“Come, come, let’s get on with it,” the Curor shouted from the waiting table. His usual clean red robes were covered in dust, and dark craters formed under his eyes. Perhaps he was sick, dying of some incurable disease. The boy could dream.
The large guard with the splotchy birthmark eyed the boy as he crossed the room. The boy climbed into the chair and waited. He didn’t want to receive another beating. The blood draw took enough out of him.
The Curor reached for a bottle but an oily man with fine-combed hair grabbed it first.
“Who’s this?” the man asked, holding up a pen to the bottle.
“The new boy,” the Curor said. “He’s a stray, he hasn’t a name.”
“He needs a name, Typher,” the man said, tapping the point of his pen on the glass bottle. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if you kept decent records.”
“Call him Stray for all I care. Let’s get on with it. You won’t find what you’re looking for here.”
The man dipped the pen in ink and scribbled on the bottle’s label. The Curor snatched it back with a heavy groan and inserted the tube into the top. He set the bottle marked “Stray” on the table and brought the other end of the tube up to the boy’s arm.
“Your scars have healed quickly,” the Curor said, squeezing the boy’s forearm until the veins rose to the surface. “Perhaps we can take more from you than we thought.”
The boy swallowed under the gaze of the three men. The Curor made a small incision on the boy’s arm. Then he jammed the tube into the open wound, tightening the clamp on the boy’s bicep. Blood flowed through the tube, and the boy felt the usual nausea as his head fogged over.
Behind the Curor, men examined the bottles, arguing and taking notes. They were looking for something. The boy lost focus and his vision blurred. He shivered, feeling the cold of the room more and more. How had Chancey handled this for so long? The boy ran circles around the pudgier kid all day, but how was it that Chancey could stand the Curor’s touch while he could barely walk after?
“Next,” the Curor called as he ripped the tube from the boy’s arm. The boy grabbed a dirty cloth and held it to the cut. Staggering to his feet, he shuffled to the stairs and started the slow climb. Chancey passed him on the way down. The boy tried to offer a smile, but Chancey didn’t see. He marched head down into the Curor’s lab, hiding tears.
The boy’s legs melted like warmed candle wax. He stopped twice in the hallway to steady himself on the stone wall. His mind was still in a haze. He thought he heard voices coming from the Descendant barracks. Nights after the blood draw were always silent as Descendants recovered from having the life drained from them. But the boy stepped through the heavy metal door to find…talking.
Heads turned his way. While a few Descendants slept, a group gathered on the middle cots. The boy crashed on his mattress like a broken branch. But he was still close enough to hear their conversation.
“I’ve seen this before,” said Jako, an older man who worked in the cellar—his fingers permanently black. “Someone has stolen blood.”
“Impossible,” Amond said, shaking his head. The man was a large field hand with a flat shovel of a nose. “Who would dare steal from the Curor’s lab? No one’s getting down there without Typher’s key.”
“Then why do you think they’re suddenly taking inventory of all the bottles? Something’s up. Typher looked even meaner than usual.”
“Could it have something to do with the rebellion?” a soft voice asked. The boy turned in his cot to see the speaker. A young, mousy woman lay on her side. He’d never heard her speak before.
“Descendant warriors?” Amond scoffed. “That’s just a fairy tale.”
“Oh,” the woman’s eyes lowered, and she sunk deeper under her blanket.
“Don’t listen to him,” Jako said. “Just because he’s lost hope doesn’t mean there’s nothing to it. Amond’s never been outside the Carmine border. Shows what he knows.”
“And you’re an expert on Descendant rebels and free borns?” Amond asked.
“Free borns?” The boy was surprised to hear himself speak. It just popped out.
The others studied him but didn’t seem taken back by his question.
“Descendants born in the wild, outside of dry blood lands,” Jako said. “No owners. No blood draws.”
