Or so he thought.
Dais Mald watched as a thin boy filled a bag with his own blood. Then the travelers forced it down the dying girl’s throat. What happened next was not possible. The girl started breathing again. The travelers were as shocked as he was. The boy’s blood has saved her.
The boy was a Descendant. He didn’t have any markings on his face, and he traveled freely in a group of dry bloods. But there was no other answer. Dais Mald had seen many powerful Descendants in his life, but he had never seen one do what the boy had done. Not even Spade.
The group carried the unconscious boy and set him in a wagon. The man who had treated the girl came to the big man’s aid, removing arrows from his leg and shoulder. The swordsman checked the bodies of the attackers. They were dead except for Barum, but the swordsman didn’t pursue him. Dais Mald hoped wherever he was hiding, his old master was suffering.
It wasn’t until later that the old man of the group turned to Dais Mald and Coates as if finally noticing them. He approached with caution, his eyes falling on the straps and chains that held them. Dais Mald felt the pull of the chains as Coates stepped back, but Dais Mald held his ground. He had suffered as much pain as a man can inflict. He would fear no dry blood.
The old man gasped. His blue eyes scanned Dais Mald’s body. A body that had been starved and bled dry. “What have they done to you?”
“Careful, Briton,” the swordsman called.
Coates and Dais Mald exchanged glances. Unsure of what came next. Were these their new masters? They couldn’t be any worse than Jamison and the band of robbers.
The old man reached down and inspected the bands on their wrists. Dais Mald flinched at the gesture. “It’s alright,” the old man said. Then he reached up and unhooked the rope tied to Dais Mald’s collar.
“Is there a key?” the old man asked.
Coates lifted his bound hands towards Jamison’s body. The swordsman followed his gesture. He walked back and dug through Jamison’s pockets until he found a ring of keys. Then he limped their way, watching them intently. Dais Mald held his gaze.
“We don’t want any harm,” the swordsman said. “Understood?”
“Understood,” Coates said beside him. His voice sounded soft and out of practice. Dais Mald couldn’t remember the last time he heard it. Or his own. Their masters had had little need for their talking over the past two winters time. Two winters, Dais Mald gritted his teeth at the thought. All this time suffering at the hands of the robbers. Being cut open at night to feed their drunken appetites. Dais Mald grew up at the mercy of House Chamberlain’s Curor. At the time he had thought it couldn’t get any worse. He had been very wrong.
The swordsman gave Dais Mald a warning look and then unlocked the metal bands. Dais Mald fell to his knees rubbing his wrists. They were a different color from the rest of his arms, pale and thin where the bands had been.
“Thank you,” Coates said. Dais Mald shot him a dirty look. It is a fool who thanks his captors for a bigger cell. Spade’s words came to him now. He would never thank a dry blood.
“What do you want with us?” Dais Mald asked the two men. The words felt strange coming from him; the voice was not the one he remembered. He came to his full height, battered and half naked.
The old man looked at him confused. “We don’t want anything. You’re free to go.”
Dais Mald and Coates exchanged glances. What kind of trick was this? Even if they did not take them for themselves or to sell, it was the law to return Descendants to their rightful owner. The brand on their face said they belonged to House Chamberlain.
“Don’t tell the Temple guards you saw us,” the old man said.
Dais Mald almost laughed. “We will not be seeking Temple guards.”
The old man nodded. “We have food. The doctors can tend to your injuries.”
“No,” Dais Mald said.
He walked past the old man and stopped at the bushes. He tore off his tattered rags. The woman of the group stepped away, but Dais Mald didn’t care. Jamison’s shirt was too bloodstained but his pants would do. Dais Mald put on the pants and boots. Coates did the same with Gunther’s clothes.
After he had changed, Dais Mald picked up a Barnum’s hatchet from the ground. He locked eyes with the swordsman, then slipped the hatchet into the belt of his new pants.
“What of the boy?” Dais Mald asked.
