Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  “This way, new blood,” a guard said, pulling the boy’s chains. The boy hit the wet dirt. His legs wobbled, but he stayed on his feet. The guards led them across the courtyard towards a door at the side of the castle. The woman marched in silence, and the boy followed her cue. You’ll need all your strength when we get there. What did she mean?

  The boy memorized the layout of the courtyard, counting the steps as he walked. The stone wall stretched all about them, high and unscalable. Archers watched from above, arrows nocked. The gate was the only exit.

  The man’s beating had been awful, but it didn’t silence anything. Stepping through the doorway into the castle, the boy knew one thing for sure. He didn’t belong here.

  Jonathan Carmine leaned back in his chair and sipped from the crystal goblet. He frowned at the taste of plain red wine. He was the lord of a noble house, and even he felt the tightening of blood rations. That told him more about the state of his house than the mess of finance reports spread out on the table before him.

  Carmine flipped through the pages. Even without Briton here to translate the figures, he knew the numbers weren’t good. The family’s wealth was not what it once was. All the northern houses were struggling under the ever-growing tithes to the Faith. How much longer could he keep this castle running?

  The Carmine family crest hung above the wall of his study. A red cardinal in flight. A reminder of generations of Carmines that came before him. What would his father do if he were still around?

  A knock rattled the study door.

  “Come in, come in,” Carmine murmured, grateful for the interruption.

  “Lord Carmine,” Bennet said with a bow, his guard’s armor clanging. “The company has returned from the Temple.”

  “Excellent. Tell Semus I will meet him in the garden.”

  Carmine swept the papers away. He’d attend to the house budget later. Right now, he needed some good news.

  Built on the rooftop of the throne room by Jonathan’s grandmother, the castle garden was now the most magnificent garden in all of Terene. His father had always said the view gave him perspective, looking over the land and the people whose fate he decided. When Jonathan Carmine took over, he expanded the rooftop garden, transforming it into a menagerie of rare plants from the farthest reaches of Terene. Sky creepers hung over the castle’s ledges, and an assortment of rare trees and plants decorated the garden in even rows. Jonathan took great pride in showing the garden to visiting lords and ladies. His guests never ceased to be awed by plants whose colors were only thought possible in dreams.

  Carmine stood in the middle of the garden, marveling at his newest acquisition. It truly was an extraordinary find. A blood rose retrieved from deep within the Endless Desert. Carmine had never seen one before, only heard tales of the carnivorous plant. A flower that can survive where it does not rain.

  “Careful, my Lord,” Semus said as Carmine leaned over the blood rose. “Even though it has yet to bloom, the flower can still bite.”

  “The rose’s sting,” Carmine smiled, moving even closer to the small flower, its slender petals balled into a tiny red fist. “What a miraculous thing. I’d think it was a fable if I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes.”

  “Such it is with most things, my Lord,” called a voice from behind Carmine. Carmine turned towards the soft voice of his long-time advisor. Briton sauntered towards him in the same old robe he’d worn since Jonathan was just a boy. Why does he still wear that ratty thing? We do pay him, don’t we?

  “The world is full of magic,” Briton continued. “Only when things become familiar do they cease to amaze.”

  “And you, Briton, with all your knowledge, do you find the world mundane?”

  “I practice a healthy curiosity. There is always more to learn. Even subjects we think we know can still yield surprises.”

  Briton Moonglass, always the teacher. A lesson hiding in every sentence.

  “Thank you, Semus,” Carmine said, dismissing the gardener. Semus bowed and walked from the garden, leaving them to speak alone.

  “And was your trip a success as well?” Carmine asked.

  “Yes,” Briton said. “Though our harvest was small this season, we fetched a fair price. We spent a good amount on supplies for the stables’ construction. The crops—”

  “What of the Descendants?” Carmine interrupted.

  Briton sighed as if this was a trivial concern. As if blood wasn’t the key to house Carmine’s survival.

  “Three Descendants. Two males and a female.” Briton gazed off the balcony to the courtyard below. “We had an incident with one of them upon arrival.”

