Edmund’s lip twisted into a snarl. “Then I will take this to the council and have you hung for blasphemy in the Temple Square.”
Haemon laughed. Strength surged through him as if he had taken a dose of good blood.
“If you had truly studied my history then you would know better than to meet with me in such a secluded place.”
The Highfather’s hand closed upon a needle on the Curor’s table. In one swift move, he jammed the point into Edmund Turney’s throat. The young Father gagged in surprise as blood sprayed from the small puncture hole.
Haemon bent over him. “Archaties was surprised as well. Most Fathers can do nothing more than talk politics and pray. They don’t have the courage to act.”
Edmund stumbled back against the table, sending tubes and bottles crashing to the floor. The door to the lab swung open, and the three guards ran in with swords drawn. They saw Edmund on the ground, gasping as blood shot from his neck, coloring his white robes red. His tongue hung out as he tried to scream but only choked.
“Thank goodness you came,” Haemon said to the guards. “Descendant rebels have infiltrated the Temple. They killed Father Turney. And a Temple guard.”
Edmund’s guard looked around in confusion. Then the loyal Temple guards drove their swords into his sides, under the armor. The dead guard collapsed on the lab floor.
The two guards then moved to dispatch of Edmund, but Haemon held up his hand. “Let’s give the Father a moment. It looks as if he has something to say.”
Edmund’s face was pale as the blood drained from his body, covering him and the lab floor. His mouth opened and closed as he gagged on his own blood.
“What was that, Edmund?” Haemon asked as he kneeled down beside the dying man. His old knees would regret the move. He would need to drink an extra portion of blood to recover. But it was worth it. He wanted to savor his moment.
Edmund reached a bloody hand towards the Highfather. “Aeeeh, Aeeeilusss,” he wheezed with the last of his breath.
“Edmund,” Haemon whispered over the dying Father. “You will address me as Father.”
Aeilus Haemon stayed crouched on the floor of the Curor’s lab, enjoying the painful final moments of Father Edmund Turney’s life.
24
“But how were the Royals defeated if they were so much more powerful?” Ara asked. He sat in the grass field with Briton as the day’s lesson shifted once again to questions of the past.
“According to the Faith’s account, men had the numbers,” Briton said. “And they had a purpose—to overthrow the oppressive Royals. When people find a purpose worth dying for, even the impossible can happen. Plus, General Drusas came up with a military strategy that would work against the Royals.”
“What was that?” Ara asked.
“First, they surrounded the Temple and cut off all food supplies. Then they unleashed a constant stream of attacks. Men poured against the Temple walls in steady waves, giving the Royals no chance to heal from battle. The siege lasted seven days. Thirty men fell for every one Royal.”
“Then what happened?”
“Once the people took control of the Temple, they slaughtered every Royal they could find. All the Royal leaders and officers. The few that escaped that day were later caught and enslaved. Their blood used to strengthen the people. For generations, people fed off the blood of the few remaining Royals and their offspring. Selling them like property. Breeding was not sanctioned then. Royal blood was mixed with non-royal blood. Now, centuries later, the Descendants have blood that is but a fraction as pure as that of their ancestors.”
Briton tilted his head to Ara. “Except for you.”
“How?”
“That is the big question. It is possible that a strain of the original Royal blood has manifested itself once again. We don’t know what was the original cause that gave the Royals their power. How their bloodline deviated from our own. There is a chance it is happening once again, and you are but the first.”
Ara liked the sound of that. There could be more like him out there. If not now, then soon. Whatever made his blood special was happening again.
“So we must find the cause of the blood power,” Ara said. “But where do we look?”
“We can start with where you came from. There may be something there, the source for the Royal blood.”
The source. Ara thought back through the fog of his memories. What had been the source of his power? What in his past had changed him but not others?
“Well, now that your distraction is complete,” Briton said, his blue eyes twinkling under bushy gray eyebrows. “I think that’s enough for today’s lessons.”
They stood up and shook off the grass then made their way back to camp. The group had settled about a mile outside the city of Farmount, in the northeastern corner of House Severen’s realm. Farmount was a large and dangerous city; Geyer thought it would be easier to go unnoticed there. Ara and Briton hadn’t been back at the small camp long before Geyer and Aaron returned. Judging from their faces, trade had not gone well.
Aaron tossed his sack down in the back of a wagon. “We barely got enough bread to last us the day.”
“We will make do,” Petar said.
“No we won’t, we’re running out of coin. We weren’t making a fortune as doctors, but at least it kept us fed. Now we have nothing.”
“It’s too dangerous to set up here,” Geyer said. “Maybe in another, smaller town.”
“We’ve faced tough cities before, you know.”
As they continued to debate, Ara couldn’t help but feel responsible. He was the reason they couldn’t practice medicine. He was the reason they were hiding in the forest. When they starved, it would be his fault as well. He had to do something.
Ara returned the lesson book to the tent and grabbed his knife from beneath his pillow. He slid the weapon into his belt and covered it with his shirt. Then he slipped away into the forest.
It wasn’t until he was almost to the city of Farmount that Ara realized he was being followed.
