He’d never seen anything like it. Such a variety of plants in one location. The afternoon sun poured orange light through the clouds, baking the plants in a warm glow. Walking farther and farther, the boy came upon a tall glass shed. Inside the glass shed stood a large wooden box with a single red flower. What’s so special about you? The boy set the tray of food down on the edge of a nearby box and opened the door to the glass shed. He stepped inside to a wave of heat. The temperature was much warmer inside the glass shed.
There was nothing on the surface remarkable about the red flower. The boy couldn’t see why it warranted such attention with the big glass shed all to itself. He bent over the crate and leaned down to smell the flower. The petals stirred. It smelled of—
A hand grabbed the boy’s shoulder and yanked him back. He gave a startled leap and almost went through the glass wall.
“Careful now!” shouted a man in dirty work clothes. “You want to lose what’s left of your face?”
Self-consciously the boy pushed the bandage back into place. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…I was just…”
“Snooping around the Lord’s garden? You’re lucky it was me that found you and not Lord Carmine. If the Blood Flower didn’t kill you, he certainly would have.”
“Blood Flower?” the boy asked, looking at the small plant. “How can a flower harm someone?”
The man gave the boy a hard look. “What’s your name, son?”
The boy’s eyes fell to the ground. This was it. He’d be locked away forever, his blood taken and bottled every night.
“I’m Semus,” the man said. “What were you doing here in the garden—besides attempting suicide?”
“I’m looking for the library. I’m supposed to deliver food.” The boy pointed to the tray as proof.
“The library.” Semus sighed. “I know who that’s meant for then. Come on, I’ll show you where to find it.” He stopped and gave the boy a serious look. “This is the last time you set foot in the garden.”
The boy nodded.
“Then I guess no one needs to hear about it.” Semus walked back towards the arch doorway. The boy stole one final glance at the red Blood Flower, then hurried after Semus. Caught in the Lord’s garden, how had he been so careless?
Semus pointed him to the second floor, and the boy walked the rest of the way, following the gardener’s directions. The man had seemed nice for a “dry blood” as Chancey called them. He had likely saved the boy another beating from the guards. And, although the boy had promised never to visit the garden again, it was not a promise he was likely to keep.
The library entrance was even bigger than Semus described. The boy knocked on the two enormous wooden doors, balancing the tray of food with his other hand. There was no response. Had the person already left? The boy tapped louder until a muffled voice called from inside.
“Open it already, Chancey. I’m starving.”
The boy pressed his bandages firmly onto his face, then shouldered his way into the room.
The library was bigger than the boy could have imagined. The roof rose above the highest floor to make room for the high bookshelves that covered each wall. Dust danced in the streams of light from the glass ceiling and the high arched windows. The room was silent and stale as a crypt. Long tables with benches and chairs filled the center of the room, but only one chair was occupied. An old man in faded blue robes. He turned around, and the boy recognized the inspecting blue eyes.
“You’re not Chancey,” the man said.
“No, sir,” the boy said. He stepped forward, his feet echoing in the empty room. He set the tray on an open part of the table. They both looked down at the meal which was now quite cold. “I got a little lost.”
“More than a little, I see,” the man said with a frown.
The boy prepared for a lashing, but instead, the man turned back to his work. Books lay open on the table along with scattered pages of notes. Closest to the old man was a tiny book with writing so small, the boy couldn’t even make it out.
“What are you reading?” the boy asked.
“History,” the old man sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Yours, actually.”
Mine? The boy leaned over the small book.
“Careful,” the man said. “It’s rather old and delicate. Plus it cost me a great deal. Something I’m beginning to think was a mistake.”
From the way he ordered the guards around, the boy knew this man held some important role in the castle. It was not his place to speak to such a man. But he had to know.
“What do you mean it’s about my history?” the boy asked.
“It’s an account of the Royal bloodline. From which your kind all descended.” The old man scribbled notes on a parchment as he spoke. “I’m trying to trace the bloodline back to its source. To where the Royals got their blood in the first place.”
“And?” the boy asked, once more leaning over the book.
“And, this book is old, but it says nothing about the source of the Royals’ power.” The old man closed the book and rubbed his eyes. “It doesn’t mean the answer is not out there. It just means I’ve wasted a lot of shrines.”
The boy was squinted with his uncovered eye. The script was tiny. Faded.
“There are no pictures, I’m afraid,” the old man said, poking his fork into the meat. “If you want to see some drawings, Chancey enjoys the early Cossarts…”
“Our walls will not hold…” The boy stopped, catching himself.
“What was that?” the old man asked, following the boy’s gaze to the open section of the book.
The boy stepped back. The Descendant woman’s words rang in his head. Don’t let them know what you can do.
“Wait,” the old man said, pointing to the book. “You can read this?”
“I…I have to go,” the boy stammered. He turned and hurried to the library’s door.
“Wait. What’s your name?”
But the boy was already out the door, running down the hallway for the stairs.
5
Bale rode Smoke up the hill. The great gray horse tore through the night. The chilly air was lost on Bale, for his chest burned beneath his black armor. Over the years, the disease had crept from his heart over his left shoulder in poison veins. The wound that should have killed him long ago finally was. Unless the Highfather made good on his promise.