  “An incident?”

  “He tried to escape. He was injured during the capture. Typher is inspecting his wounds. He might be unable to produce for a few days.”

  Carmine scoffed. “Animals. Don’t they understand what they have here? Maybe the most civil treatment in all of Terene, and still they disobey. What is the point of all this coddling, Briton?”

  “Descendants are still people, my Lord. You can’t just lock them in dungeons and take their blood.”

  “The Father’s of the Faith do exactly that. And see how much blood they harvest?”

  “We’re better than that.” Briton’s blue eyes seemed to bore into Carmine. He felt the weight of that gaze. “Your father was better than that.”

  “Yes, well, my father had the resources to pamper Descendants. Their bloodline continues to dwindle. Good blood is more valuable now than ever. We won’t be able to pay the Highfather’s price and run this land without increasing production.”

  “Blood isn’t the only thing of value, my Lord. Your family did once make a prosperous living off the land and the people under its governance.”

  “You’ve made your stance on the Descendants more than clear, and I’ve abided much of your council. But these are hard times. The Highfather’s demands continue to grow and alliances must be formed in the north. We will not be saved by our wheat.”

  Briton nodded his head. “You’re right. We will be saved by the wisdom of our leaders.”

  “Do you have more to report?” Carmine snapped. He did not appreciate Briton’s tone. He was no longer a boy in need of lectures.

  “No, my Lord,” Briton bowed his head.

  Carmine took a deep breath. He had to remember Briton was on his side. The old man had dedicated his life to the Carmines, forsaking a family of his own. When Jonathan’s father had died, it cut a hole in his heart. Still, it was annoying to still be talked to like the scared sixteen-year-old boy who inherited the throne.

  “We will defer to Typher’s advice on upping the blood draws,” Carmine said. “Descendants are quite resilient, after all. I’m sure they will be able to produce blood sooner than you think.”

  He bent down and hovered a finger over the blood rose’s petals. It appeared so tiny, so frail. It looked like any other flower. His finger touched the red bud ever so slightly. The petal stirred like a creature awakened, and latched onto Carmine’s skin. Carmine ripped his hand away with a grunt. A drop of blood hung on his fingertip. Extraordinary.

  “As you said yourself…” Carmine sucked the blood from his finger. “Even things you think you know can yield surprises.”

  “House Octavian, eh?” A large man with missing front teeth looked the woman over. She stood stoic as the man traced a dirty finger along the circle on her face. “That’ll be a bit of a challenge. Good thing I’m an artist with the ink.”

  The man smiled as he moved to the boy. “No mark? Where did they find you?”

  The boy turned away from the stench of sweat and ale. High windows lit the warm room, yet a small fire burned in the furnace.

  “More objections?” asked one of the guards standing behind them. The guard had struck the boy earlier for refusing to undress. It was humiliating. He and the woman had been stripped and forced to stand naked while a man in red robes inspected every inch of them. When the boy demanded to know what was go
ing on, he’d been struck again.

  The boy faced forward without a word. His tongue pressed against his swollen lip. I’m going to make him pay for that.

  The toothless man rubbed his hands on the dark stains of his apron. “Let’s do the little one first,” he said. “It’ll be a warm-up in case my hand slips. Secure the Descendant.”

  Hands seized the boy’s shoulders and pressed him down on a table. Straps ran across his feet, his arms, his waist, and his neck. He was trapped. The toothless man pulled something from his bag. It was a strange device with a thin metal blade sticking out of the top. The man gripped the handle and held the tip of the blade end into the fire.

  “What are you doing?” The boy tried to squirm, but hands grabbed the side of his head and held him still. “Wait, stop! I demand you stop!”

  “Ha,” one of the guards laughed. “He demands.”

  Hands clamped tighter on his head. The room grew blurry. It felt like the crevice on the back of his head would reopen, and spill his brains all over the table.

  “Please…I beg you…don’t do this. Don’t.”

