Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  “I hope it holds what you seek, Briton Moonglass,” Barbara said.

  Briton locked the book into the necklace and placed it into his satchel. So do I.

  Briton hurried back through the narrow streets of the market, into the Temple square. Though he hadn’t done anything illegal, it wouldn’t look proper for the advisor of House Carmine to be seen doing business in a place like the Hidden Gem.

  Back at the wagons, Semus and his men unloaded a wooden crate from their cart. “You were successful,” Briton said.

  “Lord Carmine’s garden is now in possession of a genuine blood rose,” Semus beamed.

  Briton leaned over the crate where a green flower poked up through the sandy soil; its slender green stem was topped with a closed red bud. “It’s alive at least, isn’t it?”

  “It’s young. It won’t bloom for some time yet and only in warm conditions.”

  Briton was in no place to chastise Carmine for the frivolous expense when he just spent one hundred and sixty shrines on a book. Briton left the men to their work and moved to his carriage. He opened the door and pulled out the necklace containing the diary of Garian Kovar, last king of the Royals. He ran his finger over the necklace’s pattern. This was the king’s personal journal, written at the end of his reign.

  Briton had read many accounts of the Blood Wars but none written from the perspective of a Royal—the Faith had eradicated almost all of Royal culture. To think, King Kovar had written these pages centuries ago from within the walls of this very Temple. Briton was tempted to lock himself in the carriage and explore the tiny text. But he had waited this long, he could wait just a little longer. He wrapped the chain around the box and slid it back in the satchel, hiding it under the seat. Then, locking the carriage door, he hurried to the Temple.

  The statue of General Drusas stood outside the Temple, the leader’s sword pointed high in the air. Another artistic interpretation. As great as the general must have been to defeat the Royals, he was not ten feet tall, wielding a sword as long as a man.

  Briton entered the Temple’s outer sanctuary door, bypassing the saucer of blood wine—he’d accepted his old bones and aching back long ago. Chants and murmurs filled the sanctuary as people prayed to the Lord Hemo.

  The sanctuary, like every inch of the Temple, was ornately designed. Complex patterns were cut into every door and painted on every shutter; there was no such thing as mere function. Any tile under Briton’s feet could be cut away and hung as a work of art.

  Briton walked to the back of the sanctuary where the Temple Guards stood watch over the inner door. He held up his ring. “Briton Moonglass of House Carmine. I’m here for the auction.”

  “You’re late,” one of the guards said.

  “Then best not delay me further.”

  The guards’ armor clinked as they stepped aside, opening the door. The security was for show. Guards in pressed white uniforms. They had probably never even drawn their swords outside of training. No one would dare cause trouble in the Temple of the Faith.

  Hurrying through the hallway, Briton had to stop against the wall to catch his breath. Maybe he should have taken some blood. What is the abstinence of one person worth when the whole world is guzzling?

  The inner sanctuary was a circular room with a high domed ceiling. The pews were filled with Curors there to purchase Descendants for their noble houses. The red-robed uniforms spread around the room like blood stains. It was a suspicious person that sought to be a Curor. Or any role in the Faith.

  I’m lucky I only have to deal with one.

  Briton made his way to the pew where Typher sat with a pair of Carmine guards. On the stage in the center of the room stood a large shirtless man with the faded letter “S” tattooed on the right side of his face.

  “How goes the shopping?” Briton asked.

  The Curor frowned at the sight of Briton. “Even poorer prospects than usual,” Typher said. “From the crop on display, I’d swear the bloodline had already run dry. Low bloods and fair bloods; not one has tested under thirty seconds.”

  “Would be a shame for you blood doctors to be out of a job.”

  Typher shot Briton a nasty look.

  The Descendant from House Severen was sold to House Broming for three thousand and two hundred shrines. Guards in blue escorted the man from the stage.

  Voices in the crowd fell silent as the next Descendant was led out. It was a young girl, no more than seven years of age. Long blonde hair fell straight down her back and lit up the room. Her face, tattooed with a “T,” was the definition of fright.

