Even Carmine’s mind felt clearer. As if the petty problems of his province were now beneath him.
“Briton, you may attend to the boy. Learn what you can about who he is and where he came from.” He looked down at the empty vial in his hand. “If there are any more like him.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Briton said.
“But you will do so in the tower. He is too valuable to leave with the others, where anyone can reach him. I want guards stationed at his door at all times.”
Carmine turned to the Curor. “Typher, you will personally administer his blood draws. Three times a day. No more than he is able to reasonably handle. We need him alive and healthy.”
Typher bowed. “Yes, my Lord.”
Carmine looked back at the lands that stretched out in rolling hills under the gray sky. This was his family’s domain. Land that had been under hard times these past years. Land that had struggled to produce enough to match House Carmine’s past greatness. That was all about to change.
With one boy.
“This blood is going to save House Carmine.”
The boy gazed out the tower window, too exhausted to move from his bed. He had been visited by the Curor twice since coming to this new room, and the blood draws had taken their toll. He lay with his eyes transfixed on the gray sky and the treetops spreading out in the distance. The Hidden Wood, as Chancey called it. Chancey, who had been his friend. Even in his delirious state, the boy realized Chancey had betrayed him to the Curor. Now, he was banished to the tower to bleed for House Carmine.
That was the last time he’d make the mistake of trusting someone.
A soft tapping on the door startled the boy. Nausea hit him hard, and his thin fingers rubbed the veins in his forearm. The Curor is back already? The boy took a breath and fought back the sickness. He wouldn’t give the red-robed demon the satisfaction of seeing his fear.
But the door didn’t open.
There was a second tapping on the door, as patient as the first. The boy sat up in confusion. The Curor wouldn’t knock.
“May I come in?” The voice was gentle. The boy stared at the door. In all his time imprisoned at the castle, no one had ever asked his permission for anything.
“Who’s there?” the boy asked.
“My name is Briton Moonglass,” the voice said.
“What do you want?”
“As previously stated, I would like to come in.”
“What for?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Perhaps this conversation would be easier had, if not through a three-inch thick wooden door,” the voice said with some strain.
This must be some kind of game. If this man got all the way up the tower, past the guards at the door, then he was important enough to do as he wished. Why the act?
“Go ahead,” the boy said. “It’s locked from the outside anyway.” Something he had discovered that night when he built up the energy to crawl from his bed and test the door. Getting back into bed in his state proved more difficult.
The heavy door slid open. The boy recognized the balding man who stood before him. The man from the library. The boy did not know his role, as he wore simple blue-gray robes, but he seemed to move about the castle as he pleased. And judging by the meals he was brought, must be of some status. Plus, there was the look. Something in the man’s calm blue eyes looked perfectly at home in the great castle.
“Thank you,” Briton said, closing the door behind him. “My old ears could barely hear through the door.” He smiled. “As I said before, my name is Briton Moonglass.”
The man waited as if the boy were supposed to have an opinion on the stranger’s name.
“Do you have a name?” Briton asked.
The boy shook his head.
“What do people call you?”
“They don’t call me anything.”
Briton nodded and moved forward, stopping a safe distance from the bed. “Well, that won’t do. What would you like me to call you?”
“I don’t care.”
“How about I don’t for short?”
“What do you want?” the boy snapped. Whatever this game was, he didn’t have the energy to play.
“I’d like to talk,” Briton said, “If you’re not too busy.” The old man glanced around the room. The tower room was furnished with a bed—softer than his barracks cot—a chair, a bedside table, and a chamber pot. There was even a window, locked and barred though it was. It was a view of the world the boy feared he’d never set foot in again.
“You don’t have a name,” Briton said. “Did you have a home before Castle Carmine?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
Briton studied the boy as if assessing if he was simply being uncooperative. The boy had nothing to hide from any of them, not anymore. He looked at Briton with both his eyes, he felt the “C” tattoo in full view on his open face.
“What do you remember?”
Nothing, the boy was prepared to say. But something in the man’s face, in those eyes, worked more out of him.
“I remember trees,” the boy said, thinking back through the fog of his memory. “I remember being locked in a wooden box with pain so bad I could barely open my eyes. We traveled for I don’t know how long. Days.”
The boy felt a chill at the memory. The pain, still so recent, he could feel it in his bones. Was that all he remembered? Every night he had searched for more, some glimpse at his previous life, but nothing came.
“They brought me to the auction,” the boy said. “Where I was sold here as a Descendant. That’s all I remember.”
“Sold as a Descendant,” Briton repeated. “You were not a Descendant before?”
“I don’t know,” the boy said. “I’d never heard that word before.”
Briton’s eyes sparkled with interest. He lowered himself into a chair beside the bed. The boy instinctively recoiled. It was where the Curor sat to perform the blood draws.
“What do you know of your blood?” Briton asked, his tone sympathetic.