  “The trick with your kind is getting the ink deep enough,” the toothless man said. “You need to go down to the deepest layers to make the mark stick. Otherwise, your skin will just heal, and we’ll have to do this all over again.”

  He moved away from the fire and the boy heard a bubbling sound as the hot blade dipped into some liquid. He studied the boy’s face for a moment, flashing a toothless grin. “Not every day you get to work on a blank canvas.”

  He stabbed the blade into the skin above the boy’s right eye. Fire burned in the boy’s face as the needle melted deeper into his skin.

  “Aaahhh!” The boy’s harrowing scream started as his own, then turned into something inhuman. He kicked and twisted, trying whatever he could to escape the unbearable pain. But he couldn’t get away. The burning blade moved inside him, carving a curved stroke around the boy’s temple.

  “Keep fighting and you’ll lose an eye,” the man said. “And you ain’t getting that back.”

  Hands tightened on the boy’s head. He tried with all his strength to get away. To move even an inch away from the excruciating pain cutting its way down his cheek. He screamed until there was no air left in him.

  Even after the needle came away, the boy’s face still burned like it had been set ablaze. The guards released their grip, and the boy rolled his head to the side, hiding his face. Weeping.

  The tears stung as they fell into the deep grooves of his face.

  Blackness swept over him, and he let it in. Anywhere was better than here. The last thing the boy heard was a voice speaking as if from down a deep stone well.

  “You now…belong…to House Carmine.”

  3

  Geyer shut his eyes and grimaced at the ringing in his head. It had been a late night at the Moon Tavern. He couldn’t even remember the walk back to the castle. Somehow his bad leg worked better when he was drunk. Maybe if he drank while on duty, he’d be a better guard, too. He’d have the drunkard’s confidence of a much younger Geyer—before the injury. Back when he was actually called upon to use his sword.

  Heavy boots clanged up the castle’s stone floor. The voices seemed impossibly loud. Geyer winced and leaned back in his chair, resting his head against the locked door.

  “Can you believe they have us running errands like…like…errand boys?”

  “A waste of talent is what it is.”

  Geyer didn’t bother looking up from his seat in front of the armory. If the room were a real threat to thieves, Nathaniel wouldn’t have assigned him to the post. The captain of Carmine’s guards kept Geyer around, but that didn’t mean he trusted him with real responsibility. And that was perfectly fine with Geyer. He rubbed his left leg—which grew stiffer every year—and hoped the fog in his head would soon clear.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Geyer opened one eye. Two guards stood over him. Geyer didn’t recognize them, but that’s not to say he hadn’t met them. It was hard to remember every little kid playing soldier. He couldn’t even blame the alcohol. Geyer closed his eye and leaned against the door. These two would be smart enough to leave him alone. Certainly, they had something more important to do than bother…

  “I said, what are you doing?” the smaller of the two guards repeated.

  “Guarding the armory,” Geyer grumbled.

  “Why are you sitting down?”

  “Because I have a chair.”

  Even with closed eyes, Geyer could sense the two men exchange glances. His mind was already sizing them up—their height, the distance apart, where they kept their weapons. It was an old habit from his fighting days. Something, not even his hangover took away.

  “You can’t sit on guard duty,” the smaller man said.

  “I don’t think whatever’s behind this door minds,” Geyer said, wincing. Why is he talking so loud?

  “It’s neglect of duty. I’ll have you reported.”

  Geyer opened his eyes again and looked at the red-faced man. His buddy, the big one with the longer reach, looked down in disgust. Maybe Geyer had seen these guards before. Hard to tell because so many came and went over the years. Good men gone. But surely he would have remembered such an annoying voice.

  “He’s probably drunk, too,” the big one said. “I hear he spends all his off-hours at the tavern, drinking himself sick.”

  “You both seem very interested in things that are none of your business,” Geyer said. He had no tolerance for ignorance. There was an obvious difference between drunk and hungover.