“It’s the dream fed to gullible Descendants,” Amond said. “They think they’ll run off to freedom and join the rebels. That they’ll fight back against the dry bloods.” Amond shook his head. “But all those stories do is give people bad ideas. They get people killed.”
“She knows,” Jako said, pointing across the room. The heads turned to the far wall, to the woman who’d come to Castle Carmine with the boy. “She’s from House Octavian.”
A hush fell over the room.
What was House Octavian? The boy leaned his head to get a glimpse of the woman. She lay in her cot, staring up at the ceiling. The boy hadn’t spoken to her since that second morning after the tattoos. Her “O” tattoo was now covered up by the fresh thick lines of the Carmine “C.”
“Well?” Amond asked, calling to the woman. “What do you know?”
“About what?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the ceiling.
“The Descendant rebels,” Jako said. “Are there really Descendants out there, living free and fighting the Faith?”
The woman took a tired breath. The topic seemed to bore her. “There’s no such thing as a free Descendant,” she said. “We’re all prisoners, some just have bigger cages.”
This sunk the mood in the room. The boy didn’t mind. He was too weak to focus. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open. He pulled up his hole-riddled blanket and turned back to the door. Chancey hadn’t returned from the Curor’s lab. The boy’s muscles tensed and the pit of his stomach twisted into a knot. What was taking so long?
The boy would talk to Mable, no matter what Chancey said. He’d convince her to switch their jobs back, even if it took a tumble or two down the stairs and some dropped meals. He would set things right. He owed it to Chancey.
The boy fell asleep and dreamed once again of flying. He saw the tops of the trees from high above and even felt the wind whipping against his face. The world lay before him, shrouded in clouds. From up high, all felt right. He felt free. Then the clouds blew away and the trees with them, and the boy saw a face. A man with a pointed brown beard. The man was speaking, but the wind was too strong and carried his words away. The boy reached for the face to pull it into the light to see it clearer, but the man fell away, dragged by the wind. The boy was left all alone.
Hands seized his shoulders, waking him from his dream. Even had the boy strength to resist, it would have done little against the strong arms that pulled him from his bed and carried him toward the door. He went without a fight, dazed and weak. Barely aware of the muffled sobs behind him—someone crying into a pillow.
“What’s going on?” the boy groaned. His captor slung him over his armored shoulder and carried him down the hallway. “Where are you taking me?”
The boy felt the cold armor on the man’s back. A Carmine guard. What had he done?
The guard pushed open a door, and they stepped out into the courtyard. The night air swirled against the boy’s uncovered skin. He shivered, twisting to get a look where they were going. No stars were visible in the cloudy darkness.
They passed the stables and walked beside the high wall to the other end of the castle. Guards looked down at them but did not speak; their faces as blank as the night. They reached a door leading into one of the castle’s four towers. The guard opened the door and carried the boy up a spiral staircase. The guard didn’t slow, carrying the boy as if he weighed nothing. This wasn’t far from the truth. The boy’s ribs threatened to snap as they pressed down against the guard’s armor; he could hardly breathe. He twisted away and was met by a punch in the side that took all his air.
“Move again and I’ll drop you head first down these stairs,
” the guard said. Gasping for breath, the boy went limp and let the guard take him higher and higher. The boy had never been to this end of the castle. There were no doors to other floors, just the narrow stairs. They must be higher now than even the rooftop garden.
The spiral staircase finally ended at a thick wooden door. The guard set the boy down with a huff. The guard’s face under his helmet was red. A spotted birthmark. It was the guard from the Curor’s lab. The boy’s heart raced. This couldn’t be good.
The guard pushed open the door and swept the boy into a small bedroom. In the darkness stood a figure. Dark as blood.
“Thought you could hide from us, did you?” The Curor stepped forward, shaking his head. His eyes were wide—hungry. “When will you people understand? The only reason you exist is to provide for us.” He opened a case on the bed, revealing his instruments and eight empty vials.
