Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  After four days of traveling east, the wagons stopped at the town of Dal Doran in the realm of House Chamberlain. According to Briton, House Chamberlain controlled the largest land area of all the western houses. Geyer and Briton had both been wary of venturing into a populated area, but they couldn’t prevent the doctors from doing their jobs.

  Ara was just happy to be off the road. Days in the wagon with nothing to look at but endless trees had felt almost as much a prison as Carmine Castle. A day in town also meant a break from his lessons. For days Ara had been attacked on both ends, morning workouts in the woods with Geyer that often left him bruised and bloody, followed by constant study and questions from Briton about everything from the currency system of Terene to the religious history of the desert people of Santar. Ara didn’t see the purpose of learning either since he would likely never have a shrine to his name and hoped to never set foot in the Endless Desert.

  As far as the fighting lessons with Geyer, after a few painful sessions, he had regretted ever asking for the old knight’s help.

  They tied the horses to trees beside an open patch of land on the outside of town. Brim started unpacking the tents. Ara jumped down and stretched his legs. They were still sore from the morning’s sparring session.

  “Aaron,” Petar called. “Find the market and see about trading for supplies. Cambria has made a list of what we need.”

  “Along with some extra sweets, I’m sure,” Aaron said.

  “Perhaps I can go with you,” Briton said. “There are a few things I need as well.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Aaron said. “I’d be happy to have some company for a change.”

  Briton turned to Ara. “Are you okay here, Ara?”

  “Can I go with you too?” Ara asked. He desperately wanted to explore in town. To see something other than more trees.

  Briton shook his head, his blue eyes looking into Ara. “I think it’s better if you stay here.”

  “We’ll look after him, Stone,” Petar said, carrying a box from the back of the wagon. “We have plenty of work for him to do.” Petar gave Ara a wink the boy did not return.

  “Very well then,” Briton said. “Stay close to Petar and the others.”

  Briton followed Aaron into town, carrying some bags of supplies for trade, his dusty gray robe disappearing in the street crowd. Ara turned around to see Geyer hopping down from the wagon and following after them, taking his time on his bad leg.

  “Where are you going?” Ara asked.

  “To see what kind of tavern this town has,” Geyer said without looking back.

  Ara’s first thought was of disappointment that he had been left behind. But his second thought was more worrisome. Though Geyer had changed over the weeks of travel, Ara still feared he would disappear on them. And then where would Ara be? He didn’t like feeling so dependent. Especially on the whims of a drunk.

  “Ara,” Petar called. “You can help Brim set up the tents and then assist Cambria.”

  Ara sighed. He didn’t mind helping Brim. The large man hadn’t uttered a single word the entire trip. He just worked, indifferent to Ara’s existence. The girl Cambria, on the other hand, openly despised him. She might as well be mute too from the amount that she had spoken to Ara. She communicated mostly with scowls.

  As if on cue, Cambria stormed over to have some words with Petar. She moved briskly, her red hair was a stark contrast to the green of the trees behind her. She must have heard him and not liked the idea of Ara helping either.

  Ara held a tent pole as Brim pounded it into the ground. He hoped the big man’s aim was good. The doctors had looked past his speedy recovery but some smashed fingers that healed in minutes might be a different story.

  Across the way, Cambria turned from Petar and shot Ara an angry look. Well, maybe it was her natural look since Ara couldn’t remember ever seeing a smile on her freckled face.

  “Find me in the wagon when you’re done here,” she said as she stalked off towards the second wagon. Brim shrugged to Ara. Then he heaved the hammer and struck the pole so hard it rattled Ara’s bones.

  He hoped Briton and Geyer would return soon.

  Geyer couldn’t remember the last time he had gone this long without a drink. Though he hadn’t thought of it in some time; running for your life from Temple guards and blood hounds tended to command your attention. But what was the point of surviving if you couldn’t have a mug of ale?

  Geyer had passed through Dal Doran a few times in his younger days. He knew to avoid the taverns on the main street that sold overpriced ale to naive travelers. He was happy to see the Green Lady still in business. The name came from the faded green building and its proprietor, Magdalene. The few shrines in Geyer’s pocket would go much further there.

