Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  Late at night, the boy had often sat awake wondering what his real name was. He had to have had a name at one point in his life, but it had faded into the dark pool that was his memory. As he searched through the books, the boy secretly hoped he would stumble upon it, and he would finally remember who he was. But nothing came to him.

  Briton said nothing as the boy’s search stretched into hours. He simply sat on the bed and opened a square medallion necklace he had hidden under his robes. Inside, he pulled out a tiny book and began reading. His brow furrowed in frustration.

  A meal came for the boy, brought in by one of the guards, and the boy took a few bites as he scanned through a book on this history of the Faith. Still, Briton didn’t rush him to make a decision.

  When the Curor came for a blood draw, Briton stayed in the room. He watched from the corner, a sick look on his face until the Curor had finished his business and left with the bottle of blood.

  While the boy was recovering and too sick to read, Briton read through Carmine’s family genealogy, adding his own biographies of the stated person, most of who’s names he agreed after reflection would be unfit to carry on.

  The two of them spent the day together talking and reading. There was a sense of security in having Briton there. The boy almost didn’t want to find a name if it meant the teacher would leave him.

  The daylight was fading when the boy turned to the scroll map Briton had brought to him that first day. If the names of famous men were tainted, perhaps he would choose the name of a city or a mountain. Over the past weeks, the boy had returned to the map more than a few times in search of the area where he had been found. He held out hope that it would be a key to where he had come from. He knew it was a few days journey to the Temple in the back of that cart and over rough hilly terrain.

  The boy went back to the locations he had previously searched at the very top of the map near the Ghost Mountains that marked the end of Terene. That’s when he saw it. The name was spelled out along a thin crooked line. It was a river that ran like a vein from the northern mountains south through the valleys and forests. The boy pulled the map closer to him, re-reading the small word scrawled in faded ink. The Arathan River.

  “Briton,” the boy called.

  The old man snorted awake in his chair, his back cracking at the sudden movement and his tiny book falling to the floor. “Hmm? What? What is it?”

  “Are there books on the history of rivers?”

  “History of rivers?” Briton thought for a moment. “I’m not sure there are any. What river is this concerning?”

  “This one,” the boy spread the map out on the bed and pointed to the top section. “Arathan.”

  “Hmm,” Briton said as he studied the map. “Odd for such a small river to be named on a map. There are rivers much larger without names here.”

  “Have you heard of it?” the boy asked.

  “Not that I remember. I’ve certainly never ventured so far north. Few men have.” Briton nodded approvingly. “Small and mysterious. It certainly fits.”

  The boy looked down at the map and the river that twisted through the upper region. It didn’t bother him that people believed the northern lands were haunted. In fact, he liked the idea of a name that made people afraid.

  “I choose Arathan,” the boy said.

  Briton nodded. “A strong name, indeed.” He smiled as if the boy had passed some test set before him. “Though, if I might make a small suggestion.”

  The boy tilted his head.

  “Ara for short.”

  “Ara. I like that.”

  “Then Ara it shall be.” Briton reached out his hand. The boy looked at the old man then back to the outstretched hand. As much time as they had spent together, they had never touched. The boy reached out and Briton’s warm hand closed around his own.

  “Nice to meet you, Ara,” Briton smiled.

  “Thank you.” The words spilled out, surprising the boy. It surprised him even more that he had meant it. As guarded as he was, he felt a sudden gratefulness to the old man, even though nothing had changed. He was still locked away in the tower, a prisoner to Lord Carmine. But the name gave the boy a new sense of weight. Like he was a real person. Not some forgotten ghost.

  Jonathan Carmine was deep at work, studying House Carmine’s finances. He wrote in the most recent sale: an order from House Chamberlain that was so large it would take a week of the boy’s blood to fulfill. Just a week ago, the northern lords had seemed resistant to his offer, now the orders were coming in so fast he couldn’t keep up. People were finally understanding the value of House Carmine’s good blood.

