Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  A hand touched his shoulder. It was not the grip of a guard, but small and gentle.

  “It’s okay,” a voice whispered. “The first night is the hardest. You need to sleep, get your strength back.”

  “Why are they doing this to me?” the boy whimpered.

  He looked at the shape kneeling with him. It was a heavy-set boy, little older than him. Maybe seventeen years old.

  “They’re doing this to all of us,” he said.

  The boy let himself be pulled off the ground and set down in a small cot with hardly any cushion. He fell asleep at once.

  A hand shook him awake. “You gotta eat something.”

  The boy opened his left eye. Sunlight streamed in through high horizontal windows, too narrow to fit through. How long had he been asleep?

  The room was large and filled with empty cots packed close together. A pudgy boy sat on the next cot, holding out a tray of food. The right side of his face was marked with a “C” tattoo. “You have work to do today, and then the Curor tonight. You need your strength.”

  “My…my face…” the boy said. He touched bandages that covered his eye and the surrounding area.

  The pudgy boy touched his own tattooed face. “Mine healed in a week. Be thankful you don’t have purer blood. Merrick has had to be marked three times now because his tattoo fades.”

  The pudgy boy shuddered, then quickly smiled. “I’m Chancey, by the way. I work in the kitchen. Obviously.” He grinned, holding up the tray of food.

  “I…” the boy began, but his name still escaped him. He had one, he was certain, but he still could not bring it to mind. It was as if the details of his life had been stripped away.

  The boy sat up, and the room spun. He closed his eye until he gained control. Rows of cots lined the large room. Sixteen in all. The sleeping bodies that had yelled at him last night were gone. Except for Chancey, and another shape sleeping in the corner of the room.

  The boy climbed to his feet.

  “You really should eat something,” Chancey said. “It’ll help you heal. Mable says I’m supposed to bring you back to the kitchen with me.”

  The boy headed to an open doorway at the back of the room. The stench hit him first. The washroom consisted of a bench with three holes in the floor. Flies buzzed around the holes, zigzagging away as if the scent was too foul even for them. There was no mirror, only the dark stone wall that filled the rest of the room.

  The boy came back towards Chancey.

  “You don’t look so good. You really should eat-”

  “My face,” the boy said. He reached up and peeled away the corner of tape holding the bandage. Scared as he was, he had to know what they’d done to him.

  He blinked back the light. Then opened his right eye fully. I can see!

  “Hemo!” Chancey gasped, staring at the boy’s uncovered face.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s already healed.”

  The boy frowned. There was no pain in the movement. He ran his fingers along the C-shaped scar on his face. The skin was still sensitive, but yesterday’s pain had subsided into an awful memory.

  “Don’t let them see it,” a soft voice carried through the room. The older woman he had traveled to Castle Carmine with lay in the corner cot. Bandages wrapped around her own face. The boy passed Chancey and crossed the room to her side.

  “Put your bandage back on,” she said, leaning his way. Her voice was weak but direct. “Don’t let them know what you are.”

  “What am I?” the boy whispered.

  “More than they think,” she said. “They’ll find out eventually, but in the meantime, it’ll go better for you if they think you’re a lower blood.”

  “Lower blood? I don’t understand.”

  She gazed at him with her one, uncovered eye. “Your bruises. A day ago it looked like you had been beaten to death.”

  The boy lifted his shirt. His skin had returned to a pale white, the bruising gone.

  “Never let them know what you can do,” the woman said. She winced as she lay back and closed her eye.

  The boy sighed. Low blood, Descendants, house brands…nothing made sense. Why couldn’t he remember?

  The boy re-applied the bandages to his face before walking back to his cot. He picked up the tray the kitchen boy had brought. Porridge and an apple. It wasn’t much, but at this moment, the boy was willing to eat anything. He bit down on the overripe fruit and hunger flooded through him like a burst dam. He cleaned the apple to its core and then dug his fingers into the porridge.

