“I’m sorry, father,” the guard said, scrambling to the door. “He blindsided me.”
“It’s alright,” Haemon said, spinning his face into a confident grin. As if Bale’s sudden arrival had been his plan all along. “Leave us.”
The guard shut the door, leaving Bale alone with Aeilius Haemon, Highfather of the Faith.
“Why, Bale,” Haemon said. “I pray you’ve come with good news.”
Without his uniform and ceremonial hat, the Highfather could be mistaken for a sickly old man. He bent over as if his bones could hardly support him anymore. The few thin strands of hair that were left, hung from the sides of his head with all the weight of a spiderweb. But Bale knew better than to be fooled by appearances. The Highfather was the most dangerous man in Terene.
One of them, anyway.
“We found the Descendant rebels,” Bale said. “Captured four alive…somewhat alive. None gave us anything about this so-called Spade.”
“So you don’t believe in a great rebel leader come to save the Descendants?”
“The reports I’ve heard have the flimsy details of myth. I think the Descendants have built up an idea in order to give themselves hope. Or, to scare your noble lords.”
“Well, it’s working,” Haemon said, leaning back in his chair. “You should know the power of myth. I’ve heard Bale the Blood Knight moves as a shadow. That no sword can pierce him. That he can sniff out a Descendant’s blood a mile away.”
“I wouldn’t worry about a single Descendant. The reason we haven’t caught Spade is that he doesn’t exist.”
“Don’t let your prejudice blind you. While most Descendants have had the fight beaten out of them over the generations, there are always a few capable of causing trouble.” Haemon pulled a second glass from his drawer and set it beside his own, filling both with blood wine. Bale’s hands shook at the sight of the dark red liquid.
“Leave the captured Descendants to Vorrel,” Haemon said. “If they know anything about Spade, he’ll get it out of them. He is as patient as he is cruel. Your value is in the field.”
Haemon held up a glass, and Bale snatched it. He sat down in a chair opposite the Highfather’s desk and drank. The blood filled his stomach and immediately went to work, soothing the burning in his chest and neck. The disease pulled back its tentacles. The string holding his heart together grew tighter. This was good blood. Sitting safely within their high stone walls, the nobility always got the purest blood. While those who needed it most—soldiers in the field—went without.
“I lost one of my men in the raid,” Bale said.
“A valuable one?”
“He’ll be difficult to replace. With the army of proper guards your men keep churning out, it’s hard to find a real soldier in the bunch.”
“A real killer you mean?”
“Someone who gets things done. Like me.”
“While your specific skills have been of great value to me, you can understand why we wouldn’t want an army of Bale’s roaming Terene.”
Bale spun the empty glass on the desk. It wobbled, threatening to fall over before coming back to rest. “You promised me a cure, Haemon. I’ve done your missions—for longer than we agreed. I’m losing my patience with these temporary fixes.”
“Vorrel and his Curors are close to something big. Something that will end the world’s reliance on Descendant blood.”
“I don’t care about your political moves. I want to be cured and done with this.” Bale tapped his chest. Haemon owed him. For it had been performing one of his missions that Bale had taken a sword to the heart. If the Highfather couldn’t fulfill his promise…
“Hemo has deemed our work worthy,” Haemon said. “You must have faith.”
Bale scoffed, looking around the Highfather’s study. The large room with its vaulted ceiling, the ornate furniture and jeweled lamps that could feed a family for years. “Save the propaganda for the masses, Haemon. I’m not blind.”
The Highfather’s face darkened. He reached to a cabinet beside his desk. A stream of cold air wafted out. The Highfather removed a wooden box and closed the cabinet door. He unfastened the lid and revealed sixteen vials of blood. Enough to last Bale for weeks. Haemon’s spidery finger plucked a vial from its slot and held it up, examining it in the lamplight.
“It’s such a curious thing, blood. It is found in all of us, in every animal in the world. Yet for some reason, Hemo has chosen to bless only some of it. Some blood saves lives while other blood is worthless.”