“He’ll be alright,” the swordsman said.
“He belongs to you?”
The swordsman shook his head. “No.”
Dais Mald considered this and what he had seen the boy’s blood do. What it meant. The girl lay on the ground, her head on a young dry blood’s lap. Her chest rose up and down. She was alive.
“The boy is special,” Dais Mald said, finally.
“Yes, he is.”
Dais Mald looked to the wagon where the Descendant lay. This was not the last he would hear of this boy.
But a chance at freedom was what mattered now. Dais Mald and Coates left the travelers on the road. They walked through the bushes back into the woods. Dais Mald’s body felt light. The air was soft on his skin where the chains had been.
After a time, Dais Mald stopped and turned back. He stood there waiting.
“They’re not coming after us,” Coates said.
The forest was quiet. The sun was sinking lower through the trees.
“No,” Dais Mald agreed.
“You saw what the boy did.”
Dais Mald nodded.
“You know what he is?”
Dais Mald nodded again. “That can wait.”
He turned away from the road. To the bloody trail that snaked through the forest floor. Dais Mald pulled the hatchet from his belt and trudged on. He hoped Barnum would still be alive when they found him.
After burying the bodies, the party started back on the road. They were not so much in a hurry to get to the next town but to escape the site of bloodshed. Travel was slow and even the horses seemed in shock. At dusk, they set up camp off the main road even though the town of Fallgrove lay only three hours farther. Briton was glad for the stop. It gave Ara a little more time under the doctors’ care as his wrist was slow to heal after losing so much blood.
Cambria was still in the wagon. Hannah had stayed at her side until she was certain she would survive. What little of Ara’s blood was left over was used to treat Brim’s wounds. The big man now sat across the fire ring looking no worse than the rest of them. The camp was silent except for the crackle of the fire. Ara sat staring blankly into its flames.
Briton couldn’t imagine where his mind was. Couldn’t imagine what it was like to give yourself to another person. He’d recognized that vacant gaze from the Descendants of Castle Carmine. People thought it was mere mental dimness. It allowed men to justify all sorts of things. How could he have ignored the horrors for so long?
“We can take off at first light,” Geyer said, breaking the collective silence. “If you don’t mind Ara resting with you another night.”
“Of course,” Petar said. He looked as if he had forgotten their planned departure. “And…thank you for what you did. As horrible as it was, I’m afraid to think of what would have happened if you weren’t with us.”
Geyer shook his head as he stared into the flames. “We all take chances on the road. I wish it were otherwise.”
“We’ve been robbed before but those men…”
“Got what they deserved,” Hannah said, her usual warm expression gone. Fatigue hung heavy on her face.
Briton thought of the bodies in the road, stabbed and gutted. Although he had not taken part in the killing, his hands felt no less bloody.
“What will you do?” Petar asked. His face alternated between Geyer and Briton. The answer held a larger question than what tomorrow would bring. What will you do with nearly all of Terene on your trail?
“I don’t know,” Briton said. “There are western Houses who do not hold loyalty to the Faith. Perhaps we’ll seek
sanctuary there.”
Petar turned to Ara, hesitation on his face. “Ara, your blood…you saved Cambria’s life. By all medical knowledge, it isn’t possible.”
Ara didn’t say a word. His hollow gaze stayed fixed on the fire.
“It’s real then,” Aaron said, shaking his head. “The tales of Descendants and blood magic. We are taught at the university that the Faith are a bunch of superstitions zealots, but they were right all along.”
“No,” Briton said. “Descendants exist. Traces of the blood of Royals exists. But the Faith is not right. They exploit people for their gain and make slaves of the innocent.”
“But all the people that blood could help,” Aaron said. “There would be no need for medicine, sickness and disease would be obsolete.”
“The Faith doesn’t care about helping people. All that matters to them is power.”
Ara stood up suddenly, and everyone fell silent.
“Ara?” Briton asked.