  The boy finished his meal and licked his fingers, catching every last morsel. Chancey was right, the boy felt better with food in his belly. Stronger.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Chancey said. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  The pudgy boy had been by his side during the night. He was the closest thing to a friend he had in the world.

  Chancey took the empty tray. “We need to go. You’ve been assigned kitchen duty with me. It’s not a bad job really. It’s better than working in the fields, and sometimes there are leftover scraps.” Chancey blushed and pulled his shirt down over his belly.

  “Thank you for the food, Chancey.”

  The kitchen boy smiled. “There’s more of that. I deliver food all over the castle, to Lord Carmine even. Sometimes people don’t even touch it. And Mable doesn’t mind if I polish off the plates. It saves the dishwashers time.”

  The room had stopped spinning and the boy felt almost whole. He didn’t know what awaited him, but he wasn’t going to get any answers staying in this room. He pulled himself to his feet.

  “Let’s go.”

  Chancey beamed. He stood and led the boy through a large metal door. The boy studied the lock bar on the outside. With that shut in place, there would be no escaping the sleeping barracks.

  They walked down the stone corridor, and the boy felt his strength returning. It was as if the food had lit a fire in his belly that spread through his body, bringing his muscles to life.

  High horizontal windows brought dim light into the hallway. But again, the windows were too narrow to fit through. At the end of the hall, they passed a door with a faded heart symbol painted in the color of dried blood.

  Turning the corner, the hallway grew brighter. Noises carried; the shuffling of feet and banging. A woman’s voice barked orders.

  “You ever worked in a kitchen before?” Chancey asked.

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Nothing to it. Just keep your head down, and don’t let her catch you taking breaks.”

  They stepped into a large kitchen where people scurried this way and that, carrying dishes and plates of food. Unlike Chancey and the boy, most of these workers did not have “C” tattooed on their faces. In the center of the chaos, a dark skin woman towered over the others. Her black hair was tied up in a cream-colored cloth, and her apron stopped short revealing long brown pants, not a dress like the other women in the kitchen.

  “Chancey!” the woman yelled at the sight of them. “In Hemo’s name, what took you so long?”

  “I’m sorry Miss Mable,” he said, hurrying to her side. “I came as soon as I could.”

  “Next time I’ll send a turtle. This is the new Descendant boy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, fetch him a broom.” Chancey scampered off to the kitchen closet. “And don’t get lost on the way!”

  She looked down at the boy. “Do you come with a name?”

  The boy lowered his head. A pile of potatoes rested on the counter beside Mable. The boy’s stomach groaned for more.

  “Luckily, you don’t need a big vocabulary to sweep,” she said.

  A moment later, the boy had a broom and was sweeping the kitchen floor, dodging cooks and servants. The boy didn’t fight the assignment. Sweeping the floors beat being tortured and stuck in a cell.

  “What, you never held a broom before?” Mable yelled across the kitchen. The boy looked down at the broom i
n his hands. He didn’t know the answer.

  The tall woman dropped her knife among the potatoes and stalked over to the boy.

  “You’re just spreading it around.” She snatched the broom from the boy’s hands. “You gotta sweep it all into a single pile. Like this.”

  She bent low and swung the broom in crisp strokes, collecting a pile of dirt and kitchen scraps. “See?”

  She threw the broom back to the boy. Without thinking, he lunged to the side and caught it in one hand. The wood handle felt at home in his hand. Strong. It could do some damage.

  “Well go on,” she barked.

  The boy grabbed the dustpan and began sweeping up the collected scraps and dumping them in the trash bin. Then he continued on, mimicking the woman’s quick strokes. Kitchen work was new to the boy, but he caught on quick. Whatever job Mable had given him only had to be demonstrated once. Though work was made difficult by the use of only one eye, the boy got the hang of it. As he cleaned, he studied the other workers, and what their jobs entailed—from the dishwashers to Mable herself. The good news about not remembering your past is there is plenty of space for new information.