  “Finally a decent female,” Typher sneered. Briton bit his tongue.

  The handler’s held out her hand, and the auctioneer made a show of drawing out the needle. Satisfied he’d gotten the room’s attention, he brought it down, pricking the girl’s palm.

  Typher’s lips moved as he counted the seconds in his head. Around them, people leaned forward in their pews, awaiting the results.

  “Twenty-two seconds!” the auctioneer called. He held up the girl’s hand, confirming the hole had sealed. “A young prize of good blood, able to breed for many years. We will start the bidding at five thousand shrines.”

  Shouts and hands shot up from the red robes in the crowd. The young girl’s fear seemed to grow with the rising price.

  “Not going to make a bid?” Briton asked.

  Typher snorted. “I didn’t think anyone would sell a good blood anymore. House Tannen must be worse off than we are.”

  After a few minutes of heated bidding, the auctioneer pounded on his table, and the girl’s life was bought for ten thousand shrines. She was led off the stage, tears on her cheeks. The handlers turned her over to guards in purple uniforms who brought the girl to their waiting master. Gorgen had come to the auction himself. The fat lord was all smiles as he patted the girl on her straight yellow hair.

  Now Briton remembered why he stopped attending Descendant auctions.

  Scoffs brought Briton’s attention back to the stage where the handlers hauled out the next Descendant. The source of the crowd’s disappointment was a ghostly pale boy of around fifteen years of age. He had short brown hair that was matted down with sweat. His face was all eyes. Big bronze eyes that seemed to take in the world for the first time, and find it a horrifying place. The handlers yanked on chains that secured his wrists; a bad sign that was only amplified by the bruises and scars discoloring his body. The boy looked like a confused corpse who had not been informed of his death.

  Why would someone submit a Descendant in his state for auction? Could he even be a Descendant if he can’t heal his own body?

  “Alright, alright that’s enough,” the auctioneer interjected. “We know not all blood flows pure but each Descendant has some worth.”

  Grumbles rippled around the room. The auctioneer motioned to the handlers who forced the boy’s hand up. A quick jab of the needle and the blood test had begun.

  “He’s not going to pass,” Typher snorted.

  Briton shifted in his seat. The strength of the Descendants’ blood diminished with each generation. If a Descendant’s blood grew too weak, they were no longer of worth. A blood test over one minute was a death sentence.

  Briton held his breath as the count grew higher.

  Poor boy must have put up a fight. It may well cost him his life.

  “Fifty-two seconds,” the auctioneer called, holding up the boy’s hand as proof. Low blood, but still a Descendant. “Let us start the bidding at two thousand shrines.”

  “Ambitious,” Typher said. “If ever one was destined for the Temple dungeons, it was that one.”

  The room waited in silence.

  “Come now,” the auctioneer’s voice cracked a little. “Even the lowliest of Descendants is worth something. It doesn’t take good blood to clean stables or work in the fields.”

  “That one wouldn’t last a day in my fields,” a man barked.

  There were nods of agreement and laughter.


  “Bring out the next one,” another voice called.

  A curse came from behind the stage. Two men in brown travel coats argued with each other. They must be the hunters that brought the boy in. Had they beaten him? Surely they’d know that such a damaged specimen wouldn’t sell. And a Descendant who didn’t sell at auction…

  “Fifteen hundred shrines,” the auctioneer called.

  “It’d cost more shrines to bathe him than he’s worth,” someone yelled.

  “Come now,” the auctioneer pounded the table. “Fifteen hundred shrines. The boy is young with a lifetime of service ahead of him.”

  Briton studied the boy closer. There was something different about him; something he couldn’t put his finger on. He looked wretched but not entirely weak. His eyes were not the usual dead eyes of a broken Descendant, they bounced around the room, searching. For answers maybe? For a way out?

  Briton squinted. “Where is his tattoo?”

  “Hmm,” Typher scanned his auction pamphlet. “There’s no previous owner listed. Odd.”