Haemon dropped the vial. Bale gasped as the glass shattered on the floor. The precious blood pooled out on the marble floor. Wasted. Haemon pulled another vial from the box. His eyes moved from the blood to Bale’s. “I am the Highfather of the Faith. Ruler of Terene. You will not blaspheme in my presence.”
Bale took a deep breath, then gave a slight nod. He still needed Haemon. For now.
“Find me the one called Spade and stop these terrorists once and for all,” Haemon said. “This distraction must be dealt with if we are to focus our efforts elsewhere. Such as your cure.”
“Yes, father,” Bale whispered.
“Good,” Haemon returned the vial to the box and slid it across the table. His face grew solemn. “Go in Faith.”
Bale flung the study door open. The guard flinched as Bale stormed down the hallway, the box of blood cradled tight to his chest. He would do as Haemon ordered. He’d kill these Descendant rebels and anyone else he had to, to get his cure. And when he did—the Highfather would finally get what was coming to him.
6
Ruling a realm is not as glamorous as it sounds. In fact, aside from the lavish food and clothing, Jonathan Carmine found the duties of a noble lord quite tiresome. He longed for the days of his youth when he was free to run about the castle or ride through the Hidden Wood. Now, he sat in the throne room for hours, hearing the appeals of his subjects. Had his father found it this boring?
“I think two vials should do, my Lord,” Briton’s voice snapped Carmine from his daydream. Seated beside the throne, the old advisor shot him a disapproving look.
“Yes,” Carmine said, turning back to the ragged farmer kneeling before the throne. “Two vials it is.”
“Thank you, Lord Carmine,” the farmer rose and bowed again. “You are most gracious. My family will make it up with this year’s harvest.”
Carmine waved a hand, and a guard escorted the man out of the throne room. He would be granted his two vials of blood. Being but a farmer, it would be the lowest blood they had.
When the farmer had cleared the room, Carmine turned to Briton. “Are we done for the day?”
“A few more yet, my Lord,” Briton said, looking up from the meeting log. “This is an important part of your rule. Do try to stay awake.”
“I wish you could do this, Briton. I grow tired of the constant complaints and tales of woe. They think being in charge of a bean field is tough, they should try running the province. And who do I have to complain to?”
“I believe that honor falls on me,” Briton said with a sigh. “It’s important for people to know their Lord listens to them and cares about their lives. Leadership fosters loyalty in—”
“Yes, yes,” Carmine cut him off. He’d heard it all before. “Who is next? A tailor who’s run out of thread?”
“Lord Ballard has returned,” Briton said, reading from the log.
“Lord Ballard?” Carmine twisted his short beard, trying to remember their previous business. Ballard was a lower lord, so he couldn’t have been given much aid. He was probably coming back to complain. “What was he here for again?”
Briton flipped back through his log. “Last week…his wife was sick.” Briton’s finger stopped on the details of the previous meeting. He frowned. “Gray Fever.”
“Gray Fever! Then he’s come back to hold us responsible for his wife’s death. I don’t want to see him.”
Before Carmine could rise, the door opened, and Lord Ballad strode into
the throne room. Ballard was a tall, gaunt man who’s brisk stride covered the distance to Carmine’s throne in no time.
“Lord Ballard,” Carmine said, sinking back into his chair. “How may House Carmine aid you in so somber a time?”
“Lord Carmine,” Ballard said, his voice weak. In fact, the thin lord looked hardly able to stand. His eyes were circled with the dark rings of a man who had not slept in days. He collapsed and buried his head on the marble floor. Carmine glanced to the location of the nearest guard. Hammond stood in the corner of the room, eyes alert. When Ballard finished his blubbering, he rose to one knee, his hollow cheeks wet with tears.
Here we go.
“My Lord,” Ballard said. “I come as your humble servant. House Carmine will forever have house Ballard’s allegiance.”
Carmine glanced at Briton. His old teacher was as shocked as he was. His log must have been in error. No one survived Gray Fever. Especially not with the low blood Ballard had been given. “I take this to mean your wife...”