The boy’s knees gave out. The guard caught him by the shirt, suspending him off the ground as the Curor approached. The Curor twisted the boy’s wrist then plunged a needle into his palm. The boy flinched, but the guard held him still. He couldn’t get away. He couldn’t even hold himself up.
“Ha!” the Curor exclaimed, looking down at the boy’s palm. “It’s true!”
The small needle hole had sealed in a matter of seconds.
The Curor bent down, his hooked nose only inches from the boy’s. The eyes that stared into his were utter darkness.
“Hemo has blessed us with a miracle. From the most wretched comes the purest blood ever seen.” The Curor’s face contorted into a crooked grin. “Welcome to your new life.”
7
“In order to survive, they have learned to overcome their natural weaknesses. Their fragility became their strength.”
Briton Moonglass fidgeted as he re-read his way through The Last Writings of King Garian Kovar. The journal traced the lineage back through the ages to early Royals in the Kovar line, but it said nothing about their origins. What had been the source of the Royal’s blood? What gave them that power? And, could it be found again?
The modern history of the Royals he found in the journal was still fascinating. He’d always seen the Royals as an alien race, stronger and faster than mortal men. They lived for hundreds of years. But reading King Kovar’s own words, these were the thoughts of a man. Flawed and full of doubts. A man who felt the weight of his throne.
The Blood War Briton knew—the one taught to kids and sung in taverns all over Terene—was shaped by the Faith and generations of hero-worship. When mankind rose up from servitude and wiped out the Royals. Led by the great General Drusas. King Kovar’s account was much different. Briton was surprised by how candid the king was as he came to realize his people’s mistreatment of the so-called “dry bloods.” He seemed nothing like the evil tyrant of history. From reading his account, Briton actually felt compassion for the king as he tried to bring about change in those final days. But, even Kovar understood it was too late.
Now, all that was left of the Royals was the Temple and the remnant of their blood that runs through the Descendants’ veins.
Briton set aside the book and locked it in its travel case. He had more pressing matters to attend to than his own studies. House Carmine needed to make this season’s tithe to the Faith, and the castle’s crops were not overflowing at present. And the blood stores had hardly grown. It was an impractical resource, after all. Even in Typher’s cellar, the quality did not last more than a few weeks. And after rationing and the purchase of the new Descendants, House Carmine was still not ahead of its debts.
Briton leaned back in his chair, the cracking of his old bones filled the empty library. Whatever stress he was under, Jonathan Carmine was under heavier. The poor boy meant well. Briton believed that.
Behind him, the library door opened. Nathaniel, head of the Lord’s guard, stood in the entryway.
“There you are,” Nathaniel said, striding into the room.
“Nathaniel. I hope you come bearing good news. A gold mine discovered in the hills. A lost Royal treasure unearthed in the Hidden Wood.” Briton stopped when he saw the serious expression on the guard’s face. “What’s wrong?”
The guard reached Briton. His eyes scanned the castle’s accounts scattered on the table. “Then you haven’t been informed.”
“Informed of what?”
“Lord Carmine is waiting in the garden. We have the source of Lady Ballard’s miraculous recovery.”
“What? Hammond is back so soon?”
“No. It’s Typher. He discovered it late last night.”
Briton raised a bushy eyebrow. “Did he now?”
“So this is it?” Carmine asked. He held up the vial of blood in the morning light. “It doesn’t look special.”
“As with low blood and good blood, there is no difference to the eye,” Typher said.
“There must be something,” Carmine said. “For this to rescue Lady Ballard from her deathbed.” He shook his head. “And you say this came from the new Descendant boy.”
“My records traced the blood back to him. Plus, the kitchen boy came forward to report him. He was trying to pass off as a common low blood. Apparently, his scar healed after the first night.”
Carmine pondered this news as he looked at the red liquid. Such a simple thing, blood. Found in each and every person. While one type was only valuable to the individual, another could build a kingdom. Or overthrow one.