  Pushing his way through the crowded street and into the wooden door of The Green Lady, Geyer was hit with the familiar darkness of a true tavern. It smelled of wood, stale ale belches, and sweat. Geyer was home. A few heads turned to Geyer as he came through the door. Geyer didn’t stop but closed the door and headed straight for the bar as if a usual patron. The heads soon turned back to their conversations.

  Behind the bar was a small man with a thick black mustache that did not hide his boiled egg of a nose. This was certainly not the Magdalene he remembered. The man squinted appraisingly. Geyer took a stool at the bar.

  “Good afternoon,” Geyer said, setting one of Briton’s shrines on the counter. “I’d like as big a mug as this will get me.”

  The barman looked at the coin and then again at Geyer. He didn’t move to take the coin or get a mug.

  “Where you from, stranger?” he asked.

  “Here and there,” Geyer said.

  “What business do you have in Dal Doran?”

  “My own,” Geyer said, annoyance clear in his voice. “Does The Green Lady’s business now include prying into customers’ affairs?”

  The men at the bar beside Geyer turned their heads towards him. Geyer didn’t take his eyes off the barman. Finally, the man relented, taking the shrine. “I apologize, but we have been drawing unusual guests as of late.”

  “My only business is to get drunk,” Geyer said with a smile meant to relax the barman and those around him.

  “Then you’ve come to the right place.” The barman filled a hefty mug from a barrel and setting it before Geyer. “That’s the Green Lady’s specialty.”

  Geyer looked the mug over, the foam falling over the top like an inviting bath. He took a hesitant sip. Then a larger one. The familiar burn of the ale going down his throat washed away the stress of the road.

  “Ahhh,” Geyer gasped in approval. “That’s good. What kind of unusual guests?”

  The barman frowned. “Out of towers. Bounty hunters. And an unusual number of Temple guards.”

  “Temple guards all the way out here. Hmm.” Geyer brought his mug up to his lips, partially covering his face.

  “Seems some outlaws are on the run in these parts,” said an old man beside Geyer. His voice was raspy and he had about three teeth left in his mouth.

  “Must have done something pretty bad to warrant all that attention,” Geyer said.

  “I ain’t nothing close to a bounty hunter, but I’d be tempted to take up a sword for the price they’re offering for those three.”

  “Three?”

  “Two men and a boy.” The words whistled out of the empty cavern of the old man’s mouth.

  “An outlaw boy? Doesn’t sound worth all the fuss.”

  “I heard he’s a sorcerer,” said the bald man beside him, who couldn’t be much younger than his toothless neighbor.

  Sorcerer. Geyer could just imagine the same daft conversations happening in bars all over Terene. The boy’s legend growing and growing. Perhaps they’d even embellished Geyer’s role. The traitorous guard who chopped his way out of Castle Carmine with a sword that has slain men by the hundreds. It was one way to get stories told about you.

  “Enough with that talk, Anson,” the
barman said, shaking his head at the older gentleman. “Ain’t no such thing as magic sorcerers.”

  “You tell that to my brother, Charlie,” the bald man said. “Some devil on the road put a hex on him. He don’t remember much of nothing since. Not even his name.”

  “Charlie drinks even more than you do,” the barman said. “That isn’t to say I’m not grateful, now. You Barrett brothers keep the Green Lady in business.”

  “Haha!” croaked the old man with missing teeth. He slapped the bald man on the head. “It’s true, it’s true.”

  Geyer finished his mug and considered another. He still had one shrine he’d stolen from Briton’s pack. If the doctors were going to spend the day helping the infirmed of Dal Doran, Geyer couldn’t think of a better place to pass the time. But the idea of leaving Ara nagged at him. The boy was trouble, and he had somehow become Geyer’s trouble. And now Geyer couldn’t enjoy his drink in peace knowing every cutthroat in Terene was looking for him.

