Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  Haemon set the chamberpot down and pulled himself out of bed. His old bones cracked with every movement as he reached for his bedpost. It was in the mornings that he felt his age the most, when he’d gone hours without a sip of blood. His feet strained under the weight of even his gaunt frame. After catching his breath, the Highfather let go of the bedpost. He gritted what teeth remained and straightened his knees as best he could. This was his test. Was he still strong enough to get to his feet on his own?

  Today he was. Praise Hemo.

  Haemon snatched a vile of blood from the cold-cabinet and drank, his hand shaking. Drops spilled down his pointed chin. The effects were immediate. A flood of energy washed through his body. His muscles awakened, bones hardened. He stood straighter and more alert. Aches and pains didn’t disappear completely, but were reduced to that of a man decades younger.

  Time took its toll on everything, eventually. But by the gifts of Hemo, Aeilus Haemon was allowed to continue his work. His leadership was needed. What clearer sign could there be?

  He rang the bell on his table, and a servant came to help him dress. Haemon dawned the ceremonial white robes with red stitching that marked a Father of the Faith. The servant then opened the chest and placed the red miter, crown of the Highfather, on Haemon’s head. For most of his early life, Haemon had dreamed about being Highfather of the Faith. Would he still have longed for the position if he knew all that it entailed: the power struggles with the noble houses, the threat of Descendant rebels, even the discord within his own council?

  Yes!

  No one else could be relied upon to do Hemo’s will. No one else had the vision. And, after all these years, Haemon was so close to solving mankind’s problems and bringing peace to Terene. Hemo would grant him the strength to see this through.

  Haemon checked that everything was in place and then strode from the room. His legs were stronger with the Descendant’s blood coursing through him, but he didn’t push it. He walked through the hallway at a slow pace, taking in the majesty of the Temple.

  On the walls hung tapestries depicting the history of the Faith, the Blood War, General Drusas leading the assault on the Royals, the Faith’s rise to power, and the eventual salvation of Terene. Haemon was proud of his role in that history; the longest Highfather reign ever. And, once his work was finished, he’d be remembered alongside Drusas as mankind’s greatest champions.

  Reliance on the Descendants will come to an end. Terene will finally know peace.

  A guard pushed open the doors and the Highfather entered the inner sanctuary. The great round room was in the center of the Temple and lit by the dome’s glass ceiling. Centuries-old wooden pews circled around the sanctuary’s center where the council table now stood. The Fathers rose upon his arrival. Haemon took his time moving to his seat at the head of the council table. In the art of high politics, battles were won with etiquette and gestures. Everything played a role, and no one knew the game better or had played longer than Aeilus Haemon.

  Reaching his chair, Haemon waved a hand. “Be seated.”

  Around the table sat the seven Fathers of the Faith. From all over Terene, these men and women rose through the ranks to reach the Temple’s high council. Now, they determined the future of the world.

  “Highfather,” Father Turney began. “I have an important matter to bring before the—”

  Haemon raised a hand, cutting him off.

  “We shall begin with prayer, Father Turney,” Haemon said. The room fell silent, heads bowed in individual prayer. The young Father shifted in his seat but obeyed. Haemon prayed to Hemo for the prosperity of the realm and wisdom for the council. The prayer came with the ease of decades of recitation, but Haemon still believed every word. The heart is what matters to Hemo.

  With the prayer and a few minutes of silent reflection over, Haemon opened the floor to Father Tourney. “Edmund, you have something you would like to address?”

  “Yes, Father,” Edmund said flatly. “I wanted to discuss the use of the Temple’s Curors for needs outside the Faith.”

  Haemon held a stony expression. One bonus of old age; emotions took too much effort. “What are you referring to, specifically?”

  The young father cleared his throat and threw back his black hair with a twist of his head. Haemon reflected on his own hair, lost long ago. Blood didn’t heal everything.

