Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  The horse pressed his head into Geyer’s chest. “There, there,” he whispered. “It’s alright.” He reached a hand and rummaged through the contents of his saddlebag. At one time, Geyer had been a noble knight, a champion swordsman, a well-paid captain of the guards. Now, all he had left in the world was an empty waterskin, cheap armor, and a long sword that had no name.

  15

  “We demand answers,” Father Edmund Turney said as the council meeting began. Aeilus Haemon looked down the table at the young Father, who apparently spoke for everyone.

  “Answers?” Haemon asked, surprised. “You think I have answers into the inner workings of every noble castle in the land? I’m flattered by the scope of my perceived powers, Edmund, but perhaps you’ll find someday that even the position of Highfather has its limits.”

  Edmund scoffed. “Father Haemon, rumors swirl from all over about a boy with blood the likes of which hasn’t been seen in centuries. There are even accusations that the Faith had a hand in the death of Lord Carmine. You claim to have no knowledge of this?”

  Haemon gave a long drawn out yawn.

  “There are always rumors meant to discredit the Faith and blame all the woes and tragedies of this world on us. So we must take a skeptical view of such stories and not get caught up in blasphemous conspiracies, no matter how sweet the taste.” He smiled at Edmund, and before the young Father could respond, he steered the conversation in another direction. “What has been reported is that a certain long time advisor to House Carmine disappeared on the very same night Carmine was killed.”

  “I have heard that as well,” Father Kent added. “Briton Moonglass, a well-respected man among the nobles.”

  “Well respected, yes,” Haemon said. “But no one is impervious to greed, especially one who has sat so long at the side of power.”

  Haemon turned to Edmund; the young Father met his glare.

  “Are you saying Briton Moonglass had something to do with Carmine’s death?” Father Loren asked.

  “Hmm,” Haemon rubbed his pointed chin. “That’s an interesting point. The same night Carmine is killed, his advisor flees with a valuable Descendant. Perhaps the assassins were hired to cover his escape and to take Carmine out of the picture. Perhaps this Moonglass plans to sell the boy and finally gain lands and titles of his own.”

  “That makes sense,” Father Claudia said. She steepled her fingers against her chin, thinking through the implications.

  The idea spread like fire through the council room. Fathers chimed in to fill the gaps in his story. All except for Edmund who seethed in silence. His plan to turn the council on Haemon was now gone. But he’d try again. These meetings were so boring, Haemon almost looked forward to the challenge.

  “What shall we do?” Father Kent asked over the murmuring voices. All eyes turned to the Highfather.

  “Order must be restored,” Haemon said. “And true answers found. We must find this fugitive and the boy in his possession. With House Carmine in disarray and no heir, I shall personally take control of the castle in the name of the Faith. For do not forget my brothers, the Descendant rebellion will seek to take advantage of a misfortune such as this. As the guardians of Terene, we must be strong and unwavering.”

  And so it was settled. Hemo’s will had washed over the council as surely as it would wash over the rest of Terene. The whole world will soon be looking for Briton and the boy; there will be no sanctuary for them anywhere. Now, if Bale upholds his end, the boy will be in his possession soon enough.

  In the meantime, Haemon would return to Castle Carmine and see just how powerful this blood really was.

  Briton gave the last of the provisions to the boy. If he didn’t recover enough to travel, they would starve anyway. It was now late afternoon, and Ara had not moved from his place beneath the tree. Though Briton understood it had to be done, watching Geyer cut the skin from the boy’s face had been excruciating. It was something he could never have done.

  Sir Geyer had not spoken since the ordeal. He kept his distance, busying himself with tasks on the far end of the camp. He would occasionally shoot a concerned glance their way, but he did not approach the boy. At least he hadn’t left yet. Briton didn’t know how he and the boy were going to get by on their own. Back at the castle, he was a valuable advisor and scholar. But what use was he out here in the real world?