  Carmine smiled as he added up this month’s profits. Accounting was much more pleasant with bigger numbers.

  There was a quick knock and a creek as the study door opened further.

  “Sir,” the servant’s voice called.

  Carmine held up a finger as he wrote down the final tally. His father had never come close to numbers like this. A year of this and Carmine would be the richest lord in all of Terene.

  Carmine looked up from the ledger, annoyed that the moment had been interrupted. “Yes?”

  “We have company coming up the road,” the servant said.

  “More buyers. Word travels fast.” Carmine grinned, imagining the eastern lords panicking to get a taste of the good blood. Carmine was fair; he wouldn’t deny lords because of petty politics. If the price was right. “Who is it?”

  “It’s, um, a rather large caravan.”

  Carmine put his pen down. Something in the servant’s voice. Nervousness. Fear.

  Carmine moved to the window.

  “They sent no word they were coming,” the servant said.

  The air caught in Carmine’s throat as he saw the flags and banners of white. The caravan that marched up the road towards his gates would not fit within his castle walls, even if the entire courtyard were cleared. Carmine stared wide-eyed at the large ornate carriages rolling up the road surrounded on all sides by an army of Temple guards.

  The Faith had come to Castle Carmine.

  “Send for Briton,” Carmine said, turning back to the servant. “And hide the boy!”

  10

  “We have been given a great gift and what have we done with it? Built monuments to ourselves.”

  The carriage doors opened and Aeilus Haemon, Highfather of the Faith, stepped out onto the dirt of the courtyard as if it was unworthy of his feet. Briton had seen much of the world in his travels as advisor to House Carmine and had been inside the Faith’s Temple on numerous occasions. Only once on those visits had he seen the Highfather in person. But now here he was, the most powerful man in all of Terene, with his perfect white robes with gold trim and the red miter atop his head. Suddenly, Castle Carmine seemed so very small.

  Two other Fathers stepped onto the courtyard from their carriages, in similar white robes of the Faith, but the man that caught Briton’s eye was the Highfather’s personal guard—Bale, the Blood Knight. Standing a full head above any of the Fathers, the knight’s black eyes took in Castle Carmine and its people like a hawk scanning a field for mice.

  To Briton’s right, Jonathan Carmine took a breath and stepped forward to greet the Highfather.

  “Highfather Haemon,” Carmine said with a bow. “What an unexpected surprise. Had we known of your coming, we would have organized a formal welcoming party.”

  The Highfather looked Carmine over then nodded slowly.

  “It has been too long since I visited our western lands. I trust we have not caught you at an inopportune time.”

  “Not at all, we are honored by your visit. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish, of course.”

  “That is very accommodating of you, Lord Carmine. But I do not wish to burden you. I know House Carmine has had difficulties since your father’s passing.”

  Carmine’s face showed no reaction to the Highfather’s words. Briton was proud of Jonathan. The Faith’s sudden appearance had obviously be
en intended to shock, but the young lord was handling this situation with the dignity befitting his title.

  “Perhaps some wine is in order, my Lord,” Briton suggested.

  “That would be wonderful,” the Highfather said, a slight smile creasing his wrinkled face. “The west has a great reputation for the potency of their blood wine.”

  “Right this way.” Carmine led the way to the castle. The Highfather was followed by two Fathers and four Temple guards. Briton fell in behind and the Fathers, staying the appropriate distance away for an advisor—far enough to not be intrusive to the conversation, but within earshot if a question arose. This would be a true test for Carmine and the game he had begun to orchestrate. The Highfather of the Faith did not make courtesy visits. Which meant that someone had told him about the blood; the Faith knew about the boy. Briton did not know how this would play out. It was time to trust Jonathan and follow his lead.

  Briton stopped at the castle doors and looked back at the crowd of Temple guards in the courtyard.

