Before he had examined the barracks, Bale knew the boy was not there. He’d found no resistance to his trespasses. Even the foolish Carmines wouldn’t leave a possession as important as this boy unguarded.
Bale left the empty room and continued down the castle hallway. He pushed through a doorway and stepped back outside into the castle courtyard. The eyes of the locals fell on the tall knight in his black armor and then quickly shifted elsewhere. A stablehand coming Bale’s way gasped and then changed his path, hurrying to the other side of the road. Bale had grown accustomed to the fear in the public’s eyes as stories of Bale the Blood Knight spread throughout Terene. He didn’t discourage it. It made his job easier.
Bale looked up along the castle walls, studying the building and its defenses. Guards walked the ramparts and peered out of the parapets upon the army of Temple guards below. On the four corners of the castle rose towers. The boy was in one of those. It was the right choice. Bale crossed the courtyard to the western tower, the farthest from where Carmine had escorted the Fathers.
Bale couldn’t help wondering at the rumors of this Descendant boy. Though the information had come from a trustworthy source, it still seemed unbelievable; a Descendant with the blood like the Royals of old. As skeptical as Bale was of this, a part of him hoped it was true. It could finally prove an answer to the sickness poisoning his heart.
At the front door to the tower stood four Carmine guards. A large number for an innocuous tower. The guards shifted uneasily and exchanged troubled glances as Bale approached.
He had guessed right.
It wasn’t until Bale was right upon the men that one guard stepped forward, putting himself between Bale and the tower door.
“Can…can we help you?” the front guard asked.
“You can step out of my way,” Bale said.
“I’m sorry, sir. This part of the castle is off limits.”
“Nothing in Terene is off limits to the Highfather’s personal guard,” Bale snapped.
“We have our orders,” another guard added.
“And my orders are to see to the Highfather’s safety, along with the other Fathers of the Faith. Now, you are clearly unfamiliar with the Fathers’ visit and routines so I will excuse the confusion.” Bale moved forward, and the guard put a hand to Bale’s chest.
That was a mistake.
Bale seized the hand and twisted it away until it snapped. The guard fell back with a shriek, clutching his broken wrist. The other guards reached for their swords but did not draw, unsure how to proceed.
“The next one that touches me loses more than his hand,” Bale said.
They were in a standoff. Bale wasn’t supposed to capture the boy, only discover his location. His hand moved to his own broadsword. But, as long as he was here…
“Oh look, a member of the Temple guard,” a voice called from behind. Bale turned to see an old man with blue-gray robes approaching. The fool was smiling.
“You must be searching for the Fathers,” the man continued. “They’re still talking business, I’m afraid. Politics can be so tiresome if you ask me. Come along, I will take you to them.”
“I am where I need to be,” Bale said.
“Oh, talking shop are we?” the old man looked to Carmine’s guards. If he read the distress on their faces, he didn’t show it. “I always thought the Temple guards wore white armor. Yet, here you are draped in black. That must get hot.”
“Who are you?” Bale asked through gritted teeth, his hand still on his sword.
“My name is Briton Moonglass, chief advisor to Lord Carmine. I pray our men here are treating you with the utmost courtesy on your visit.” Briton shook his head at the guards. “I would hate to have to report otherwise to Lord Carmine and the Highfather.”
Before Bale could react there was a small trumpet sound from across the courtyard. Time to leave already? The talks with Carmine must not have gone well. Good. That meant the game of politics was over.
Bale stepped away from the door. He had all the information he needed. There was no need to start a fight before the Highfather ordered it. Bale lifted his hand off his sword and sneered at the old man. “Briton Moonglass. I won’t forget your…hospitality.”
“My duty and honor,” Briton said with a bow. “Now shall I escort you back to—?”
“I can find my way,” Bale said and fixed the old man with a final icy stare before staggering off. It took great self-restraint not to slice the old man in half for his interference and condescending tone. But Bale took comfort knowing the time would soon come when this upstart house would crumble. And when it did, Bale would see to Carmine’s advisor—personally.
11
The Moon Tavern was conveniently located a mile from Castle Carmine. It was an old building whose doors and windows never went a full year without needing replacement from a drunken brawl. Just off the main road, it presented stables and lodging for travelers with business at Castle Carmine. It was also a place of escape for those who worked at the castle. Whatever their varying purposes, patrons were united in one thing, a loyalty to generous servings of ale.
One such mugful slid across the bar into Geyer’s hand, foam splashing over the brim.
“Never seen you move so fast,” Clover, the barman, laughed. His jovial face was covered in brown freckles as if he’d leaned over a wagon wheel spinning in mud.
“I save my energy for when it’s really needed,” Geyer said. He downed half the mug, then belched and looked around the crowded room. The Moon Tavern was busy on most nights—he should know since it was a nightly stop for him after his guard shift ended—but tonight’s crowd was filled with unfamiliar faces. Geyer recognized the uniforms of a few men in the corner as belonging to House Rune. Another table wore the purple sigil of House Gorgen. There were still more in plain clothes that Geyer did not recognize. Something was going on at Castle Carmine. Something big enough to bring the Faith.