  “It has come to my understanding that a certain sect of Curors have been working in secret. With blood alchemy.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Father Kent snapped. “Everyone knows the manipulation of blood is impossible. Transforming normal blood cannot be done.”

  “Not to mention it is heresy to even attempt transubstantiation,” Father Claudia said. She raised a sharp eyebrow to Father Turney. “These are serious claims, Father Turney. I hope you bring us more than rumors.”

  Descendant blood was a sacred gift from Hemo. Tampering with it was punishable by death.

  “Edmund?” Haemon cocked his head, feeling the weight of the Highfather’s miter. “You have evidence of blood alchemy performed by the Temple’s own Curors?”

  “I bring you information,” Father Turney said, some of the excitement slipping from his voice. “A room was found within the inner temple. Judging by the equipment found there, it appears to have been used for blood experiments and other pagan rituals. I was not able to ascertain the identities of the Curors responsible, or if they have been tasked to commit such heresy by a higher authority. But I did not want to hide such evidence from the council.”

  The room fell silent. The faces around the table held the nervous expressions that came whenever an accusation arose. The most powerful people in the world and they were still scared of one another’s shadows.

  “You did right, Edmund,” Haemon said. “These matters must be looked into. The Temple’s Curors have much work to do in preserving the health of the realm. Their attention must not be diverted, whether by their own greed or…under the orders of outside elements.”

  Haemon let this sentence out like a fisherman’s bait before a pool of trout.

  “What outside elements?” Father Shanon asked.

  The Highfather shook his head, sighing. “Noble lords are always quibbling to grow their own station in Terene. It is not hard to imagine they would even go against the Faith’s doctrine if it were of benefit to them.”

  The Fathers nodded in agreement, happy the attention was drawn outside the council room.

  “But until we know more, Fathers, we can only practice vigilance.” The Highfather gestured a wrinkled hand towards the young Father. “I’ll ask you to look into this further, Edmund. Bring what findings you can to me, personally.”

  “Certainly, Father,” Edmund smiled.

  With Father Turney’s concerns addressed, the council turned matters to the most pressing news of the day. Yesterday’s attack on the Curor’s shop.

  “These Descendant rebels are getting bolder,” Father Jessen said. “The Curor shop they raided was at the edge of the city!”

  “I heard they didn’t even take the blood,” Father Shanon said. “They just smashed the shop. A wealth of blood just poured into the street.”

  “Heresy on top of theft,” Father Claudia said, shaking her head.

  “Highfather Haemon,” Father Thomas said. “Is it true that this rebel leader is uniting the Descendants and orchestrating the attacks?”

  Haemon steepled his fingers and sighed. “The Temple Guard has yet to catch the Descendants responsible, but it is only a matter of time.” Haemon coughed into his hand. His chest burned from the effort. His strength was already slipping. He needed blood.

  Father Kent snorted. “We’ve all seen the Descendants and what they are capable of. For one of them to write their own name is a stretch…that this—Spade—is some military genius is preposterous.”

  The Fathers nodded in agreement. Such a fearful group. Taking comfort in fooling themselves. It was easy to turn a blind eye when you slept safely
within the Temple walls. For them, the Descendant rebels were somebody else’s problem. Hemo give me strength. What will happen to Terene when I am—

  “Say what you will,” Father Turney broke in. “But Spade and his band of rebels have caused acts of destruction and terror for over a year now, and we’ve not had so much as a clear report on his appearance, let alone come close to capturing him. Not to mention the strain it puts on our nobles who own Descendants. Remember House Octavian.”

  The Fathers shivered at the mention of House Octavian. A noble house that had fallen at the hands of its own Descendants. A cautionary tale, warning what happens when you give those beasts too much freedom. They’ll seek to kill humans, just like their ancestors.

  “Fathers, calm yourselves,” Haemon said. “We have the full strength of the Temple army at our command. We will take care of this rebel problem, I assure you. You must have faith.”

  There was nodding from across the room, except for Edmund, who remained still, his eyes studying the others. What game are you playing, Edmund?

