“My friends,” Ara said. “They are out there, looking for me. Could they…could they come here too.”
A smile rolled across Gorgen’s face. “Of course. They are welcome here and will fall under my protection as well. Once word gets out that you are here, I’m sure they will come to you.”
Ara nodded. The deal made sense, especially since Gorgen had the power to lock him away and get his blood if he refused. Then why did Ara feel such a sickness in the pit of his stomach?
The bed creaked with relief as Gorgen climbed to his feet.
“You may think it over,” the lord said. “I will leave you to explore the castle. My gardens rival Carmine’s, and there is a library in the upper building. Though, it’s a bit of a climb.”
A library. Ara’s heart leaped at the thought of unfiltered access to books. Briton’s words filled his mind. Never rob yourself of the chance to learn. He grew happy at the thought of Briton sharing this place with him—walking freely along the garden grounds and studying in the library. Ara couldn’t believe his luck. To think he could have easily drowned in the river. Instead, the waters brought him here.
“I’ll have fresh clothes and shoes sent to you,” Gorgen said. “Enjoy this day. The Curor can wait until tomorrow.”
Geyer led the group along the smallest hint of a path. The last few days were spent traversing rocky mountain terrain. Though Geyer doubted they would find any inhabited land this far north, he pushed on for Briton’s sake. The old man was a wreck. Twice Geyer had tried to force him to rest, but he would not relent. Not while Ara was getting farther away.
Through all their trials over the last few months, Geyer imagined how much better his life would be without the boy. He had been wrong.
Geyer glanced back. Briton was slumped on his horse, half asleep. The old fool was going to get himself trampled out in the middle of nowhere. Then they’d really be in trouble.
“Briton,” Geyer called. “What do you know about the Ghost Mountains?”
“Huh?” Briton shook his head, clearing out the sleepiness. “Oh, the wall. It’s been there since the beginning of recorded time. I read a centuries-old journal from the first expedition that reached these mountains. They called this place, ‘The Edge of the World.’”
“And the stories of ghosts descending from the mountains to snatch people away?”
“Stories, I suppose. Brought on by the fog. The gray sky.” Briton gazed at the distant rock wall. “As far as anyone knows, the mountains have no top.”
Cambria scoffed. “You northerners and your superstitions.” She rode a pony they had bought before fully testing him out. It had been a rough few days for the young doctor. Though, Geyer can’t remember ever seeing her in a good mood. “You fill each new generation with nightmares of ghosts and magic spells.”
“This coming from someone who didn’t believe in magic blood,” Briton raised an eyebrow.
“Well, there’s a difference between Royal Blood and ghosts or mountains without end.”
“So what’s beyond them then?”
“Ocean, I suppose.”
“And beyond the ocean?”
Cambria frowned. “More ocean,” she murmured.
“So, mountains without end are farfetched, but oceans without end…”
Cambria shot him an angry look and kicked her pony out ahead of the two men.
“Careful not to upset her too much,” Geyer said. “She’s tougher than she looks.”
“She looks pretty tough to me.”
They rode on at a slow but steady pace. As daylight dwindled, an uneasy feeling grew in the pit of Geyer’s stomach. The feeling of being watched. He squinted up at the rocky hills again, but saw no one. Even though this was the barren north, he suddenly felt too exposed. Best stay on your guard.
Cambria was out of sight around the next bend when she called out. “Up here, quick.”
Geyer kicked his own horse and sped around the rocky hillside. He never should have let the girl go off ahead. If anything happened to her…
He found Cambria waiting for them, trying to hold her pony still. Geyer sighed in relief as he pulled up beside her. He followed her gaze to a small village in the valley below. There was life this far north, after all.
“You know this place?” Geyer asked when Briton caught up to them.
“No,” Briton said. “We’re going down there?”
“Looks like we are. Keep your guard up. The only reason to live this far north is if you don’t want to be found.”
The three of them rode down the hillside to the village below. It was a small town, composed of a cluster of huts and only a few actual wooden buildings. The streets were quiet except for the occasional farmer. A man stopped pushing a wheelbarrow to stare at the three strangers. His expression was not welcoming. Heads popped up behind windows then darted down again. Geyer stopped in front of one of the main buildings. A wooden sign hung over the entrance, its name painted in red letters: The Last Drop.
Geyer climbed off his horse and tied him to a post.
“We’re stopping at a tavern?” Cambria asked.
“Best place to get information,” Geyer said.
“Is that true?”
“Best place to get a drink, anyway.”
Briton shrugged to her, and the two of them dismounted. Cambria’s pony let out a loud whinny that sounded through the town. With their horses tied up, the three of them entered The Last Drop.
The place was quiet; there was no music or loud drunken conversations you typically find in a tavern. The bar area was small, leaving room for the open dining hall and rooms on this floor and the one above. But with a name like The Last Drop, they were bound to serve drinks.