  Conversations in the crowd grew louder as the Descendant on stage was ignored. In the upper balcony, men in white robes watched the scene. The Fathers of the Faith. The order who ran the Temple—who ran Terene. If the boy wasn’t sold to a noble lord, he would stay here. Locked away in the Temple dungeons with outlaws and rebel Descendants. Never seeing the light of day. Drained of blood until there was nothing of him left.

  “Buy the boy,” Briton said.

  “What was that?” Typher turned to Briton as if he had misheard.

  “A thousand shrines.”

  “That one isn’t worth the chains on his wrists,” Typher said. “I am Carmine’s appointed Curor, purchasing of Descendants is my duty.”

  “Don’t speak to me about authority, Curor,” Briton said. “As his advisor, I speak for Lord Carmine on all matters. Now, buy the boy.”

  “It’s a waste of coin,” Typher whined. “We’ve only bought one so far and need all the shrines we have left to fetch a decent female.”

  Briton’s hard gaze ended the discussion. Typher sighed and raised his hand an inch above his head.

  “Is that a bid?” the auctioneer called in relief.

  “A thousand shrines,” Typher mumbled.

  “One thousand shrines,” the auctioneer said, enthusiasm returning to his voice. “Do I hear twelve hundred?”

  Boos echoed in the domed sanctuary. The auctioneer waved for the handlers to remove the boy. The young Descendant squirmed as the men seized him, fighting their grasp. The handlers knocked him to the floor and dragged him away by his chains.

  “I hope you’re happy,” Typher snapped. “We’ll be lucky if that one produces good enough blood for Carmine’s horses.”

  Briton knew the act had been pointless. Spawned by guilt, not rationality. What was the life of one boy when a whole race suffered? It changed nothing.

  The next Descendant brought on the stage was an older woman. She had the faint traces of an “O” tattooed on the right side of her face from House Octavian. The crowd’s energy shifted.

  “A remnant of a fallen house with plenty of breeding years left,” the auctioneer beamed. “Bidding starts at four thousand shrines!”

  Briton rose from his seat; he couldn’t watch anymore. Bidding on people as if they were livestock. Families ripped apart so a noble lord could turn a profit. And all under the blessing of the mighty Hemo. Briton stopped at the sanctuary door, beneath the balcony where the Fathers of the Faith stood watch. How could anyone worship a god who would allow this?

  2

  The boy lay curled up on the cage floor, his chains rattling with every bump in the road. He’d lost track of the days since joining his new captors, drifting in and out of consciousness. Sleep was the only way to escape this horrendous situation. He woke only long enough to nibble on the tasteless meals and search out the window for a familiar sight.

  He found none.

  The boy wasn’t alone in the cage. A man sat across from him, sobbing into his hands. He wore a sleeveless shirt that revealed arms built to work—or fight. A black symbol marked the side of his face; a “T” that stretched from temple to jaw.

  The woman beside the boy had a similar mark, though hers was in the shape of a circle. Or had once been—the symbol was more faded. She slept with her head resting against the cage wall, as if being chained and imprisoned was nothing unusual.

  No one had spoken since leaving the city and the strange ceremony.

  The boy sat up without a groan. The bruising on his body had all but gone, and it no longer hurt to breathe. He ran his fingers along the back of his head and they came away dry.

  His memory, however, had not returned. Not everything was gone. He knew the names of objects—chains, shoes, the gray sky outside the barred window—he just couldn’t remember his life before the cage. Before the two men captured and sold him. Where had it all gone?

  “You have a question?” the woman asked, awake.

  The boy flinched. He’d been staring.

  “Sorry.” He rubbed at his knee; it still hurt from the blow, but he could straighten it now.

  “He’s still at it, huh?” The woman shook her head, watching the man across from them. The man didn’t respond, his head still buried in his hands.

  The boy shrugged, keeping his eyes down.

  “Where are you from, boy?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy said.

  She gave him a long, scrutinizing look. “How come you don’t have a house mark?”

  “A what?”

  She scoffed and tapped the circle on her cheek.