  “Now, if there is nothing else, we all have our work before us. Go in Faith.”

  “Go in Faith,” the others repeated. They stood as Haemon pulled himself to his feet, masking the pain that flared through his body. Don’t let them see how much it hurts.

  They needed his strength as much as he did. They had grown needy, feeding on his leadership like piglets on a sow’s teat. He needed to show them the fruits of their faith.

  Outside the council chambers, a servant waited with a glass of blood wine. Haemon drank, feeling the restorative properties fill his body. Vorrel be cursed; he needed the blood.

  At least, for now.

  He set the empty glass back on the servant’s tray. “Find Bale,” Haemon said. The servant boy nearly dropped the tray at the mention of the Blood Knight’s name. “Tell him I have a mission for him.”

  When the morning bell chimed through Castle Carmine, the boy found it difficult to rise. He had not slept well after the previous night’s horrors. His blood had been taken from him—an entire bottle drained from his arm. That this violation was common practice at the castle…it was unthinkable.

  All around him, Descendants rose from their beds to begin the day’s work. The boy closed his uncovered eye to the spinning room.

  “Come on.” A hand patted him over the blanket. “We have to go.”

  “I can’t move,” the boy said, biting down and squinting tight. Maybe if he willed it enough, he’d wake from this nightmare.

  “You must,” Chancey said. The kitchen boy shook him. “If you don’t report to work, they send the guards for you. You don’t want that, trust me.”

  “I feel so weak.”

  “Once you eat something you’ll feel better.”

  The boy took a deep breath and opened his eyes. With Chancey’s help, he was able to sit up in bed. His hand reached down to the carrots in his pocket. After leaving the Curor’s lab last night, he hadn’t had the stomach to eat anything. He had barely made it to his cot before passing out. The boy chewed, fighting back nausea.

  “Keep it down,” Chancey said. “You must regain your strength.”

  The room cleared. Descendants headed out to work in the fields or the stables or other parts of the castle. These were the low bloods. Tasked with slave labor as well as blood draws. Apparently, those with purer blood were somewhere else in the castle, kept under strict guard. Their blood taken twice a day. The boy didn’t know what was worse—being forced to work or being trapped in a room.

  The image of the red-robed man with the hooked nose came to the boy, and his blood stirred to life. “That Curor is evil.”

  “It comes with the job,” Chancey said. “I’ve met hundreds of dry bloods in my time. Some are good, some are bad. But I’ve never heard of a good Curor.”

  “Why don’t people escape?” the boy whispered, slipping on the worn shoes—his toes poked out of the right one—but it was better than walking the stone floor barefoot. “There are so many of you.”

  Chancey raised an eyebrow. “Where would we go?”

  “Move it you two,” a guard called from the doorway. “Or you’ll get a booting you won’t forget.”

  Chancey helped the boy up, and the two of them moved out of the barracks under the guard’s watchful eye.

  “I thought you were a fast healer,” Chancey whispered as they moved down the hall.

  “Apparently not.” The boy’s head was still cloudy, but with every step down the hallway, he felt his balance return. Chancey had endured a blood draw every night for his entire life. The boy couldn’t imagine. He didn’t have that kind of strength.

  When they entered the kitchen, the staff was in full swing. Chancey left the boy’s side and hurried to the sink just as Mable’s voice rang out.

  “You’re late…boy!” the tall woman’s voice rattled the kitchen plates, or at least the nervous hands holding them. “I don’t even know what name to curse! Get the broom and do not stop sweeping until the floor is clean enough to see your one-eyed face!”

  The boy hurried past her, fear doing its part to restore his movements. He swept the kitchen floor, then he swept the hallway, then he swept the kitchen floor once more. He worked until his hands were too sore to grip the broomstick.

  And so went the boy’s day, sweeping up after each new mess, pausing only to nibble on the food provided and to relieve himself back in the barracks latrine. The day was long and silent as no one spoke to him besides Mable’s occasional yelling, and that was mostly out of habit since the floors were spotless. The boy chased dirt down the hallway, switching his grip to avoid the growing blisters. Staring at the stone floor for so long, he fell into a sort of trance.