Geyer didn’t dwell on it long, as there was still more ale that needed drinking. He was tired from his long day at Carmine Castle; it was amazing how boredom could be so exhausting. These days his body was stiffer after a day of standing in place than it ever was from his days of riding or competing in tournaments.
Two men beside Geyer grew louder with each glass of ale. Their conversation was now right in Geyer’s ear.
“You didn’t!” the younger man exclaimed, his voice surprisingly high for his size.
“That’s right, I saw the Highfather himself,” said an older man with a beard so thick it nearly reached his eyes. “He walked right by me when I was feeding Carmine’s horses.”
“The Highfather of the Faith walked through the stables?”
“No, you halfwit! I saw him out the window. It was him alright—pointy hat and all.”
“I’m surprised the Temple guards didn’t cut your eyes out just for looking on the Highfather,” the younger man shook his head.
“Baaa. Ain’t no sense in that. Even for Temple guards.”
“Since when do white-tins make sense?”
“Ha!” the bearded man laughed hard, striking Geyer’s elbow in the process. Geyer gripped his mug from spilling. “Careful with the insults, boy. You know they got eyes and ears everywhere.”
Geyer again looked around the tavern. The drunk man was right; there were plenty of strangers still around tonight. It wasn’t farfetched to believe that the Faith had left a few men behind.
“Why did the Highfather come all the way out to Castle Carmine in the first place?” the young man asked in a lower voice.
“On account of the magic boy.”
“What do you mean magic boy?”
“I heard it from a gal in the kitchen. Carmine’s got some special Descendant boy whose blood can heal anything. Just yesterday a noble begged Carmine on behalf of his blind grandfather. A few drops of magic blood in his eyes, the old man could see again!”
“That’s impossible,” the young man’s voice cracked and he shook his
head.
“I’m telling you the truth. That’s why everyone’s coming to Castle Carmine when no one cared two licks about us a week ago, especially not the Highfather of the Faith.”
“Magic blood…” the younger whispered in amazement, his glazed eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Geyer was familiar with tavern rumors; drunk men were prone to exaggerate stories to top the story before it, so a tale—no matter how astonishing in truth—left the tavern doors ten feet taller. But something different was in the air tonight. It had been different around the castle for the past few weeks, even posted away from the action, Geyer had sensed it. But whatever was happening, Geyer would be the last to know.
Geyer’s eyes fixed on a table in the corner of the tavern where a man sat by the window, alone. The man had slick dark hair and a scar across the side of his face that could only be made by a blade. A worn black travel cloak covered what Geyer was sure were hidden weapons. He had been around enough bars in his time to recognize a cutthroat when he saw one. The man ignored the tavern festivities. No drink at his table, eyes fixed on the window—he was here on business.
“You there,” a hand tugged at Geyer’s shoulder. He turned to the bearded man beside him breathing in his face. “You’re a castle guard, aren’t you?” The man looked Geyer over skeptically. He had removed his armor but still wore the gray and red shirt. Geyer’s scraggly beard was in violation of guard standards, but Geyer didn’t care about such standards. It was ignored because the powers that be didn’t care about Geyer. Not anymore.
“If it gets me a drink, I’ll be Lord Carmine himself,” Geyer said.
“Are the rumors true?” the younger man asked, leaning forward. “About this Descendant boy?”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear in a tavern. You’ll end up trading your horse for a vial of magic blood.”
“See, I told you,” the young man said to his companion. “You’re playing with me.”
“You two deny it all you want,” the bearded man said. “But don’t be surprised if things start changing around here. Mark my words, House Carmine is on the rise.”
The man sipped his drink. Geyer did the same, happy the two had stopped barking in his ear.
Geyer caught movement from the corner of his eye. He turned in time to see Scarred Face slip out the back door. That’s when it came. The itchy feeling in his gut—the one all these years of drinking was supposed to have gotten rid of. It’s not your job, he told himself as he turned back to the bar and picked up his mug. You’re just a lowly guard now. And a crippled one at that.
It’s not your job.
After a few more swigs, the feeling in his gut was replaced by the one in his bladder. Geyer slammed the mug on the bar. “This better not be empty when I get back,” he grumbled to Clover.
“Going to the privy to make more room?” the barman asked.
“When it comes to ale, I always have room. Even for this piss you sell.”
“I could sell piss, and you’d still be back every night for more.”
“But I wouldn’t be nearly as pleasant to be around.”
Geyer pushed away from the bar, his good right leg taking most of his weight. He limped across the busy tavern to the back door.
The night was dark with the light of the moon choked behind heavy clouds. Torches along the ramparts of Castle Carmine glowed in the distance. Even from this far away vantage, it looked as magnificent as the night Geyer first saw it. A young knight riding into town, in search of glory. What a fool he’d been.
The privy was a shed not thirty paces behind the Moon Tavern. Geyer walked the other way, into the cover of trees. He liked pissing in the open air. It brought back memories of traveling the open road, camping beneath the stars. A life that was felt more and more like a stranger’s.