  “I don’t like this,” whispered Nathaniel, the head of Carmine’s guard, as he approached Briton and shared the view of Temple guards. “They come with an army of white shirts, and we open our gates to them.”

  “It’s only a show of force,” Briton said. “The Faith have never moved against a noble lord without provocation.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  “Let’s hope their etiquette outweighs their greed. Still, see that your men stay with Carmine at all times.”

  Nathaniel nodded and headed into the castle after the procession. Nathaniel was a good soldier, and his worry was not unwarranted. Guarding a noble lord was difficult, especially one as stubborn-headed as Jonathan Carmine. One whose own parents had been assassinated.

  Memories of that awful day, flooded back to Briton, fresh as ever. The guards returning from the woods with James and Maddie’s bodies slung over their horses. The long climb to young Jonathan’s room to tell him the news. A boy forced to be a lord, long before he was ready.

  Briton was brought back to the present by a black shape crossing the courtyard like a shadow moving from the caravans. The Blood Knight marched in long determined strides towards the Descendant’s quarters.

  Carmine stepped through the archway into the rooftop gardens. For so long this had been his sanctuary, his place of peace. But now it took on a different feel. As if vipers had slithered into the bushes.

  “I’d heard stories about House Carmine’s amazing garden, but I am still impressed,” the Highfather said as the company stepped into the gardens. “This must take a great deal of your time.”

  “Thank you,” Carmine said, unsure if it was meant as a compliment. “It was first started by my mother.”

  “Yes, a lovely woman,” the Highfather said. “It’s only natural that she would seek to surround herself with more beauty.”

  “You knew my mother?” Carmine asked in surprise. His parents were not fervent followers of the Faith and seldom traveled to the Temple. The only time he could remember his parents mentioning the Highfather were when complaining about tithes.

  “Both your parents, on numerous occasions. I regret I have not traveled west as much as I once did; age has its limits, I’m afraid. But House Carmine has long been a strong leader in the west and loyal to the Faith. If not for the support of our noble lords, the Faith would be unable to do the good work we do in Terene. And I would hate to see what became of a world without the Faith’s guiding hand.”

  “Hemo forbid,” a Father muttered from behind.

  “We try to do our part, of course,” Carmine said, moving through the garden. Flowers stretched their petals wide, trying to lap up what sunlight peeked through the stone-gray sky.

  “These are troubling times, Lord Carmine,” the other Father said, jumping into the conversation. “The bloodline has been dwindling for generations, we have inherited the weakest crop, and the people of Terene are afraid. It is imperative that whatever blessings great Hemo grants us be shared by the Faith.”

  Carmine eyed the Father. A younger man than most of the Fathers but he still carried the somber expression of all Fathers, as if he was weighed down by higher knowledge. Carmine never understood why someone would pursue a life of Fatherhood. But then again, not everyone is born a noble lord’s son.

  “Certainly, whatever blessings come from Hemo would be granted to the worthiest of us, Father. In which case, the Faith has no need to fear.”

  The young Father’s face flushed red. “It is not up to outsiders to interpret Hemo’s will.”

  “Outsiders? I believe House Carmine contributes greatly to the Faith and has so for generations. Surely such devotion has not been misplaced.”

  “We all give in what way we can,” said the other Father, tilting his large head into a slight bow. Unlike his companion, his face was solemn. Devoid of emotion. “Sharing Hemo’s blessings is one of our highest callings.”

  “Is it sharing if it only goes one way?” Carmine glanced back to Briton. A look of concern hung on his old teacher’s face. Briton would surely advise restraint when dealing with the Faith, but Carmine would not put up with being pushed around—not here in his own castle. If they wanted to tax me and keep my House down to pay for their Temple and fancy robes, I’ll have them acknowledge it openly.

  The younger Father didn’t hide his scowl. His voice raised an octave as he stammered. “Why…you…you can’t speak to us like that!”