Up ahead, the Temple guards waited at the edge of the forest, their white shirts glistening in the moonlight. Bale scoffed. Whatever fool designed the uniforms had obviously never done battle at night. Bale had his armor painted black the moment he’d been turned into a Temple guard. It was allowed because Bale got things done. It was allowed because there was no one to stop him.
Blood Knight. That was the name people whispered as he passed. It started as an insult, criticism of the ex-assassin’s reputation for violence. Bale didn’t mind. After years serving as personal-sword to the Highfather, he had certainly earned the title.
Bale pulled Smoke’s reins, and the horse slowed to a stop in front of the waiting party of Temple guards.
“You found them?” Bale asked, looking down to Copher and the bloodhound at his side. The beast’s eyes were fixed on the trees. Drool dripped from its jaws.
“They set up camp in the forest,” Copher said, his long, braided pony-tail hung down his back like a whip. “We don’t know how many, but they’re in there.”
Copher wore the white Temple guard uniform, he just never had it washed. His shirt was stained with dirt and hard travel. He was an expert tracker and head of Bale’s own men—a hand-picked crew that carried out the Highfather’s most challenging assignments. Like their leader, most had former lives as assassins and cutthroats. Bale liked to surround himself with people he could trust.
On top of Bale’s six men, fifteen more Temple guards stood outside the forest, awaiting his command. Bale had seen the training of most guards, so he didn’t expect much from them. But it was always good to have the numbers on your
side, especially with an unknown enemy. Besides, if the Descendant rebels had any archers, those clean white shirts would attract the attention away from his men.
“Did you get a look at the camp?” Bale asked.
Copher shook his head. “We risked alerting them if we got too close. But I know these woods. It’s only about three-span deep before the cliffs.”
Bale nodded. Descendant rebels usually stuck to shadows, attacking small targets before scurrying like rats back to their hideouts. But this band of rebels had attacked a Curor shop only miles from the Temple. That meant they were armed. “Spade’s rebels” were growing confident. It was time Bale sent a message.
“Spread out,” Bale ordered. “We move in as one. Avoid head wounds if possible. The Highfather’s Curor wants us to bring some back alive.”
Bale’s men grumbled.
The men moved into formation. The Temple guards following the lead of the six seasoned killers.
Bale climbed off Smoke but didn’t bother tying his reins. The horse would wait for his master’s return. Bale’s gloved hand moved to his collar, pulling the armor away from his neck where the disease made his skin raw. The burning put him in a foul mood. Fortunately, he had some Descendants to take his anger out on.
The men formed a wide line at the forest’s edge. Bale drew his long sword from his saddle and held it up, the dark blade invisible in the moonlight. At his signal, the guards crept into the forest.
Bale’s keen eyes searched through the darkness for signs of movement. The rebels began as a group of escaped Descendants, hiding in the woods and running from bloodhounds. Then came word of this…Spade. Bale assumed there was more myth than fact to a Descendant rebel leader, but the group had grown more organized. They eluded the Temple guard and were now committing acts of crime and destruction that were gaining the attention of the High Counsel. So the Highfather had called upon Bale to end it.
There was a choked gasp to Bale’s right. He squatted low, sword ready. Footsteps raced through the brush, farther into the darkness of the forest. Bale surged towards the noise. He found a guard on the forest floor. Throat slit.
The one who killed him was racing back to warn the others.
“Charge,” Bale yelled. The Temple guard rushed forward, no longer hiding the sounds of their footsteps. Bale’s long, armored legs leaped over bushes. When they reached the camp, the Descendants were scrambling out of tents, weapons in hand. Bale counted only five rebels. Pity. He’d hoped for more of a fight.
Then he saw the Descendant rebels move. It looked like the Temple guards were caught in mud by how easily the rebels passed them. Their crude weapons cut through the night like lightning. One rebel slashed a Temple guard three times before the man got his sword up. The guard fell to his knees, his face confused. He didn’t know he’d been killed.
This was not a rugged band of looters. These were trained soldiers. Bale squeezed his sword handle and grinned. He would get his fight after all.
A rebel’s sword clashed against Markas’s. Every swing met with a block. Markas was a strong swordsman; it might have proved a good battle. Bale got there in three strides and rammed his broadsword through the Descendant’s back. Markas stumbled as the sword came at him through the man’s chest.
“I had him,” Markas said, but Bale was already moving ahead.
Metal on metal echoed through the forest. A guard screamed in pain as his leg was cleaved at the knee. He fell to the ground, useless. The Descendant rebel turned to face Bale, his eyes wide. It wasn’t fear in there, but a wild appetite. Fools. They actually thought they had a chance.
The rebel swung his sword up towards the taller Bale. Bale blocked the first blow, then the second. It was more than mere speed. The man swung his blade in efficient strokes. But Bale had a lifetime of experience—a lifetime of killing. Their swords met in the air, and Bale rammed his pommel down into the man’s face. Blood fountained from his shattered nose. Valuable blood. The man staggered back in blind pain. Bale took his head.