“Show yourself,” Ara said, crouching low, his hand on the knife in his belt.
“Are you really going to try to stab me again?” Cambria stepped out from behind a tree. Her hair pulled back in a simple braid left her freckled face exposed. Though Cambria was self-conscious of the “blemishes,” Ara liked the tiny spots on her nose and cheeks. Her high collar covered much of her neck, but Ara could still see the scar that ran across her throat. Would it be there forever?
“I wouldn’t need to stab you if you’d stop sneaking up on me.”
“I wouldn’t need to sneak up on you if you’d stop trying to hide things.”
Ara gave her an annoyed look.
“Where are you going anyway?” Cambria asked. “Are you running away?”
“No. I’m going to find us some shrines.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
“I don’t know yet,” Ara said, embarrassed. He didn’t have a plan. He only knew they needed food. The others risked their lives every day for him, now it was his turn. He would find food for the group, even if it took selling his own blood. He was tired of eating grubs from the ground, no matter how nutritious Petar said they were.
“Don’t try to send me back,” Ara said. “We need shrines and you know it.”
“I agree,” Cambria said, coming to his side. “But since you have no plan—the only way you’re going to get some is with my help.”
There was no use trying to change her mind; Cambria was as stubborn as a boulder. Besides, she was probably right; he did need her help.
Ara nodded and the two of them walked the rest of the way together. The forest grew thinner, and the sounds of the city came into crisper focus: horses on the road, wagons rolling through the streets, vendors yelling from an unseen marketplace. A distant hammering.
“Have you ever been here before?” Ara asked.
“No,” Cambria said. “We’ve stayed clear of Farmount.”
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So far Ara had seen only two kinds of populated areas. The poorer decay of the outskirt towns and the great buildings of the Temple square. Farmount was a mix of both. A castle rose up through the middle of the city like a stone dagger. It was surrounded on all sides by buildings of considerable size, but they carried the tarnished look of structures that had weathered too many storms without upkeep. The city stood as a shell of what it must have once been.
As they walked the road into town, Ara could see the people of Farmount held much the same weathered look. Two men on horseback shot Ara and Cambria dark glances as they passed. No children ran the streets, and the women Ara did see, looked the kind that could handle themselves. If Cambria was intimidated, she didn’t show it. She strode on, leading the way through the city.
“Maybe this was a mistake,” Ara said. “Maybe we should have brought Geyer.”
“You scared? You’re the one that can’t die.”
Ara sprinted up to Cambria’s side. “I can too die,” he whispered. “And I’d rather not test out exactly how.”
Ara hurried to keep pace with Cambria. She walked with eyes forward like she was on a mission.
“Where are we going?” Ara asked.
Cambria nodded. “Towards the noise.”
The yelling and hammering grew louder as they followed the flow of traffic through the streets. Yelling and cheers filled the center of town as people formed a ring around some unseen space. The crows jeered; paper flapped in waving hands. The jingle of coins trading hands caught Ara’s attention. “They’re gambling.”
Cambria’s touch startled Ara. She held onto his shoulder for balance as she slipped off a shoe and poured the contents into his hand. Ara caught the coins. Three shrines.
“For emergencies,” Cambria said, putting her shoe back on and taking the coins. “Let’s see what game they’re playing.”
“Do you know anything about gambling?”
“It’s better to win.”
Another clanging sounded; half the crowd cheered while the other half groaned. An eerie chill shook through Ara as he realized the hammering sounds weren’t from construction. They squeezed their way to the front of the circle; their gasps of horror were drowned out by the screaming crowd. Below them stood a fighting pit. Two men circled each other with clubs, their bodies battered and bloodied. Each bore an “S” tattoo on the right side of his face.
The crowd was betting on Descendant fighting.
Cambria signaled to Ara to leave, but before they could escape, the crowd erupted, pressing them forward against the pit’s metal railing. A cry of pain filled the air; below them, the smaller Descendant’s arm dangled, bent the wrong way. He swung his club with his good arm, but the fight had left him. The bigger Descendant heaved his own club back and with an animal roar, caved in his opponent’s head. Blood splattered against the spectators on the other side of the pit. The crowd broke into a frenzy. The spectators cheered and licked up the blood.
A sickness erupted in Ara’s belly. They were using Descendant lives for sport. Ara wanted to strike back, to take his knife to these horrible people. A hand grabbed his arm. He turned to find Cambria pulling him. “Time to go. Now.”
They started to move back through the crowd when a loud voice called out. “Now for the grand event!” A thin man with a curled mustache and sharp eyebrows waved a stack of papers to get the crowd’s attention. “This runaway Descendant was caught in the forest. In all his mercy, the gracious Lord Severen has agreed to stay this criminal’s execution.”
Boos and jeers came from all around. The speaker smiled beneath his wavy mustache then waved the crowd quiet before delivering the punchline. “If he can defeat…Honey.”
The crowd went crazy pushing Ara and Cambria forward once more. A bar dug into Ara’s back as he was squeezed against the pit railing. Below him stood a Descendant with lash marks crisscrossing his back. An “S” tattoo snaked across the Descendant’s face. His eyes were full of fear as he stared at the pit door. A roar echoed and the door shook.