The few heads in the inn turned to the three intruders. After getting a long look, people went back to their private conversations, though their eyes never truly left them. Geyer counted seven people, including the woman behind the bar. They were a ragged bunch. From the dirt on them, they looked like farmers, not cut-throats. Still, Geyer was glad he had brought his sword.
The patrons looked to the woman behind the bar to see how she would handle the situation. Expecting her to be wary of outsiders, Geyer was startled when he heard her warm confident voice.
“How can I help you?” she asked with a pleasant smile, walking to the end of the bar. Her hair was cut short and muscles defined her tanned arms. She looked must do plenty of outdoor labor herself and looked able to handle herself in a rowdy bar. The other patrons grumbled at her welcoming tone, but it didn’t seem to bother her.
“We’d like some water, please,” Geyer said, taking a seat at the bar. Briton raised an eyebrow, but Geyer ignored it. He felt embarrassed enough ordering water, he didn’t need the old man’s opinions on the matter.
The woman didn’t object to the request. She grabbed a jug and poured three even glasses, with the precision of someone who takes pride in the small details of her work. “You’ve traveled far.”
“Do we look that bad?” Briton gave a tired chuckle.
“Everyone who gets here has traveled far,” the woman said.
“What is this place?” Briton asked. “The village. Does it have a name?”
“You won’t find it on any map. Just some people who want to live in peace, away from the troubles of the world.”
Briton held up his glass in salute. “There are plenty of troubles to get away from.” He sipped his water.
The woman studied Briton for a moment then turned to Geyer. There was activity behind the gaze; she was sizing up this odd pair that had stumbled into her establishment. Geyer was glad to have Cambria with them. Traveling with a young girl took away some of the perceived threat.
“We don’t get a lot of visitors,” the woman said, resting her hands on the bar. Strong, calloused hands with blisters on the knuckles, new and old. She was not just a barkeep. “Can I ask what you’re doing this far north?”
Briton’s hesitation lasted only a moment. “We’re lo
oking for our friend,” he said. “We believe he was headed this way.”
“I’m sorry, but you’re the first new people to come through in a long time.”
“You’re sure about that?” Geyer asked.
“It’s a small village. No one goes unnoticed.”
“I expect you’re right,” Briton said. “It was a long shot. Still, we have traveled far. And haven’t had a bed and a proper meal in some time. Does your lovely establishment have open rooms for the night?”
Chair legs scraped the floor behind them. Geyer’s back was to the room. He didn’t like it.
“Maybe it’s not a good idea,” Geyer offered. He touched Briton’s arm. “Our friend is clearly not here, and we’ve got enough daylight left to cover a bit more ground today.”
Briton caught the mood of the room and nodded. “Yes, I’m sure we can put off a meal a little longer.”
“Whatever you feel is best,” the woman said.
Geyer was thankful for once Briton didn’t argue with him. There was something off in this place; he couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew they’d be better off far away from this village.
Geyer stood and pushed back from the bar when Cambria’s voice called out.
“It’s him!” she screamed. Her finger pointed to a man who had just come from a back room. The man looked up in surprise, revealing a scar on the right side of his face.
“The one who took Ara,” Cambria said, anger filling her voice. “It’s him.”
The man looked from them to the women behind the bar. She eyed the three visitors in a new light.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re looking for that friend.”
Geyer drew his sword. The patrons followed, jumping to their feet with weapons pointed in their direction. Eight blades, including two held by the newcomer.
“Where is Ara?” Cambria demanded.
The scarred face man stepped forward, his swords ready. They were good weapons of polished steel, not the cheap excuse for weapons held by the other patrons. This man was a Descendant rebel.
Geyer turned towards the Descendant. “The girl asked you a question.”
The man looked Geyer up and down and smiled. “You only have one sword between the three of you.”
“One’s plenty.” Geyer wasn’t intimidated. Two swords were solely for show. The man probably practiced twirling them in fancy arcs before a mirror, too.
“You want me to get rid of them?” the Descendant rebel asked the woman behind the bar. So she was in charge of the situation. While the other patrons shook with the rush of a possible fight, she remained calm. She was definitely not just a barkeep.
Briton whispered to Geyer in a low voice. “Tell me you can take all of them.”
Geyer looked around the inn and circle of swords closing in. “Would you feel better if I lied to you?”
“Maybe.”
“Everything is perfectly fine,” Geyer said. He stepped closer to Briton and Cambria as the armed men slowly advanced. “We’re in no trouble at all.”
Though he was free to search the castle grounds, Ara was not alone. Two guards trailed him like distant shadows. They did not disturb him, but every time he looked around they were somewhere to be seen.
The amount of work and care that went into Castle Gorgen’s intricate design was breathtaking. Lord Gorgen must employ a full-time staff of artists and carpenters and cleaners. High windows were cut into the walls every few feet, lighting the castle with the warmth of the afternoon. The library matched Carmine’s own in the number of books but surpassed it in design. This one actually appeared used. People sat at tables reading and writing on parchment. A few looked up as Ara entered the room but went back to their studies. Briton would love this place.