  The work itself was mindless and gave the boy time to piece together the puzzle of this new world. He had been sold into labor, that much was clear, but what were Descendants? What set them apart? Why were he and Chancey tattooed while the others servants were not? And, most importantly, how was he going to get out of here?

  As he worked through the day, the boy was amazed at how much work went into feeding a castle. Servants raced in and out the kitchen doors, gathering food or cleaning pots and pans, which were then turned around and re-used. Everyone moved with expert efficiency as if they had performed their routines for years. And then there was the food; roast lamb and buttered potatoes, bread fresh from the oven. The lords and ladies of the house were not living on rotten apples and porridge. The hole in the boy’s stomach grew with each whiff of the kitchen’s aroma.

  A bell chimed somewhere outside, and its sound reverberated through the kitchen. A Descendant woman beside the boy shut the pantry door and headed out of the kitchen. But the rest of the kitchen servants continued their work.

  “Clean your station before you go,” Mable yelled to him. “You don’t leave a mess in my kitchen.”

  The boy winced as he got off his sore knees. He rang the wet towel in the bucket and carried it to the closet. He was about to follow the Descendant woman out of the kitchen when that commanding voice stopped him.

  “Boy,” Mable called.

  The boy crossed the kitchen to the counter where Mable chopped carrots in quick succession. She waved the boy closer. The boy pressed down on his bandage, making sure it was secure, then crept around the counter, his eye on the knife in her hand.

  “Here,” she slid him three pieces of carrot across the counter. “Best have some food in your belly beforehand.”

  The woman’s face softened. Was there pity in her eyes?

  The kitchen door burst open, and Chancey rushed in panting for air.

  “Sorry…Miss Mable,” he said, setting a tray of dishes in the sink. “Those…blasted stairs.”

  “Chancey, you snail,” she snapped, back to her usual tone. “You better be here extra early tomorrow. Now take your friend here and hurry along. You won’t find the Curor as forgiving of tardiness.”

  Chancey waved to the boy as he rushed from the room. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

  The boy met Mable’s eyes. What was he to make of these people? Some seemed nice, others were downright evil. Could he trust any of them?

  The boy pocketed the carrot pieces and hurried down the corridor after Chancey. So far, the boy had only seen a small portion of the castle between the sleeping barracks and the kitchen. Chancey, on the other hand, seemed free to move about where he pleased, delivering food all over the castle. There must be some more defenses to stop someone from escaping, the boy thought. Otherwise, why else are they still here, working as prisoners?

  They turned a corner to find a short line of people waiting in the hall. The line formed before the door with the painted heart symbol. Each person had a “C” tattoo on their face. Descendants.

  The boy moved closer to peer inside the door.

  “Get back in line,” a guard at the door snapped. The boy slipped back against the wall beside Chancey.

  “What are we doing here?” the boy asked.

  “Were you raised in the woods or something?” Chancey asked, shaking his head at the boy. “This is the Curor’s lab.”

  A sickly man trudged out the door, barely able to stand. The guard shoved him out of the way, and the next person entered the room.

  “What’s wrong with him?” the boy asked.

  Chancey leaned in closer so the others in line couldn’t hear. “You act like you’ve never worked for the dry bloods before?”

  “I don’t…” the boy began and then thought about it. His memory wasn’t completely gone. He knew what most of the items in the kitchen were called and what the carrots in his pocket would taste like, but there was so much that was unfamiliar. Especially his role as a Descendant.

  “It’s okay.” Chancey shrugged. “There’s a lot I wish I could forget.”

  “Where are you from?” the boy asked.

  “Here. Castle Carmine. Most of us are. It’s only a few that are traded here from other houses. Mostly runaways.”

  “Runaways?”

  “Escaped Descendants. Those that survive recapture, anyway.”

  The door opened and another Descendant staggered out. The woman in front of the boy walked inside, leaving only the boy and Chancey.