  His mind roamed elsewhere. Outside the castle walls to the image of trees. A forest of great pines. The boy did not press, he let the vision come, afraid he’d scare it off. Something about this picture was…strange. He saw the trees from high above—as if he were a bird looking down on the forest.

  “Boy!”

  The forest dissolved at the sound of Mable’s voice carrying through the hallway, somehow losing none of its power. The boy scampered back to the kitchen, trying to hold onto the vision of the treetops.

  Mable was leaning over a tray of food, arranging roasted potatoes on a fine plate. “That fool boy Chancey isn’t back yet, and I have more meals to deliver,” she said, shaking her head. “How that boy runs errands all day and returns even fatter than before is a mystery.”

  She looked up at the boy, frowning at his general appearance. “You think you can deliver food without messing that up?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the boy said, eager to do anything that didn’t require holding a broom handle.

  “Take this to the library then. And hurry back!”

  The boy nodded, taking the tray and hurrying out of the kitchen before she could change her mind. The smell of the cooked meat wafted up into his nose, bringing his hunger to life. What he wouldn’t give for a bite.

  The boy reached the end of the hallway before he realized he had no idea where the library was. He turned to go back to the kitchen, but he imagined the scolding he would receive, or worse—Mable would hand the task to someone else. This was the boy’s chance to explore the castle. He had to be trusted outside the kitchen if he were to have any hope of escape.

  So, the boy continued up a flight of spiraling stairs in search of the library. The stairway led to a second-floor hallway much wider than the bottom floor. Instead of blank walls, paintings hung every few feet. One painting depicted the castle and rolling green fields stretching from its walls. Another, an old man with a pointed beard. Another, a red bird shooting like a flame across a blue sky.

  The boy slowed to a stop in the middle of the hallway. There was a chance he’d find the library on this floor. Then the search would be over. The boy turned and took the stairs higher.

  Coming to the third floor, the boy’s stomach growled, begging for the meat just b
elow his nose. This was its own form of torture. Would whoever he was delivering this to miss a single bite?

  Something caught the boy’s foot. He tripped, barely catching the plate of food before it fell to the ground.

  “Watch where you’re going!” a man barked. The boy looked down to see a castle guard on the floor, leaning against a door. He grabbed his leg, though the boy hadn’t hit him that hard.

  “I’m sorry,” the boy said. “I…I didn’t see you.”

  “Well maybe you shouldn’t walk around with your eye covered,” the man was old for a guard and didn’t wear a helmet; his long, uncombed hair and graying beard grew wild and untamed. Why was he sleeping in the hallway?

  “I…I was looking for the library,” the boy said.

  “Well, you found my foot.”

  “Do you know where I can find it? The library.”

  “Try the room with all the books.” The man leaned back and closed his eyes.

  The castle was enormous, and the boy had only covered a small portion. The food would be cold by the time he got it to whoever it was for.

  “Please, what direction—”

  “Kid,” the guard’s eyes shot open. “I’m guarding a highly important area of the castle, and you are distracting me from doing my job. Now, unless you want to be held responsible for the theft of the Lord’s trophy room, you better leave me be.”

  The guard leaned back against the door and yawned.

  The boy walked back towards the stairs. He’d just have to return to the kitchen and ask Mable. But, he’d already been gone so long. She’d never send him out again. This could be his only chance to see the castle. The boy took a deep breath, then hurried up the stairs to the top floor.

  The stairs ended in an arch that led to the roof outside. The boy stopped, taking in a breath of the open air. Plant life surrounded him. It was as if he had stepped from the castle into the forest of his imagination. Ivy hung from the stone arch. Trees and plants of every color were arranged in wooden boxes. Forgetting his task, lost in the strange beauty of the plants, the boy moved farther through the green maze.