It rolled along the forest floor.
The fight was soon over. Though the rebels had done more damage, they were too outnumbered. The Temple guards closed in on the one remaining Descendant. The thin rebel swung his sword in wild arcs, trying to ward them off. The Descendant’s eyes fell upon the bodies of his friends, and his look changed. He screamed and hurled his sword at the closest guards, then turned and ran.
“After him,” Bale yelled. “Don’t let him get away.”
They chased after the fleeing Descendant. Again, Bale was amazed by the man’s speed as he increased his lead. He was fast, but he couldn’t hope to outrun the Temple guards with their horses. Copher would track him, even through the night.
Then Bale remembered Copher’s words. The forest was shallow.
Bale called out to Tesher who ran ahead of him. “Don’t let him reach the cliffs!”
The guard unslung his bow and nocked an arrow as he ran. Up ahead the tree line ended, and the ground dropped into darkness. The Descendant rebel charged while the guards slid to a halt. The Descendant reached the edge and leaped off into the air. He floated there in the moonlight for a moment—long enough for Tesher’s arrow to find its mark. The Descendant lurched as the arrow drove into his back. Then he fell.
Bale joined Tesher and Copher at the cliff’s edge. Trees hid the ground far below. There was no sign of where he landed. The fall would be near impossible to survive. But he had seen the impossible too many times.
“Find the body,” Bale said. “No Descendant is counted as dead until his body is strung up and drained by a Curor.”
Four of the Temple guards broke off, descending along the cliff’s edge. Bale returned to the rebel camp. The guards had already tied up the Descendant’s bodies. All but the decapitated one. Bale nudged the headless body with his boot.
“I don’t think that one’s healing,” Copher said.
“Not likely.”
“The Fathers will be upset you wasted one.”
“They can hunt them down themselves next time.” Bale waved to the body. “Bottle what blood you can, then bring the body back to the Temple with the others. Vorrel likes to play with the bodies.”
Markas frowned. “I’ll never understand the appetites of that Curor.”
“They’re not paying us to understand,” Bale said. “Where’s Hilman?”
The men looked around. Hilman was missing. Bale thought back through the raid. The ax-man had been on his far left…he attacked a rebel.
“There,” Copher said, pointing. Temple guards dragged a body from the bushes. Dried blood covered the right side of his face. His arm dangled from his body, nearly severed from the large gash that ran between his shoulder and neck. Shame. Hilman had been with Bale since back when he was an assassin for hire. He would be hard to replace.
“He’s gone,” Markas said. “Nearly cut in half. Poor bastard.”
“Take his ax,” Bale said.
Markas sighed and took the weapon, leaving the body. His men didn’t object. They knew what to expect when their time came. No ceremony, no prayers. They’d seen too much death to believe it still held any mystery.
“Copher,” Bale said. “Stay here and see what you can find that might lead us to the rest of them.”
“Yes, sir,” Copher said. His pony-tail whipping around as he turned to examine the rebel camp.
“The way these ones moved,” Silas said, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“They still die,” Markas said. “Just takes a few more swings.”
“You think one of them was Spade?” Tesher asked, nodding to the bodies.
Bale looked at the head covered in dirt and blood; the eyes wide, frozen in surprise. “No.”
Outside the forest, the guards hauled the Descendants into the cell cart. The rebel Bale had run his sword through was conscious and already moving around. Descendants, Bale shook his head. No wonder the Faith suppressed them and took their blood
. Even these pale versions showed amazing abilities. Bale could only wonder what fighting against the Royals of old had been like.
Smoke trotted over, and Bale petted the horse’s gray mane. Good soldier. He climbed on with more effort than he wanted to show, aware of the pain in his chest now that the surge of battle had passed. He needed blood.
The Blood Knight rode south to the Temple of the Faith. It was time to have a discussion with Haemon. It was time for the Highfather to fulfill his end of the bargain.
The fire that burned in Bale’s chest added to his temper as he stormed up the Temple steps. He pushed past two guards who raised their hands in salute. Things had been much simpler when Haemon had first hired him, working as an assassin. There were fewer games to play when you worked outside the Faith. Now, he had no choice. His disease was a leash, tying him to Haemon and his blood supply.
The wound poisoned his heart, never fully healing. It felt like his heart was held together by a single string, melting away until his next dose. The only thing that kept him alive, lay behind that door.
The guard outside the Highfather’s study turned to Bale, his hand instinctively going to his sword hilt.
“Out of the way,” Bale said. “I need to speak to him.”
“The Highfather is not to be disturbed,” the guard said, eyes darting from Bale to the broadsword on his back. There was recognition in the guard’s eyes. Now, to see if he had any brains.
“I’m going through that door. You can stand aside, or I can use your head as a knocker.”
The guard gulped, removing his hand from his sword. He knocked on the door himself. A gentle rap.
“What is it?” Haemon called from within.
“There’s a…someone here who…”
Bale pushed open the door and entered the Highfather’s study. Haemon sat hunched over a desk, his clean white robes in contrast to the room’s darkness. Haemon scowled, his withered face lit by the candles on the desk.
Good Blood Page 6