  The boy’s legs grew heavier as he stepped closer to the door. No sounds came from within the open door, just a chill. The guard at the door sneered at the boy. A birthmark marked his forehead with a splash of red. This hadn’t been one of the guards who stripped him and scarred his face. But he didn’t look like he’d object to the behavior.

  The boy turned back to Chancey. More questions racing through his mind. “You say Descendants, but descendants of who?”

  “You really don’t know?” Chancey lowered his voice so the Guard wouldn’t hear. “Those of us born with special blood.”

  “Special blood?”

  “Yeah, like how your face healed from the branding in less than a day. Dry bloods can’t do that. They need us.”

  “And dry bloods are…”

  “Everyone else. Miss Mable, the guards, Lord Carmine—the Highfather himself.”

  Special blood, dry blood. The boy scratched his head, taking it all in. It didn’t make sense. How were the ones without special blood in charge?

  Before he could ask more, the woman stepped out of the door; her face was pale and her eyelids hung heavy as if she were walking in her sleep.

  The guard looked down at the boy. “Well?”

  Chancey nudged the boy forward, but the boy stopped in the doorway. His gut told him to run. The memory of yesterday’s branding flashed through his mind, and he froze in fright.

  “Little clot,” the guard grabbed the boy by the hair and yanked him inside and down the stairs. The boy shivered, surprised by the sudden drop in temperature. It was like he’d suddenly been transported into a snowy cave, each step the air grew colder and colder. They reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into a square windowless room. Lamps hung from the ceiling, giving the room plenty of light.

  Shelves of bottles, both empty and full, adorned every wall. A large wooden chair was in the center of the room, its base nailed into the floorboards. Beside the chair was a table covered with strange tools and instruments. A man in red robes stood hunched over the table, sealing a bottle of red wine. He examined the red liquid, then put it on the wall with the others.

  “Come on, I haven’t got all night,” the red-robed man said, his breath streamed out like a cloud. He swept around, his lip curled into a snarl. “Oh, great, it’s Briton’s boy. Get in the chair.” />
  The guard shoved the boy forward. The boy did as he was told, climbing into the solid wooden chair. The guard held the boy’s wrists and snapped down the metal cuffs on the armrests. “This one’s a slow learner.”

  The red-robed man snorted, looking down his hooked nose with beady black eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He grabbed a small metal blade from the table.

  “Wait,” the boy stammered. “What are you doing?”

  His uncovered eye moved from the blade to the instruments on the table. A yellow tube stained with a dark substance, a tray of small knives and needles.

  “Let me explain how we do things here,” the red-robed man said. “You hold perfectly still, and I don’t spill any more of your dirty blood than I have to. Got it?”

  The boy squirmed, but the bands held his arms tight. No, not again. I won’t let them cut me anymore.

  “Get his legs.”

  The boy kicked out, driving his feet into the guard’s armored chest. “Stop! Let go of me this instant!”

  The guard slammed his fist into the boy’s stomach. The air flew from the boy’s lungs, and he folded forward. Hands seized his feet. Metal bands clicked around his ankles.

  “You’re going to regret that,” the guard said, breathing hard.

  “Not yet,” the red-robed man snapped. “At least let me get the brat’s blood first.” The man’s second hand seized the long tube from the table and fed one end into an empty glass bottle. His head grew dizzy, and he felt a sickness well up in his stomach. The red bottles of liquid that lined the shelves around the room. That’s not wine.

  This was what they did to Descendants. They stole their blood.

  “Alright,” the red-robed man said. He held up the tube and a small blade. “Let’s find a warm vein.”

  4

  “We believed it was our right, not by deed or naming, but by the very blood in our veins.”

  Aeilus Haemon, Highfather of Terene, and the most powerful man in the world, winced into his chamberpot. It came out in painful dribbles, splashing the pot with red-tinted urine. Vorrel warned him about consuming too much blood. But let that Curor get to Haemon’s age and see how long he lasted without a drink.