  Briton finished feeding the boy and stayed by his side, swatting away the mosquitoes that circled the bloody cloth on the boy’s face. “Ara,” he whispered. “Ara, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” Ara moaned out of the left side of his mouth. Briton flipped over part of the bloody cloth to uncover the boy’s left eye.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I had half of my face cut off.”

  Briton nodded. “Can you see that tree above us? The one you slept under last night?”

  The boy blinked. “Yes.”

  “What type of tree is it?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Do you know the answer?”

  “It’s a pine.”

  “And that one beside it, with the larger leaves.”

  “Is this really the time for lessons?”

  “Are you busy?” Briton raised an eyebrow. “Besides, an active mind is distracted from—”

  “Oak,” Ara grumbled.

  “Yes,” Briton nodded. “And that one over there.”

  “Still oak.”

  “Very good.” Briton brushed off the mosquito that landed on Ara’s forehead. “And how is it you know the names of these trees?”

  Ara fell silent for a moment. “I don’t know, I must have learned them before.”

  “How many desert plants can you name?”

  “I have the image of a blood rose forever scarred in my brain.”

  “Any other?”

  Ara closed his eye, thinking. “No,” he said finally.

  Briton nodded.

  “What does that mean?” Ara asked, trying to sit up.

  “Wait.” Briton tore a strip of fabric off the bottom of his robe and tied it around the boy’s head, securing the bloody cloth like an eyepatch. The boy flinched as Briton pulled it tight, but he did not cry out. Briton helped the boy sit up against the pine tree. It was good to see him alert, even if only half of his face was visible.

  “You are familiar with trees of the forest but not the deserts of the south,” Briton said.

  “I have seen visions,” Ara whispered. “Of myself flying above the trees. I didn’t know if they were images from dreams or memory.”

  “They are one and the same. You cannot dream beyond what your mind knows.”

  “But what does it tell us?” Ara’s eye bored into Briton, longing for answers. “That I am from the north.”

  “It is but a piece to the puzzle,” Briton said, not wanting to disappoint the boy. “But we must start somewhere. What else have you seen in these visions?”

  The boy closed his eye and concentrated. On the other side of the camp, Geyer sharpened the points of sticks with a knife. But Briton could see he was listening.

  “I see the sky,” Ara began. “But it is not this gray above us. It is bright and warm like a fire spread out across a mountainous horizon.”

  “A sunset,” Briton nodded. He had seen traces outside the western lands where the clouds were not so thick. But he’d never seen one as clear as the boy described. Therefore, the boy couldn’t be talking about the great northern mountains that ended Terene like a wall; for the sky there was blanketed in gray.

  Briton frowned. The pieces to this puzzle didn’t fit.

  “I did bring some books in the pack if you would like to continue your reading while we still have daylight,” Briton said. He climbed to his feet and approached the white horse, happy to be of use, even if it was but a distraction.

  “While you two are playing school, I’ll see if I can find more food so we don’t starve to death,” Geyer said as he passed Briton carrying three roughly ma
de spears under his arm. “Perhaps if you find the time between philosophy and tree naming, you could rebuild the fire.”

  “Of course,” Briton said. “If there’s anything I can do—”

  “I’ll go with you,” Ara said.

  “What?” Briton and Geyer said in unison.

  “I’ll help you look for food.” Ara lifted himself up against the oak tree. “Three eyes are better than two.”

  “I think you better rest,” Geyer said.

  “I can be in pain here or in pain out there. At least out there I’ll be useful.”

  “I don’t know how useful a one-eyed boy with no hunting experience will be.”

  “Well, I have to learn sometime if we are to have food once you leave.”

  Geyer looked to Briton. But Briton was just as surprised. How did the boy know?

  “You are leaving, aren’t you?” Ara asked. He pushed off the tree and took a few tentative steps forward.

  Geyer looked down at the three spears under his arm, deciding.

  “Come then,” he said, finally. “But I won’t wait if you fall behind. I’m too hungry for patience.”