  It’s not your problem, Geyer reminded himself. The world’s a lousy place for most everyone, why should the boy be any different?

  He’d seen suffering and injustice in every town he’d ever been in. When he was young and foolish, trying to play the part of a knight, he might have tried to do something about it. But he’d learned long ago that you can’t help everyone.

  “Another drink?” the barman asked.

  Geyer’s played with the remaining shrine, pushing it back and forth between his hands. Watching it roll along the scratched wooden bar, like a slowly turning wheel.

  The first patients had come before the tents were even set up. There was a steady stream of people coming to see the doctors. Ara waited outside with Cambria. Her job was to greet the new patients, evaluate their condition, then send them to the proper tent. Most people were sent to Hannah’s tent.

  The worst cases were sent to Petar’s tent. Brim had to help carry a few of these patients as some couldn’t even walk. There was desperation in the faces of these people. Ara got the feeling they were seeing the doctors only as a last resort. Even the ones with simple injuries had such hopeless broken faces they could have been Descendants.

  Ara returned from fetching Hannah more bandages to find Cambria with a man dancing on one leg. His foot was red and swollen. Cambria was not impressed. “It’s only a spider bite. Keep it clean, and it’ll be gone in another day or two.”

  “But it’s already been two days!” the man said, pointing the foot closer.

  “And it’d be gone by now if you’d bathe once in a while,” she fanned her hand in front of her nose and leaned back.

  “There’s nothing else I can do for it? I want to see one of the real doctors.”

  “Real doctors?” Cambria’s voice rose. She looked about to explode when she saw Ara and caught herself. She took a breath and smiled at the man. “Honey will help it heal faster. One drop of honey on the bite just before rinsing in a bath will do the trick.”

  “Thank you,” the man said. He turned and hopped away, boot still in hand.

  Ara turned to Cambria. “Won’t the bath wash the honey away?”

  “Of course it will,” Cambria looked at Ara like he was an idiot. But he didn’t take great offense because she seemed to look at everyone that way.

  With no one else waiting, Cambria walked over and leaned against the wagon.

  “How many patients do you usually treat in a day?” Ara asked. He moved close enough to the wagon to talk but not quite join her.

  Green eyes studied Ara from behind a freckled face as if deciding if he was worth acknowledging. “It depends on the town,” she said finally. “This one has been busier than most. The Temple guards came through and created some business for us.”

  “Temple guards?” Ara tried to contain his fear as he looked toward the town and the busy streets—he hadn’t seen any white uniforms. His mind went to Briton and Geyer in town. Were they in danger?

  “They tore up the town two days ago, according to some of the injured patients. Searching for Descendant outlaws.”

  The reality of the outside world came rushing back. These villagers had been hurt because of him.

  “Do the guards ever come after you?” Ara asked. “Br…Stone says the Faith doesn’t like doctors.”

  “We’ve been run out of towns and even detained under false charges, but those cases are rare. The Faith may not like us, but there’s nothing illegal about helping people. We’re not much of a threat to them anyway.”

  “Why do you do it? Help other people, I mean. Most people struggle enough just looking out for themselves.”

  Cambria looked off into the distance as if she didn’t hear him. Then she spoke with a gentleness that caught him by surprise. “My parents believed that helping others was the reason we are alive in the first place. And if more people shared that belief, the world would not be such a bad place. I don’t know, sometimes I wonder if they cared a little bit more about themselves they might still be here.”

  “What happened to them?”

  Cambria’s eyes darted to Ara as if she forgot who she was talking to. “They’re gone,” she said simply. She jumped off the wagon and walked into Hannah’s tent.

  Ara thought of his own parents who he did not remember. What had happened to them? Were they gone too? Or had they simply abandoned him? After all this time he still could not remember.

  A figure approached the doctor’s camp. He walked at a slow pace, carrying something in his arms. It was a small boy. Something was wrong with the child.

  “Cambria,” Ara called. “Cambria!”

  “What?” she yelled coming out of the tent. She stopped at the sight of the man and the boy. “Get Petar.”

  Ara raced into Petar’s tent.