“I’m going,” Ara said, his bronze eyes reflecting the firelight.
“We should wait until morning,” Briton said. “When you have recovered enough to travel.”
“No,” Ara said. “I’m going alone.”
“What?” Briton gasped.
“I don’t know who I am or why I am different,” Ara said, his voice rising. “Since I was captured, all I wanted was to escape. To no longer be tortured and drained of blood. But now that isn’t enough. Being on the run, hiding in the woods, this isn’t freedom. So I’m going to find answers.”
Ara’s looked to Geyer and Briton. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. But you can’t come with me. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
“Ara,” Briton said. “You can’t do this alone. You won’t make it. The Highfather’s forces are too great.”
“There’s not much chance of me making it with you either. There’s no reason you need to die. It’s me they want.”
“But Ara—”
“No, Briton. I’ve made up my mind.”
Briton almost didn’t recognize the young boy who stood before him. Brave and stubborn. This was not the same boy he had taken from Carmine Castle.
“Then you’ll have to change your mind,” said a weak voice.
Everyone turned to see Cambria standing in the dim light outside the fire ring. Her throat had been slit only hours earlier. Now, she stood before them, returned from the edge of death.
“Because I’m not giving in,” Cambria said. “And neither are you.”
“But Cambria…” Ara began.
“I gave my pledge to aid people who needed my help. The Highfather and all the Temple guards in Terene can’t stop me from doing what is right.”
“She’s right,” Hannah said, standing up. “We can’t look the other way when someone is in need. That’s not what we do.”
She looked to Petar. The doctor scoffed. “Well, if Hannah is in, you know where that leaves me.”
“I knew I should have stayed at the university,” Aaron said. He nodded his head in agreement. “You guys won’t get very far without my skills of gathering supplies and hiding under wagons.”
A loud clap startled everyone. Aaron fell off his rock. Brim’s face turned red, and he sheepishly lowered his hands. Everyone broke into laughter. Laughter of surprise. Laughter of relief. Briton couldn’t believe it. After what they’d just been through and knowing all the dangers that lay before them, these doctors were still with them.
Ara wiped at the tears that were coming fast now.
“And what about you, Geyer,” Briton asked. “Now is your chance to leave.”
Geyer shrugged, his face twisting with that sly smirk of his. “Not while Ara’s fighting is still so piss poor. If word got out that I taught him, I’d never live it down.”
More laughter. It warmed Briton’s belly like relief from a sickness. For a moment, the day’s trouble was forgotten. Brim threw a heavy log on the fire, and it caught quickly, lighting up the circle of faces. A most unlikely group come together. For a moment, Briton felt better than he had in a long time. For a moment, he could almost fool himself into thinking they could win.
23
“Power amplifies our effect on the world. A wicked son is the scourge of his family; a wicked lord can decimate a kingdom.”
The stench of Descendants made the Highfather gag. Aeilus Haemon wasn’t used to visiting the Temple’s cell level. The fact that Father Edmund Turney chose this as a meeting place told Haemon something of the young Father’s motives. For if these were normal matters, he would address them in his study or the council chambers. Not in this Hemo-forsaken pit. What was this little schemer up to now?
Two temple guards led Haemon down the winding stairs to the cell level and the door to the dungeon. The smell grew stronger as they moved through rows of dark cells. The hundreds of rotting Descendant’s looked at them through the bars with the blank stares of livestock. They sat on the cold stone floor, lacking the strength to stand. Haemon didn’t like thinking about where his blood came from. He liked sipping it from a crystal goblet, ignorant of the dark dungeon below the Temple. Though, it would all change once his men created the replica of the boy’s royal blood. Then he would have no need for these animals; they could be exterminated once and for all.
A light glowed up ahead as Haemon moved past the cells towards the Curor’s laboratory. The room was enormous as it took dozens of Curors to collect the daily blood toll. Standing by a Curor’s table, Edmund Turney looked small and insignificant. A guard stood beside the young Father. Though he wore the white uniform of the Temple guard, the grim look on his face showed he was loyal to Turney.