Geyer was about to relieve himself when he heard voices ahead in the trees. His fingers moved from his belt to the handle of his sword, and he stood still as the night.
The faint voices came from deeper in the darkness of trees. The itching in his gut returned. Ignoring his better judgment, Geyer crept towards the low voices.
Forest ground made silent movements difficult, as every dry leaf or twig sent alarm bells to the trained ear. But Geyer took his time and even with his bad leg, moved to within earshot of the voices. He leaned against the cover of a thick tree and peered into the darkness until his eyes adjusted enough to spot the two figures.
He’d have recognized the cutthroat from his crooked figure, even if the scar wasn’t plain on his face. The man stood hunched as if guarding great secrets under his cloak. His head darted around like a raven on a corpse. Geyer couldn’t make out his companion because his back was to him. The man was tall and like his companion, wore all black. But unlike Scarred Face, this man stood still as the trees.
Geyer closed his eyes and focused his ear. He could only make out fragments of their hushed conversation.
“…Three hundred shrines.”
“Better not fail…most displeased.”
“I can do my job…ready when I…the castle wall.”
“The wall…then on your own…I trust that you can…one boy.”
“It won’t be a problem.”
Then there was the jingle of a coin purse handed over. Geyer strained his ears but their words still escaped him, and he dared not move closer.
“…Other half…night when it is finished and you hand him over. If you fail, I’ll come for you and your men myself.”
“I don’t need your threats,” the voice Geyer took to be Scarred Face’s grew loud and clear.
“They are promises,” the other man said, his voice also rising. “If anyone hears about this, if you or your men brag about this job, even months after it’s done…”
“I wouldn’t still be in this profession if I blabbed about every job I performed.”
“Just remember what’s at stake here.”
Another jingle of the coin purse. “I remember.”
Then footsteps—coming towards Geyer. Geyer leaned back against the tree as if trying to press himself inside the trunk. Leaves cracked under approaching steps. The man would be upon him in seconds and even in this darkness, he couldn’t miss what was right in front of him. Geyer grabbed the handle of his sword and felt the wave of sickness that always came before a fight. Geyer cursed himself and his curiosity as his heart thumped in his chest. He knew even if he got the cutthroat by surprise, the tall man would be on him in a second.
Dying for coming out to take a piss. And with a full mug of ale waiting for you back in the bar!
The man’s black boots came around the tree, and Geyer inched his sword out of its scabbard.
“Wait,” the tall man called.
The black boots stopped. Geyer watched them unblinking, holding his breath. His sword partly drawn. The cutthroat just behind the tree. Close enough to smell.
“Don’t go back to the tavern. Too many eyes there and you cutthroats and your black cloaks are much too obvious.”
“You’d like me to wear prissy armor instead?” Scarred Face said.
“Tomorrow I would. And get your hair cut while you’re at it.”
The boots turned back, crossing in the other direction. Geyer still did not breathe.
“I know the plan, I don’t need any more of your advice. If you could still do this type of work yourself, you wouldn’t have had to call me.”
With that, Scarred Face walked the other way. Relief flooded through Geyer as the sounds of two sets of feet trailed off in different directions.
After the sounds had faded completely, Geyer pushed his sword into its scabbard and slid down the trunk of the tree to the forest floor. He swallowed the night air in full deep breaths until his heart settled. He rubbed his bad leg, but it was only out of habit. His body was still too numb from fear to feel any pain.
What had he been thinking? He was just an old castle guard now, past his prime. He had no business getting caught up in t
his kind of trouble. He had no business following his old instincts. Hadn’t he seen enough in his lifetime to know the world had no room for fools playing hero?
Fates, when would he learn?
Geyer remained on the ground for a while, looking up at the starless night. When he finally got up and stretched out his stiff leg, he walked right past the Moon Tavern and the drink Clover had waiting for him.
For the first time in a long time, Geyer wasn’t thirsty.
12
Geyer strained to keep up with the captain of the guards as he marched the Castle ramparts. Guards stood at attention as they passed.
“So let me get this straight,” Nathaniel said. “You were out drinking last night and while stumbling through the woods, you ran into some men you can’t identify who were plotting something but you don’t know what. Do I have that right?”
Geyer sighed. “I couldn’t understand exactly what they were saying, but they were plotting something against the castle, I’m sure of it.”
“And you couldn’t understand because you were drunk?”
“No, because they were whispering.”
“Oh, so you hadn’t been drinking?”
“No, I was drunk. But that doesn’t mean I can’t identify a plot when I hear one.”
Nathaniel stopped and waved nearby guards at ease. He then aimed his hard face at Geyer. Nathaniel had been at Castle Carmine a long time, he was one of the few who knew Geyer from before. Nathaniel was the reason Geyer still had a position here, small as it was.
“Listen, Geyer. You drink too much, your dress and manner cry out insubordination, and I highly doubt you currently meet the minimum physical requirements of a castle guard—even without your leg. Now, I made a promise that you’d always have a place at Castle Carmine, but that doesn’t mean I have to put up with your lack of discipline and crazy drunken visions. You are assigned to guarding the northern tower for the rest of the week.”
Good Blood Page 12