  “…stopped the bleeding, so stay off of it as much as possible for the next few—” Petar looked up from his patient. “What is it, Ara?”

  “There’s a boy. He looks bad.”

  Petar nodded and patted the man he was patching up. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” the man said and dropped two shrines into an offering bucket. But Petar was already out the tent door.

  “Bring him in here,” Petar called.

  The man carried the boy into the tent and set him on the makeshift table. The previous patient gasped at the sight of the unconscious boy and hurried away. The boy was maybe five years old and nothing but skin and bones. Black sores covered his arms and neck, sinking in below the skin-line. Petar cut the boys shirt, revealing more on his chest. Ara winced. Petar’s face betrayed nothing.

  “How long has he been like this?” Petar asked.

  “It came with the new year,” the man said. “But it wasn’t like this at first. Only a red rash.”

  Cambria slipped into the tent, her eyes widened at the sight of the boy.

  “Petar…” she started.

  “Get the bezal cream,” Petar said to her. “As much as we have. And tell Hannah to prepare an elmroot tea.”

  “Petar it’s—”

  “Go Cambria.”

  Cambria backed out of the tent.

  “Is he going to be okay?” the man asked, but there was no hope in his voice as if he had already accepted the inevitable.

  “The sickness has eaten away at his body for a long time,” Petar said, frowning as he pulled his gloves up higher. He reached down and touched two fingers to the boy’s neck. “He’s already well on his way.”

  “I tried to get good blood for him,” the man’s voice was flat, exhausted. The skin around his eyes was rubbed raw as if he had no more tears left to cry. “I saw the Curor nearly every day and begged him. But I couldn’t afford the price. I couldn’t afford…”

  He trailed off, and Petar grabbed him by the shoulders and helped him to the corner of the tent. “Stay here. I promise you we will do everything we can.”

  Petar handed Ara gloves.

  Ara looked at the doctor, confused. But he put the gloves on.

>   “I need you to talk to him,” Petar said.

  “What do I say?”

  “Anything. Let him hear your voice.” Petar called for Brim, and the big man was in the tent in an instant, filling up the small space. “Hold him.”

  Brim knelt over the boy and put a giant gloved hand on his waist and shoulder. The boy’s eyes were shut, his chest wasn’t moving. Was he already dead?

  Petar pressed a flat, spoon-shaped metal tool against a black spot on the boy’s arm. It sunk in as if the dark skin were mud. A slight groan escaped the boy’s lips.

  “Talk to him, Ara.”

  What could he say? He didn’t know this boy or what could help him. The boy’s father stood in the corner, broken. Watching his son die.

  Ara leaned down, his head close to the boy’s.

  “My name is Ara,” he whispered into the boy’s ear. “I know it hurts right now. But the pain will be over soon. Petar is a good doctor. If anyone can help you…it’s him” Ara’s voice choked up. Petar inspected the hole in the boy’s arm; it dripped black ooze. Cambria rushed in with a bottle of white cream and a cup. Petar took the cream and using a tool, wiped it on the wound. The boy groaned but never opened his eyes. Cambria held the boy’s mouth open, tilting the contents of the cup inside. Her green eyes were wide with fear.

  “You’re in a small tent,” Ara whispered softly. He didn’t have anything to say so he just rambled without thinking. “It’s filled with people who care about you. Who are trying to save you…your father…your father is here. I don’t know my father or where he is. But you…yours is here with you. It’s going to be alright. Drink, drink some more tea. Let your body heal. Let the blood pour through your body. Rest now, let your body work. Rest.”

  The boy’s eyes fluttered behind closed eyelids and then lay still. Ara turned to Petar.

  “He’s gone,” Petar said.

  In the corner of the tent, the boy’s father threw his head in his hands. “Hemo, why? Why?” His voice trailed off, into sobs that came from somewhere deep within him.

  “What do you mean?” Ara asked confused. “He’s dead?”

  “We did everything we could.” Petar set down his instruments and turned to the boy’s father. “I’m sorry, the sickness was too severe.”