”

  Alain rolled his eyes.

  Maddagon snorted. “Don’t get petulant with me about the Goddess,” he said. “Beggars cannot be choosers, boy. You need a power greater than yourself. Be grateful there’s one around who cares.”

  Alain glanced back at Taira. She was looking at him, eyes hooded, waiting patiently.

  Broken things were broken things. Worthless, only good for discarding. He needed to be made whole. He needed to be fixed. Perhaps this was the best way to go about that.

  I can’t do this. I can’t.

  “I’ll go,” Alain said.

  Maddagon smiled. Brother Tam, the king, and Taira narrowed their eyes at him.

  “What was that, son?” the king asked.

  Alain cleared his throat. “I said I’ll go.” Just saying it gave him the slightest ray of hope. It was enough to keep the flames at bay. He prayed—to whoever would listen—that he would be able to remember what he’d learned at the community.

  Mavenil

  The carriage ride back was awkward. Alain had never been much of a conversationalist. Never cared for small talk, and he certainly had no idea what to say now.

  Both Alain and Taira jumped as Gainil slammed his fist against the carriage wall.

  “You will stop that humming,” Gainil said, glaring at Alain. “I don’t want to hear it.”