The boy stopped. Unsure why he was talking to this man. He didn’t seem the type to order the guards in and force information out of him, though it was surely within his power. The boy had already confided in one person at the castle, and he had learned his lesson.
“I’m done talking.”
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “Did I offend you?”
“I’d say holding me against my will so you can cut me and steal my blood qualifies as an offense.”
The man nodded. “It must be incredibly difficult for you here. While I don’t agree with the way you have been treated, there is little in my power to change it. But I will do what I can to make your time here more bearable.”
“You think a softer bed helps? Better food?” The boy's eyes were welling up now. He hated betraying his emotion, but the strain of hiding it these past weeks was exhausting. “What does a better meal matter when you haven’t the stomach to eat? When you have to force food down just to recover enough strength for the next blood draw?”
Tears streamed down the boy’s cheeks now. But he didn’t hide his face from Briton. He stared at the old man, his defiance all that he had left.
The old man didn’t leave, he didn’t storm out or order the guards to attack. He simply sat with the boy in silence.
Eventually, when the boy’s pulse and breathing returned to normal, the old man spoke.
“I cannot understand what you’re going through nor can I stop your suffering.” Briton raised his bushy eyebrow so that his blue eyes peered directly into the boy. “But I can arm you.”
Before the boy could figure out what the old man meant, the door swung open. The Curor stood in the doorway, glowering. This time his anger was aimed at Briton.
“You must leave,” The Curor said.
Briton stood and locked eyes with the man in red. Something unspoken passed between them. It was not friendly
.
Briton turned to the boy, “Do you like riddles?”
The boy shook his head, confused. “What?”
“Let me leave you with one. I’ll return tomorrow for your answer. If tomorrow you prefer no company, you will not see me again.”
The Curor set his case down at the foot of the bed and opened it to reveal two empty glass bottles, tubing, and small blades. Briton’s eyes moved over the contents of the case. It seemed to shake him.
“Some of us have real work to do,” the Curor said. He pushed past Briton and set the two empty bottles on the bedside table.
Briton backed away.
The boy could feel nausea rushing through him like a river at the sight of the Curor’s instruments. He had hardly recovered from the last visit, and already he was here for more blood. The boy turned from the Curor and his blades.
“The riddle,” the boy called to Briton. “What is the riddle?”
Briton looked the boy in the eyes with such a confident gaze that it seemed to pass on a bit of strength. “What is the most powerful thing in all the world?”
“The most powerful thing in the world,” the boy repeated in a whisper.
“Guards!” the Curor snapped. “Clear the room.” The two guards at the door stepped in, unsure.
Briton nodded to the guards and walked out the door. He stopped at the threshold and gave one final glance at the boy in the tower.
“I’ll return for your answer tomorrow,” Briton said, then he left the room. The guards slammed the door closed behind him with a boom that rattled the boy’s bones.
The boy looked to the window, avoiding the Curor and his work. Small strands of light seeped through the gray clouds outside as the afternoon sun struggled to shine through. The boy kept his gaze on the sky out the window, looking far into the distance, as if he could transport his attention away from this room and the pain that was to come. The metal of the blade clinked as it was pulled from the case, but the boy hardly heard it. He was gone, soaring over land and treetops once more—searching for an answer to the old man’s question.
As the blade plunged into his arm and opened a pathway to his blood, the boy held his eyes shut and repeated the question until he blacked out. What is the most powerful thing in the world?
What is the most powerful thing in the world?
8
The old man’s riddle consumed the boy’s thoughts. In between sleep and the Curor’s visits, there was little else to do. Locked away in the tower, it was a nice relief to think of something other than the horrors of his current circumstances.
So despite his weakened condition—and his resistance to the old man’s ploy—the boy worked on the question. He settled on possible answers through the night, only to change them in the morning. When he grew frustrated he quit and vowed not to speak to the old man. And when he grew bored, he scrambled for a new answer.
The boy stood at the barred window, studying the distant mountains that rose without end, disappearing into the clouds. Faint footsteps shuffled up the stairs. The boy turned to the door, ashamed at his own excitement.
He crawled into bed and wiped all interest from his face. Then he waited. He started to worry it was another visit from the Curor, when he heard a light tapping on the door.
“Yes,” the boy called, too quickly.
The wooden door unlocked and creaked open. Briton Moonglass stepped inside. White hair sprang wild from the sides of his head as if to make up for its absence on top.
“Good day,” Briton said, hanging in the doorway. “I don’t mean to intrude. If you’d rather be alone…”
“You can come in if you want,” the boy said with a forced sigh.
Briton bowed his head and closed the door. He crossed the small room and stopped at the window. He looked out as if inspecting the view for the first time.
“A clear day,” Briton said. “Or as clear as you’ll find in the north. You can see all the way to the Ghost Mountains.”
“Ghost Mountains?”
Briton smiled. “Some superstitions still linger.” He turned from the window to face the boy. “Do you have an answer to my riddle? Or should I leave you in peace?”
“Your riddle?” As if he could have forgotten the question he’d repeated to himself a hundred times.