  The Highfather stopped and raised a hand, cutting the Father off. “Lord Carmine and I shall talk alone for a moment. I trust this castle offers even more wonderful sights that would make the Fathers glad for the visit?”

  Carmine nodded to Briton, and the advisor snapped back, clapping his hands together. “Our library! It is quite lovely, I’m sure learned men such as yourselves will appreciate our many collections.”

  The Fathers grumbled as Briton escorted them out the garden’s archway and back into the castle. A handful of guards accompanied them, but two stayed behind along with two of Carmine’s own. Nathaniel watched the two Temple guards uneasily, sizing up weapons and armor.

  “Shall we?” the Highfather asked, motioning forward once the company had gone.

  “As you wish, Father,” Carmine said, and the two of them walked deeper into the garden after signaling their guards to stay behind.

  “Father,” the Highfather repeated the word. “It is an old title, dates back to the foundation of the Faith over twelve hundred years ago. The first leaders of the Faith were not Fathers as we know them, nor were they Curors who had a studied knowledge of the blood. Back then the responsibility for the communities fell on a few leaders to do what was right for their people—their children.”

  The Highfather stopped at the koboto tree. Carmine almost shouted when Haemon reached up and touched the rare fruit that after so many years, had almost ripened. The Highfather caressed the fruit with his bony fingers.

  “A father will do anything to see that his children do not suffer. Even if it calls for a sacrifice.”

  With a harsh pull, he ripped the fruit from the tree, taking a portion of the branch with it. He studied the fruit in his hands.

  Carmine gritted his teeth. “As long as the sacrifices are made by others.”

  The Highfather looked at him, a small smile crossing his face.

  “We all have our place, Carmine. Let us not reach beyond our grasp. For we may come up empty.”

  With that, the Highfather casually tossed the koboto fruit over the edge of the castle wall.

  “On what grounds do you come here and threaten me?” Carmine snapped. “House Carmine pays its tithe each season, though it cripples our growth. We support the Faith as the law calls for.”

  The HighFather’s face turned dark and withered, causing Carmine to take a step back. “Nothing goes on in Terene that I don’t hear about,” the Highfather said. “You think you’re safe here behind your little stone walls? This world belongs to
Hemo and everything in it.”

  Carmine held his breath but did not turn away from the darkness that passed over the HighFather’s face. The viper had revealed its fangs, and they were sharper than Carmine could have imagined.

  “We’ll see,” Carmine said, holding the Highfather’s gaze. This was Carmine Castle after all; he wasn’t going to let anyone come in and threaten him, no matter how powerful they thought they were.

  “Yes,” the Highfather said, his wrinkled face reshaping into a grin that was no less threatening. “You will.”

  The Highfather swept back through the garden, his white robes flowing in the wind. He disappeared through the arched doorway, and his Temple guards followed behind.

  Carmine breathed in relief, steadying himself on the ivy wrapped wall. Briton would not approve of how he handled this meeting. Still, it felt good to stand up to the Highfather. He just hoped he had the power to back up his words. He turned and looked out over the large company of horses and soldiers that filled his courtyard. As large as it was, it was nothing compared to the full force of the Faith. Will the western nobles stand with me? Will it be enough?

  Carmine leaned over the stone wall. The koboto fruit lay far below. A faint red smudge, already covered with dirt.

  Bale didn’t understand why Haemon insisted on playing games. The Highfather knew of the Descendant boy Carmine had in his possession, and with the army of Temple guards at his command, Haemon could sack this castle and take the boy at any time. Bale could do it himself with a few of his own men, and the Highfather wouldn’t even have to leave the Temple. But politics interfered, as they always did when those that ruled preferred the illusion of order.

  Bale looked around the stinking room of the Descendant’s quarters. Unlike the Temple where the Descendants were kept locked away in dungeons, Carmine’s Descendants moved about the grounds, performing the menial tasks of servants. He treated them as if they were people. This was another reason the soft lord would fall.