“Healed!” Ballard said. “Completely. It’s a miracle.”
So, Lady Ballard had been misdiagnosed. Carmine wasn’t opposed to reaping the benefits of such a mistake. Let the story of House Carmine’s power and generosity spread around Terene. Lord Carmine the Miraculous!
“The good blood you gave us,” Ballard continued. “I’ve never seen anything like it. The color returned to her instantly, the sores melted away within minutes. My wife stood on her own strength for the first time in weeks.”
Carmine scratched at his beard. Sores and paralysis? What could this have been if not Gray Fever? Something did not add up.
“I’m happy for your wife’s recovery,” he said, shifting to a smile. “This truly is wonderful news. Is there anything else House Carmine can help you with, Lord Ballard?”
“We only wished to come and thank you in person. Most high nobles would not treat a…newer lord such as myself to the pure blood from his supply. Lord Carmine, your generosity has saved my family. My wife would like to thank you personally.”
“Of course, Lord Ballard,” Carmine said. “Whenever she feels up to it I would be honored…”
But Ballard was already striding to the throne room door. A guard pulled the door open, and a woman stepped inside, taking Ballard’s hand. She was nearly as tall as Lord Ballard and wore an elegant white gown. There were no signs of sickness, in fact, her skin seemed to glow in the warm afternoon light.
“Lord Carmine,” Ballard said, raising the woman’s hand. “Lady Ballard.”
It can’t be. This woman was the picture of health, not a dying husk of Gray Fever. Was someone playing a joke at his expense?
“Lady Ballard,” Carmine said, composing himself. “We are happy to find your health returned.”
“Thank you, Lord Carmine,” the woman said. A tear streaked down her rosy cheek. “I owe you my life.”
“Your fortunate news is payment enough. Go in peace and with further blessings.”
After more bows, Lord and Lady Ballard backed out of the throne room. Carmine sat puzzling over what he had seen. Had it been an act? And if so, to what possible purpose?
Briton seemed to be working this out himself. The old man’s bushy eyebrows hung in a puzzled scowl.
“What do you make of it, Briton?” Carmine asked.
“Strange indeed,” Briton whispered. “I’ve never heard of someone surviving Gray Fever. Nor did Lady Ballard appear to have any symptoms at all. Yet, they seemed…genuine.”
Carmine nodded, almost happy that his old teacher had no answer. It was a rare occurrence to see the great Briton flummoxed.
“Hammond,” Carmine called. The guard approached, his armor clinking with each hurried step.
“My Lord?” the guard bowed.
“Visit Lord Ballard’s estate. Talk with neighbors and the local Curor. Find out more about Lady Ballard’s illness. I want you to find out what these two are up to.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“In plain clothes,” Carmine added. “We do not need a Carmine guard spotted spying on other lords.”
Hammond nodded and crossed the throne room. The door opened, and a guard led in the next visitor. An old woman, hunched like a beggar. Carmine held up a hand, and the guard pulled her back out of the throne room.
“You believe the Ballards are planning something,” Briton said.
“What else could it be?” Carmine asked. Ballard was a lesser lord, desperate to raise his standing. And House Carmine’s financial troubles were no secret—Ballard must see them as a vulnerable noble house. But why this rouse about Gray Fever? What could he be plotting?
Carmine could tell Briton wasn’t satisfied. “Well?”
“I’ll talk to Typher,” Briton said. “Find out what batch of blood he sold to Ballard. You’re likely right about this being a ploy, but if it turns out there’s truth to their story, we need to know where that blood came from.”
Carmine nodded in agreement. He leaned back in his chair, his mind racing through the possibilities. Something strange was going on. A mystery to solve. Lies, plots, miracles. This day had proven not so boring after all.
The boy hopped down the stone stairs, carrying the empty tray as a shield against the hall’s suit of armor. The decoration dwarfed his thin frame, but what the boy lacked in mass, he more than made up in cunning. The knight stood bewildered as the boy ducked and swung the shield at the knight’s knees. Though the boy stopped before impact, both adversaries knew who had won the duel.