  Again, the boy shrugged.

  “Well, you’ll get your own soon enough,” she said.

  So they were slaves. Bought and sold, caged and branded. The boy pulled against his chains. Even with his strength returning, he couldn’t break free. He was trapped here in this cage, at the mercy of his captors.

  How could this be allowed?

  The cage darkened. Trees filled the windows on both sides.

  “Where…where are we going?” the boy asked.

  “Castle Carmine.”

  “What’s there?”

  The woman leaned back against the cage wall and closed her eyes. “More of the same.”

  The boy pushed himself up to his feet, pressing his hands against the wall for balance. He shuffled towards the small window and stared out through the bars. He’d partly expected to see a castle, but there were only trees. So many trees. Enough for someone to get lost in.

  The boy gripped the bars and pulled, his bare foot pushing against the cage wall. The bars didn’t budge.

  “Better rest while you can,” the woman said. “You’ll need all your strength when we get there.”

  “For what?” the boy asked.

  “You don’t know anything, do you?”

  The boy released the bars and slid down to the floor. It didn’t matter. Even if he escaped the cage, he couldn’t outrun these men and their horses. And where would he go? If he had a home he had no idea how to find it. Somewhere, people could be searching for him.

  The boy closed his eyes and pushed the panic from his mind. He had a home somewhere, even if he couldn’t picture it. It would come back to him. Maybe after some more sleep.

  Sometime later, the boy was awoken by a voice.

  “There it is.”

  The boy stood up and followed the woman’s gaze out the cage window. On the hill ahead, stood a large fortress. The castle was old but massive, like it was built in times of war. Four towers rose up from within a high wall of dark stone wide enough to enclose an entire town. Trees rose far too high, their canopies stretching over the high castle ramparts. The trees were growing from the castle itself, planted on the rooftops. Archers walking the ramparts waved down. Beneath them, a wide, wooden gate opened like the jaws of a tired beast.

  This was Castle Carmine.

  “It’s amazing what they can build off our backs
,” the woman said.

  The caravan wound along the curved road, climbing uphill towards the castle gate. Men in armor stood at the ready as they passed. Over their chest plates hung red shirts with matching insignias—a bird in flight. The guards stared in at the boy in the cage, disgust on their faces.

  The wagons passed into the castle’s large inner courtyard, and the horses came to a stop. A tapping noise sounded in the cage. Across from the boy, the man’s feet were shaking as he leaned towards the cage door. His chained hands balled into fists.

  “Don’t you do anything stupid,” the woman whispered to him.

  Sweat dripped from the man’s face, running down the T-shaped mark. Metal clinked against the door as chains were pulled free. The tapping stopped. The boy held his breath.

  The door cracked open, and the man sprang forward. He slammed into the cage door, sending the guards toppling to the ground. The man hit the ground and charged across the square towards the castle gate.

  “Stop him!” a guard yelled from the dirt.

  The man ran for his life. He’s not going to make it. The two guards at the gate collided with him. Armor clanged in the morning air as all three toppled in a tangle of limbs.

  “Noooo,” the man screamed, clawing towards the open gate, but the guards had his legs. They held him until more guards arrived. Then they were upon him, kicking and stomping. Everyone at once. The air rang with curses and the crunch of boots shattering bone.

  The boy turned his head from the horrible sight.

  “Enough,” a voice called. “He’s not going anywhere now.”

  An old man climbed down from another wagon. He grabbed at his back, which hunched so that he walked at a slightly forward angle. The guards stepped back from the prisoner’s limp body. The old man frowned, shaking his bald head. “Close the gate and take him to the Curor’s lab.”

  The guards did as commanded, hauling up the unconscious man and dragging him away. A trail of blood followed.

  The boy exhaled a breath he’d been holding. How could this be happening? What crime had he done to deserve this? Maybe he didn’t want to remember.

  The old man stopped at the open cage door. Clear blue eyes moved from the woman to the boy. “I hope this silences any thoughts of a similar attempt.”