  “You’re sure you’re up for this?” Briton asked Ara. He secured the bandage in place over the right side of the boy’s face. From the little he saw of the underside, the wound had already healed a great deal.

  Ara gave him a half smile. “Never rob yourself of the chance to learn.”

  “Very wise,” Briton said, returning the smile. “And much like a student to throw his teacher’s words back at him.” Briton’s smile faded as he thought of a young Jonathan Carmine. As different as their upbringings were, the boy was every bit as sure-headed and stubborn as a young noble lord. “Stay alert.”

  Ara scampered off through the forest after Geyer, his wobbly legs trying to keep up with the larger man’s. Geyer chuckled. A fawn indeed.

  “Keep up, I’m not slowing down for you,” Geyer said. Ara quickened his pace to match the man’s long strides. Even with a limp, Geyer covered the forest ground well. “And walk light, on the balls of your feet, or you’ll scare away every animal in the forest.”

  Ara did as he was told; he checked his footing with each step, avoiding twigs and dry leaves. His face still ached, but it felt good to move again.

  “It will be dark soon,” Ara said and felt foolish for pointing out the obvious.

  “Then we better find something. I’d hate to have to eat one of the horses.”

  Ara didn’t know if that was a joke. The man, Geyer, had an odd sense of humor. Ara wondered how true the stories were that Briton had told him. That Geyer had once been a great knight and Lord Carmine’s personal guard. That for a time, he was famous for his skill with a sword and knights used to visit Castle Carmine simply to duel with the great Sir Geyer. Watching the back of the man in green, Ara had his doubts.

  Still, Ara followed the old knight into the forest. For there were some things Briton couldn’t teach him.

  “You should teach me to use a sword,” Ara said, speaking his thoughts out loud.

  “Keep your voice down,” Geyer whispered. He searched the ground for animal tracks. The forest seemed utterly vacant of life. Aside from the awful grubs they’d dug up, the only living thing Ara had seen was a squirrel scurry up a tree trunk as they approached.

  “I need to learn to fight,” Ara said, his voice low.

  “You’re going to fight your way through an army of guards, are you? You can’t even lift a sword.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Uh-huh. Better keep to your books, kid. Your only hope is if Briton can pass you off as a girl.” Geyer glanced back, his eyes falling on the boy’s covered face. Geyer looked away. “It’s good that you want to learn something that’s actually valuable in the real world, but I’m no teacher.”

  “Yeah? What are you?” Ara snapped.

  “I’m tired, hungry, and in desperate need of a drink. Now if you don’t…” Geyer stopped mid-sentence and crouched to the ground.

  “What is it?” Ara whispered, tiptoeing to him.

  “Shhh,” Geyer motioned him down. Staying low, Ara crept forward until he could see over the bushes. In the clearing ahead were two birds with dark feathers and white heads. They pecked at the ground, turning over dirt and leaves. Geyer handed a stick to Ara. Ara touched the point, surprised at the sharpness of the crudely fashioned spear.

  “Stay here,” Geyer whispered. “I’ll circle to the other side, and we’ll attack from two ends. Don’t throw until I signal you.”

  “How do I do it?” Ara whispered, holding up the stick.

  “Throw the pointy end at the bird.”

  Geyer crawled back from the clearing edge and then circled around, his movements almost silent. His body had adapted to the injured leg; something Ara would never have to do. His body would carry no scars, no permanent wounds. Only a memory of pain—and for him, even that was uncertain.

  Off to his far right, Geyer inched towards the clearing. Ara weighed the weapon in his hand, moving his grip just up from the stick’s middle. His grip tightened on the spear; it felt good in his hand. Had he held a spear before? The black birds sauntered around on the forest floor, occasionally diving their pointed beaks into the ground. Ara’s belly ached.

  To his right, Geyer waited for the right moment.