“How many minutes will the Descendant last?” the speaker called. “Place your bets!”
Throughout the crowd, men with paper held up their hands, and people raced to place their bets; coins traded for written receipts. All around Ara, people pushed towards the speaker with their shrines.
“Odds on two minutes?”
“Three to one,” the mustached speaker answered.
“Eight shrines.”
“Two minutes, ha. Honey will get him in the first.”
“Two to one odds on that,” the speaker said.
“He can barely stand as it is.”
“Five shrines.”
“Seven!”
The betting continued as Cambria reached Ara again. “Let’s go.”
The man leaned against the wall of the pit beneath Ara, stepping as far from the door as possible. A few broken weapons were scattered about the pit floor along with puddles of blood.
“We have to do something,” Ara whispered. “They’re going to kill him.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” Cambria said. “Let’s go before someone recognizes you.”
The Descendant was so close, Ara could almost touch him. In a minute he would be torn apart. The helplessness that filled Ara turned to anger as his mind raced for a solution. The pit door shook, and a snout poked out, sniffing at the flesh that awaited it.
“Bet your shrines,” Ara said, handing Cambria the coins. “All of them.”
“On what?” Cambria asked.
“On him winning.”
“What?!”
Ara dropped to the ground and grabbed a discarded mug. He shook out the remnants of ale then reached into his pocket for his knife. He slit his finger the blade.
“Ara,” Cambria whispered above him. Ara squeezed his finger and droplets of blood fell into the mug.
“Final call,” the speaker yelled. “Place your bets.”
“Three shrines,” Cambria’s soft voice said.
“Ha,” the mustached man laughed. “And what minute would you like, little girl?”
“What are the odds on him winning?”
“Winning?”
Ara squeezed harder. The blood filled only the bottom of the mug. It wasn’t enough. Of course, there was likely not enough blood in his entire body to help this man survive. But he had to try.
“That’s right,” Cambria said.
“Even I would feel guilty taking a little girl’s coin.”
“Are you afraid of the bet?”
“Not that guilty,” the speaker said. “Twenty to one on your three shrines. And sorry, lass, Farmount isn’t a land of miracles.”
The crowd’s impatience grew as the people chanted: “Honey. Honey. Honey.” People hungry to watch a Descendant be torn to pieces. Ara could feel the bloodlust and it made him sick.
The mug of blood was only a quarter full, but there was no time left. Ara crawled to the edge of the pit and called down. “Hey. Hey. Up here.”
The Descendant looked up as if expecting to be spit on. His eyes locked with Ara’s, and Ara saw defeat had already settled in. “You can do this,” Ara said, but he was not sure if his words got through. The man looked up at him with pity—pity for the boy didn’t understand what was about to happen. Ara held the mug out over the railing. “Drink this.”
Ara released the mug. The man caught it.
“Alright, all bets are in,” the speaker called. “Let’s see the Descendant criminal fight for his life against Honey.”
The crowd cheered and boots came down on Ara’s legs. He fought his way to his feet and leaned against the railing. Below him, the Descendant looked down at the mug of blood then up at Ara. Ara nodded. Please. Drink it.
The Descendant drank the blood.
The effects were instant. The man stood taller, his bent back now straight. He looked around the pit as if seeing it with new eyes. When he turned to Ara, his gaze was sharp and clear. The fear was still there,
but there was something else as well. Life.
“You can do it,” Ara yelled, his voice drowned out by the crowd.
“Release Honey!” the speaker called. A man above the pit pulled a rope that lifted the bar locking the door. The door flew open, and an enormous brown bear charged into the pit. The beast stood on its hind legs, its head nearly reaching the top of the pit and let out a ferocious roar. The crowd thundered in applause and cheers. “Honey. Honey. Honey.”
“Start the count,” the speaker yelled.
Cambria came to Ara’s side, the paper receipt in her hands. “This is your plan?”
They turned their eyes to the pit.
The bear made the pit look suddenly small. It dropped to all fours and fixed on the Descendant. It snorted and growled, showing a savage array of teeth. Then it charged. The Descendant moved with a sudden burst of speed. He dodged the bear’s claw with a roll then backed to the other side of the pit. Cheers and groans echoed from the crowd.
The bear stood against the wall and swiped at the people in the crowd. The mighty paw was not two feet from Ara’s leg. Finally, the bear turned back to the Descendant and charged again. The Descendant faked right and ran left, this time his escape was narrower. The bear’s claw caught him on the shoulder. Blood dripped down from the scratch.
“He’s not going to make it,” Cambria said over the cheering crowd.
Come on, Ara thought, willing the Descendant on. Fight.
The Descendant shuffled along the ground towards an ax-head. He picked up the weapon and heaved the metal. There was a loud thwack as the blade dug into the bear’s hide. The animal groaned but did not fall. It’s anger only increased as it swirled around towards its prey. The Descendant picked up a broken sword and pointed its jagged tip at the bear.
“Two minutes and still standing!” the speaker yelled. Then he looked down at Cambria, no longer as sure of himself.
Good Blood Page 26