Carmine walked through the garden. It was a particularly bright morning in the north; a few thin rays of sunlight stabbed through the gray cloud wall. He stopped to watch a night cereus open its white blade-shaped petals and point its pistil at the hidden sun. Carmine felt more at ease among the plants of his garden than trapped in his dank study. It was here that he was truly free to think.
“Lord Carmine,” Briton’s voice called. The old man hurried towards them, his faded-blue robe held off the ground. He stopped, catching his breath. “There is news of Lady Ballard?”
“Yes,” Carmine said. “Typher has tracked down the blood’s source. It belongs to the new Descendant boy.”
Briton’s mouth hung open. Carmine relished the stunned expression on his old master’s face.
“And we know for sure it was the blood that healed Lady Ballard?” Briton asked.
“We’ve already gone over it, Briton,” Typher said. “It is the new boy’s blood.”
Carmine ran his other hand against the purple leaves of the koboto tree and gently touched its fist-sized fruit. A koboto tree produced only one fruit in its lifetime. Carmine’s mother had planted this tree before he was born. He had looked upon this fruit for most of his life—watched as it changed from green to dull red. It would soon be ready.
“The timing makes sense,” Briton said. “The boy coming to the castle when he did. It’s just…surprising.”
“A fortunate pick, Typher,” Carmine said. “The boy could have easily fallen into someone else’s hands.”
Typher and Briton exchanged a look. There had always been animosity between the two men. They had different views on how to treat the Descendants. Carmine couldn’t remember the last time they agreed on anything. This would be no different.
“If the blood could cure Gray Fever, then it is like nothing we’ve ever seen,” Typher said. “It’s a true gift from Hemo. We must get all we can from the boy.”
Briton gazed out into the distance. Toward the northern mountains. “The blood is indeed special. Though I disagree with Typher’s proposal of what to do with the boy.”
Carmine almost smiled.
Briton turned to him. “If his blood is indeed pure enough to cure Gray Fever, then he is perhaps the most valuable person in all of Terene. He could provide so many answers. We should learn from him, not lock him away and bleed him dry.”
“The blood is the value,” Typher countered. “Not the boy. We should get as much as we can before word spreads of what we have. There’s no telling what the other lords will do to get thi
s blood.”
“Or the Faith,” said Briton.
Typher frowned. “I know Master Briton has a great interest in studying the Descendants and their lineage,” Typher said. “But surely his…hobby…does not outweigh the needs of House Carmine or the realm.”
“It’s not a matter of personal interest,” Briton snapped at the Curor. “It’s a matter of morality. We already treat these people as livestock. What right do we have to impart a life of torture? Especially on a boy with blood that has not been seen since that of the Royals!”
“Your pagan ideas blind you, Briton,” Typher said. “You forget the blood is a gift from Lord Hemo to his chosen people. If it was against his will for us to use the blood, he would not have blessed us with it.”
Briton’s face darkened. If Carmine didn’t know better, it almost looked as if the old man would take a swing at the Curor.
“Enough talk,” Carmine said. He left their quibbling, walking deeper into the garden. Talk is all it was. Action is what separates a leader from a philosopher, Carmine’s father had said. Carmine stopped at the glass house that encased the Blood Flower. His newest treasure. Or, it had been.
Without another thought, Carmine uncorked the glass vial and drank.
“My Lord!” Briton stammered in shock.
But it was too late. The blood flowed down his throat and lit a fire in his belly. Warmth shot through him, to his toes, to his fingertips. It felt as if life itself coursed through his veins. Carmine gripped the ivy as he leaned over the roof’s edge. The view of his realm was much clearer, even the village miles away came into focus—bent wooden buildings and thatched roofs. Carmine looked down to the castle’s courtyard far below. Part of him believed he’d survive the fall.
“Lord Carmine?” Briton touched Carmine’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” Carmine said, turning around. Both Briton and Typher wore their concern on their faces.
“It’s true,” Carmine gasped. “The boy’s blood is stronger than any I’ve ever tasted.”
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