“Father Haemon,” Turney said. “I see you got my letter.”
Haemon snorted. The letter contained the meeting place and time followed by a simple message:
I found it.
-Turney
The gall of this traitorous slime almost impressed Haemon.
“And what was so important to drag me down to the Temple dungeon with your cryptic phrase?” Haemon asked in a bored a voice. It took great effort to suppress the anger pumping through his blood. Edmund had called him out.
“I believe you understood the message, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
Haemon gritted his brittle teeth. “This sounds like a conversation better had in private.”
Edmund looked at his guard and nodded. Confident as well as smug. The guard slipped past Haemon and out of the room along with Haemon’s own. They shut the door behind them, leaving Haemon and Edmund alone in the great lab.
“What’s this about Edmund?” Haemon asked. He was tired from his long walk down to the Temple’s dungeon. Forty-eight stairs. He’d counted every painful step. The thought that Edmund might have chosen this meeting place for that purpose angered Haemon even more. “What did you find?”
Edmund smiled like a cat who’d finally cornered a slippery mouse. “I found your secret lab.”
“My what?”
“Don’t try to deny it, Aeilus. I found your blood lab in the old part of the Temple. You have Curors working day and night on a blood replica.”
Haemon looked the young Father over, his anger boiling. To dare address the Highfather of the Faith by his first name like some kind of equal!
“Such a thing would be blasphemous…” Haemon began but trailed off. There was no point in lying anymore. If it was Edmund’s goal to get Haemon overthrown, he would have gone straight to the council with the information. Not to an underground meeting place. Haemon’s eyes wandered around at the Curor’s lab. The empty bottles on the shelves. The tools spread out on the table. “What is it you want, Edmund?”
“I want your position, of course. I want to be appointed Highfather of the Faith.”
“That much has been clear since you joined the council. Is this how you plan to get it? By turning me in?”
“No,” Edmund smiled. “Although I have garnered favor on the council, I am still a junior
member. There are many who have a more substantial claim. And, like you, I don’t want to wait for my time to come.”
“And what do you think you know of the details to my ascension?”
“Everything,” Edmund said. The young Father’s face changed. The greed he’d kept hidden from the council table all these years was now revealed. “I studied your life, remember. I know about the death of Highfather Archaties. I must say, it was masterfully played.”
“If you really know what I did to take power, then you know what I’ll do to keep it.”
“Yes, I do. Which is why I come to you with a proposal.”
“Blackmail you mean.”
“Call it what you will. You will keep your chair for the time being, but at year’s end you will announce me as your successor.”
Haemon frowned. “That is not a lot of time.”
“More time than you’d have if I went directly to the council with your heresy. You’d be executed, buried with the blood still in your body. A full vessel not, to be filled anew in the afterlife.” Edmund took a breath. His tone softened. “This way you will go out with your legacy still intact. Besides, how much time could you really have left?”
Haemon ran his finger along the surface of the Curor’s table. “And what would you have me do with my small remaining time as Highfather?”
“Finish what you started,” Edmund said, excitement on his face. “Eradicate Spade and the Descendant rebellion. Let it be the final triumph of your great rule. Then I will step in to run a new era of peace. Thanks to you.”
“And what of the Descendants’ dwindling bloodlines? How will you preserve the Faith when the blessings of Hemo have dried up?”
Edmund narrowed his eyes at Haemon. “Is that what you tell yourself your pagan blood experiments are for? To preserve the bloodline for the benefit of the people? You are only after that boy to save yourself.”
Haemon’s whole hand now rested on the surface of the lab table. He leaned on it for support, his clean robe draping on the messy table. “It is true, I wish to go on living. But it is for the benefit of Terene. I can’t imagine what chaos this world would slip into under the rule of a pompous upstart like yourself. I won’t let it happen.”
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