“What is the most powerful thing in all the world?”
The boy stirred in bed. He had gone through many answers, none he was confident in. In the end, he settled on one he thought would suit the old man.
“The Highfather,” the boy said.
Briton didn’t so much as blink. His flat expression betrayed nothing. “Why?”
“I hear he rules over all the land—even your Lord Carmine. He has the world’s largest army at his command, which is greater than any single weapon.”
Briton nodded. “The Highfather of the Faith is very powerful.”
“But not the most powerful?”
Briton shrugged. “Titles and reigns end. Someone new always rises to power. The current Highfather’s appointment has been exceptionally long, but it, too, will pass to another…”
“Fire,” the boy blurted out before Briton finished. If the answer surprised Briton with its complete change of direction, he didn’t show it. “It’s hot enough to melt steel of any sword. It can destroy a village or wipe out an entire forest.”
“And it could kill even the Highfather of the Faith.” Briton tapped at his chin. His blue eyes studied the boy. “And how do you stop fire?”
“Water,” the boy grumbled.
“Water is more powerful then?”
“I guess so. Enough water and you can drown an army.”
“And how do you survive drowning in water?”
“You swim,” the boy said. He racked his brain for another answer, not wanting to admit defeat. “Love?”
At this Briton did raise an eyebrow.
“Love?”
“Yes,” the boy said, annoyed. “I know you’ll pick apart everything I say, and I assume this riddle has a moral in the end. So, what? It’s love?”
Briton chuckled. “Love is indeed a powerful thing. But you may find in your life that love too can be broken.”
“I give up,” the boy said, leaning back in his pillow. The game was tiring, and he didn’t feel like going round in circles with the old man. “What is the most powerful thing in all the world?”
The old man moved closer and sat on the end of the boy’s bed. “The world is full of power. Everything you named can kill a man, even love. But everything can be stopped as well. What is it that defeats each of these powers?”
“No one thing. Each one is different.”
“Each obstacle we face requires a different solution. But what gives us the solution?”
“I don’t—”
“Stop,” Briton raised his voice, catching the boy by surprise. “A thoughtful answer is superior to a quick one.”
The boy thought through their discussion and each of Briton’s rebuttals. Water puts out fire…a man can learn to swim…What did they have in common?
“Knowledge,” the boy said, finally.
Briton nodded. “Very good. Knowledge is the most powerful thing in all the world. The knowledge of how to swim can transform dangerous water into a peaceful lake. It can teach you to build armor to deflect arrows or the plans to outmaneuver a larger army. It can keep you warm, keep you fed, and it can even overthrow those in power.”
The boy thought about this for a moment, searching for holes in Briton’s answer. In the end, he relented. He realized with his loss of memory, he also suffered a loss of knowledge. Maybe that was why he felt so powerless.
“Where do you get knowledge?”
“Lots of ways,” Briton said. “Books, teachers…life. If you have a curious and hungry mind, you can learn something from every person and situation you encounter. Even while trapped in a tower.”
“What’s the point of learning if you’re to spend the rest of your life in a prison
.”
Briton nodded solemnly and looked around the room as if taking in the full weight of the boy’s situation before answering.
“Books can take you far from here. Let you experience the world when you can’t leave your room.”
“But why does it matter if I have knowledge? My life is pretty much planned out for me.”
The boy saw the vision he feared most: himself as an old man, still trapped in this tower room, his blood taken from him by Curor after Curor. His blood spread out all over the world, flowing inside of strangers while he remained forever imprisoned in the castle. This was his nightmare. This was worse than death.
“Knowledge can be a powerful weapon,” Briton said. “If you have the wisdom to wield it. Every problem has a solution. One need only discover the answer.”
Briton leaned forward, his blue eyes looking directly into the boy’s. “Never rob yourself of the chance to learn.”
There it is, the boy realized. The point of his riddle at last.
“And you want to…what? Be my teacher?”
“If you wish,” Briton said. “I served as teacher for Lord Carmine when he was your age. Though some might hold that against my record.” The old man smiled to himself. “There is much I can teach you, but only if you are willing to learn. A man cannot fill an overturned bucket.”
The boy thought this over. This must be some kind of trick. Everyone wanted something. What did this man stand to gain from teaching him?
“What is in it for you?”
“You are of great interest to me. I have been studying the history of your people for a long time. There is still so much we don’t know about where you came from or the source of your blood powers. The Faith would have us believe it is simply a blessing from Hemo, and the fact that it has diluted over generations and lost its power is because of man’s sin. But I believe there is a different answer. I know you don’t remember your past, but perhaps we can find the answers together.”
The boy considered the old man’s words. As much as he didn’t want to let Briton in, the old man’s gentle demeanor had a way of breaking through the boy’s resistance. Perhaps the boy could use him; learn what he can from the old man, without fully trusting him. Besides, it wasn’t like he had anything better to occupy his time.
Good Blood Page 9