  The bird closest to Ara spotted something it liked and hopped forward, burying its head in the ground. The other bird came near looking to share in the discovery. Geyer nodded his head once. The signal. Geyer stood up and raised his first spear behind his head. Ara fixed his gaze on the closer bird, drew his spear back and heaved it with all his strength. It flew high and right. Before it hit, however, Geyer’s spear struck straight through the second bird. In a blink, the closer bird shot away, directly into the path of Ara’s spear. But Ara’s shot was not straight. The side of the stick merely knocked the bird to the ground, dazed, and flapping its crooked wing.

  “Yes!” Ara cheered.

  The bird righted itself and turned towards Ara. Then it charged towards him, squawking, its beak looking suddenly sharper than before. Ara reeled back, his legs tangled in the bush and stumbled to the ground.

  Before the charging bird got to the edge of the clearing, Geyer was upon it. He stabbed his second spear through the bird’s back, pinning it to the ground.

  Ara caught his breath as Geyer raised two spears with two dead birds.

  “Well, that went much better than I thought,” Geyer said.

  Ara laughed in relief, the smile stinging his raw flesh.

  Geyer nodded to Ara. “That wasn’t a completely horrible shot.”

  “It was lucky,” Ara admitted.

  “Even better. We could use the fates on our side.”

  Geyer looked Ara over, and Ara imagined what a pitiful sight he must be: thin and pale, standing in torn pajamas and oversized boots, half his face covered by a bloody rag.

  But he had hit the bird. Luck or not, he helped catch their dinner. Tonight they would feast on two tiny feeble creatures, thanks in part to him.

  “Come on, Ara,” Geyer said. “Let’s get back and build a fire before it gets dark. And try to find some decent firewood this time.”

  Geyer handed Ara the spear with the second bird then walked back toward camp. Ara stood, feeling the weight of the dead animal on the end of his spear. His belly growled.

  “Turns out you’re not useless on a hunt after all,” Geyer called back. “We can always use you as bait.”

  Three blood hounds tore up the road beside of the horses. Twice the size of normal dogs, these beasts had been bred for generations with one purpose—to hunt Descendants. Bale had given them a whiff of the bottle of blood recovered from Carmine’s storehouse. Now they raced madly down the road with the scent of the boy’s blood on their tongues.

  Bale had used blood hounds to hunt Descendants before. If the Descendant had open blood in the air, the hounds could smell it from a mile away. Plus, Bale liked having the g
reat beasts with him on a hunt. The very sight of them sent Descendants running for their lives.

  The twelve Temple guards riding with Bale had been handpicked. Even though this mission was approved by the council, Bale’s tactics were not. He needed men he could trust. Men who understood that the greater good demanded a necessary brutality.

  The company of guards rode two days, stopping for only short rests. Copher tracked the trail of two horses along the main road from Castle Carmine. The fugitives had stuck to the road for a long time, making their tracks easier to follow, but their distance covered far greater. It had been nearly a week since the attack on Castle Carmine, but unless they flew away on the backs of eagles, Copher could track them.

  Copher pulled his horse to a stop, and Bale raised a hand for the men to stop. The blood hounds growled, searching the road’s edge with their snouts to the ground, slobber hanging from their fangs. Copher dropped from his horse and walked back a few paces, his eyes to the ground. Bale did not speak or question the tracker. It was only a matter of time before they found the old man and the boy. But the Highfather was an impatient man. And Bale’s blood supply wouldn’t last forever.

  “They left the road here,” Copher said, pointing to a space where the trees parted. The tracker’s long braid of hair swept against his back. “They’re in the forest.”

  They had turned off the road before Denfold, avoiding the eyes of the nearby city. Maybe the old man was more than a castle raised twit, after all. Or maybe they didn’t travel alone. Though there were only two horse tracks, there were reports that a Carmine guard helped them escape. A deserter.

  “Then they couldn’t have gotten much farther,” Bale said. He followed Copher into the wood as a wind whipped through the trees.