  “You do a poor job and it reflects badly on us all,” said the smaller man, his voice like a whining child. His sword scabbard swung against the back of his leg as he stepped closer to Geyer. Rear holster. It made marching easier, but it slowed your draw. It also made sitting a challenge. “It’s disgraceful they even let a cripple work as a castle guard. You belong in the stables, scrubbing horse dung off the floors.”

  “Hmm,” Geyer rubbed his unshaven face. “Do they have chairs in the stables?”

  “I don’t know why Nathaniel keeps you around. You’re a joke. Sitting around on your ass while real guards like us are running these stairs all day.”

  “But if you weren’t racing all around the castle, you wouldn’t be able to tattle on others.”

  “Let’s go,” the bigger guard said. “He’ll drink himself to death one of these nights. The old coward.”

  “That’s right,” Geyer said. “I am a coward. We can’t all be heroes like your friend here. Saving the realm from all those who would take a nap.”

  Geyer was ready for the kick. Even if his head wasn’t cloudy from a long night of drinking, he would have seen the clumsy blow coming. He caught the smaller guard’s boot and twisted it with a quick jerk. The guard hit the stone floor with a clang of armor and curses.

  “See? Isn’t sitting more comfortable?”

  The big guard grabbed Geyer by the collar and pulled him out of his chair. He was stronger than Geyer expected. Faster too. He landed two punches into Geyer’s gut before the old guard could even respond. When he did respond, it was swift and caught the big guard by surprise. Geyer vomited all over him.

  “Awww,” the big man gagged, throwing Geyer to the ground. Geyer tried to brace himself, but his left leg crumbled. Fates!

  “Filthy clot,” the guard said, rubbing last night’s drinks from his eyes.

  “Hey, no fair,” Geyer wheezed. “I paid half a day’s wages for that.”

  The guard drove his boot into Geyer’s side. Geyer heaved, gasping for air.

  The little guard was on his feet; he drew his sword. Geyer’s hand instinctively touched the hilt of his own sword, with its wheel handle, but he was in no position to draw it. Instead, he coughed for more air, attempting to hold in the remaining contents of his stomach.

  “Bastard,” the little guard yelled. He raised his sword overhead and brought it down with a
grunt, smashing Geyer’s chair to pieces. “I’m going to see to it Nathaniel hears about this, cripple.”

  After a few more kicks, the guards stormed off. “Look what he did,” the big guy’s voice trailed down the hallway. “Eww…it’s in my armor.”

  When he could breathe again, Geyer sat up, leaning his back against the armory door. He felt for broken ribs. Just bruised. He pulled his left leg straight. It throbbed more than usual, but he could still move it. Nothing a few drinks wouldn’t put out of his mind.

  Even as out of practice as he was, Geyer couldn’t believe he let those two clots get the better of him. There was a time he could have dispatched ten of their kind. When he could breeze through a tournament without taking so much as a dent to his armor. But that was another life.

  Geyer wiped his blond-gray hair out of his face. He readjusted his belt and flicked the wheel that decorated his sword pommel. It spun slowly, the spokes moving round and round. Geyer sighed. He still had half the day in front of him. Five more hours before his next drink. Beside him, the chair lay in splinters.

  Well, looks like I’ll have to spend the rest of my watch lying down.

  Geyer closed his eyes once again.

  The boy woke with a wince. Pain erupted on his face. He howled into the darkness and scrambled to break free of his bonds. But he was no longer strapped to the table. He yelped, rolling off a mattress and tumbling to the cold stone floor. Voices yelled at him. The boy got to his feet and raised his fists. He would not go willingly again.

  But no one seized him. He scanned the room, but he couldn’t make out much for it was dark and…

  Something’s wrong. He twisted his head around. His right eye saw only blackness. They…they blinded me.

  The boy dropped to his knees and sobbed. Each whimper inflamed his mutilated face.

  “Shut up,” a voice called. “That’s enough.”

  The boy couldn’t fight it. He was helpless and alone. He didn’t know how he’d come to be imprisoned and tortured, but he knew there was no escape from this nightmare.