The boy bowed to the imaginary crowd, then spun the shield back into a tray as he hurried down the stairs. His promotion to food deliverer was much better than being in the kitchen all day. The boy had explored much of the castle over the past week, and each day held more secrets to discover. In fact, Descendant life at Castle Carmine could almost be tolerable if not for the one thing.
At the thought of the Curor, the boy slowed to a walk, his fingers absently scratching at the week’s worth of cuts on his upper forearm. Forget the imaginary knights and beasts, the real enemy was the man in red.
The process of the nightly blood draws had gotten faster as the boy found obedience the easier path in the end. But it had not helped the severity of what he felt. Each night, the boy watched his blood flow from his arm into bottles for the Curor’s shelf. Afterward, he’d hobble to bed weak and drained, as if his very life had been stolen from him.
And no amount of glances into the castle garden or treats stolen from Mable’s cupboards could ever make that right.
Walking into the kitchen, the boy set the tray down on the counter. His friend was busy at work over the sink. Chancey’s head hung so low it almost dipped in the dirty water.
“They got you on dishes,” the boy said, coming to Chancey’s side. “What’d you do now?”
“Nothing,” Chancey mumbled, his face missing its usual liveliness. He turned back to his dishes and continued scrubbing.
“You’ll never guess what Lady Royce was wearing,” the boy whispered to Chancey. “Or rather, not wearing. Who gets their supper brought to them in the bath?”
“Very funny.” Chancey said no more as he dug out a handful of silverware. That was strange, Lady Royce was one of Chancey’s favorite subjects.
The boy grabbed the next tray of food to deliver and raced out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He’d never once seen Chancey in a foul mood. Even stumbling to bed after the Curor took his blood, Chancey was able to crack a weak smile or make a half-hearted joke. This was unlike him.
The boy raced around the castle on various kitchen errands. He moved faster and with fewer accidents now that he could use both eyes. The dirty bandage no longer stuck to his face, so the boy got rid of it. It had been long enough for his face to heal, so no one seemed to notice. The boy stole a glance in a mirror. The scarring was gone and all that was left was a black “C” shaped tattoo on the right side of his face. The boy thought seeing his reflection might restore some of his memo
ries. It hadn’t. The haggard shape with sloppy brown hair and deep set eyes looked like a stranger. The boy had run his hands over his skeletal cheeks just to make sure it was really him he was seeing.
He looked like any other Descendant prisoner. What more had he expected?
Later that day, when the bell chimed, the boy caught up to Chancey in line for the Curor. The nightly line was a dreary affair. Whatever small tastes of happiness were found during day eroded as the Descendants waited their turn to have their blood drawn. Each night, Ara held out hope for some divine intervention. A fire. A landquake to crumble the castle walls.
With Chancey hanging his head in silence, the boy lost the only thing that made this tolerable.
“Chancey, what’s wrong?” the boy whispered.
“I’m just tired,” Chancey sighed. “I must have washed ten thousand pieces of cutlery the last few days, and it never ends. I swear that sink has no bottom.”
“Tomorrow I’ll help with the dishes. And we’ll split the meal runs between us.”
“You think you can tell Mable what to do?” Chancey scoffed. “I’m off food delivery for good. She said she must have been out of her mind to ever let a fat boy run errands in the first place.”
“That’s not right,” the boy said. “I’ll tell her I want to go back to kitchen work.”
“Forget it,” Chancey said. “We can’t control anything here. The sooner you learn that the better.”
The boy left Chancey to his gloom and stepped forward in line. Chancey was right, of course. There was nothing they could do. They were worse than slaves. Mistreated and worked through the day, then harvested for their blood at night.
Just because they healed, didn’t make the pain any less.
When it was his turn, the boy descended the stairs to find the Curor’s lab in a complete mess. It looked as if there had in fact been a landquake. Bottles that once lined the shelves in straight rows were now scattered on counters and tables. There were three other men in the room, counting bottles and marking notes on sheets of paper.
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