Ara was eager to sit down and search for books on the Royals, but a servant appeared and beckoned him to follow. As he walked through the castle halls, Ara was ready for this charade of hospitality to come crashing down. Ready to be thrown in the dungeon without a moment’s notice. So he was surprised when the servant escorted him to an outdoor table filled with a variety of food; some of which Ara had never laid eyes on.
Lord Gorgen came around the corner and took the large seat at the table’s head. “Please, join me for lunch.”
A bald man in purple robes took a seat beside Gorgen; his eyes took in Ara with none of Gorgen’s amusement.
“Are you finding my home to your liking?” Gorgen asked as Ara took a seat across from the bald man. The rich smells on the table filled his nose, making it hard to concentrate on anything else.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Ara said after a moment. As far as I remember, anyway. “It’s not like Castle Carmine at all. It’s so much…cleaner.”
“Ha!” Gorgen laughed, his mouth full of food. “I certainly hope so. House Carmine was a great house for a long time, but the Carmines were always so drab and somber. What’s the point of having wealth if you don’t surround yourself with beauty?”
The patio overlooked the dark forest below. The castle gates separated Ara from endless hidden dangers. From men hunting Ara with beasts that sought his blood.
A servant appeared with a pitcher of water, a “G” was tattooed across the right side of his face. Ara studied the Descendant as he poured his glass. The man’s face was shaved and his hair was cut short, not like the usual tangle of knots you find with most Descendants. Ara wanted to speak to him, but the Descendant kept his head bowed, avoiding eye contact.
“Where do they live?” Ara asked as a Descendant took away Ara’s finished plate.
“Who? The servants?” Gorgen frowned as if he’d never thought of this. “They have a building behind the gardens, separate from the rest of the castle.”
“How many are there?”
“Woodrell,” Gorgen said and spooned another bite into his mouth.
“Eleven,” the bald man spoke slowly as if to a child. “Not all of them have good blood. But the low bloods still find work here, of course.”
“Everyone has some value,” Gorgen agreed, chomping on a chicken leg.
Ara thought about the Descendants’ barracks at Castle Carmine. The dark room with beds packed so tight you could hear the breathing of the person beside you. The whimpers at night. The smell.
“You don’t have to worry about any of that though,” Gorgen said, setting down the chicken bone and licking the grease from his fingers. “You’re not like them. You’re special.”
The Descendant returned to fill Gorgen’s glass. Again, Ara watched him, hoping to get some sign or communication. The Descendant’s eyes locked with Ara’s for the briefest of moments then flinched away causing him to spill wine on the table.
“Careless bastard,” Gorgen exclaimed.
“I’m sorry, my Lord,” the Descendant stammered, setting the wine bottle down and reaching for a rag to wipe Lord Gorgen’s clothes.
A guard stepped forward and knocked the servant to the ground. He put his boot on the man’s throat. The Descendant winced in anticipation of coming blows.
“Enough,” Gorgen said, raising his hands, smiling. “It was an accident.”
The guard stepped back to his position behind Gorgen. The Descendant picked himself up and bowed to Gorgen. Then he hurriedly wiped the wine from the table.
“Wine?” Gorgen asked.
Ara shook his head. “Water is fine.”
For the rest of lunch, Gorgen talked about the many features of his Castle built onto the cliff face. Woodrell chimed in to correct the lord’s facts now and again. Ara nodded without speaking. He’d lost some of his appetite, but he cleaned his plate nonetheless.
After lunch, Gorgen had business to attend to, leaving Ara alone to explore. Ara walked down to the castle’s garden, hoping to get a look at the Descendants’ barracks. Since the garden had only one entrance and exit, his two shadows stayed outside, which allowed him to roam freely without eyes on him. With a full night’s rest and three enormous meals, Ara felt better than e
ver. Walking didn’t tire him; he felt a reserve of strength unlike any he could remember. Not only were his wounds completely healed, but his frail arms had started to fill out a bit. A month at Gorgen Castle and he would look more like a young man than a sickly boy.
Walking east through the garden, the sound of the waterfall grew louder; its water fell from the cliff face like a river in the sky before colliding with the pool far below.
In the garden, Ara passed strange trees of different colors and shapes. He stopped to inspect the thorns on one’s yellow trunk. He’d seen nothing like it, even in Carmine’s garden. Bushes throughout the garden were carved in different patterns, and in the center of the garden stood a giant stone “G” with a rainbow of flowers lining its sides.
The castle was amazing and Gorgen had been nothing but generous. Still, Ara couldn’t stop thinking about the Descendants. The servants who brought him food and cleaned his room and fetched his bath—did his blood really make him better than these people? Could he live in luxury while they suffered?
Ara stopped suddenly. There, in a glass container in the corner of the garden stood the blood rose. Lord Carmine’s prized possession. The flower Ara had seen take a man’s hand now hung limp, its stem folded over as if hunched in prayer. Though it had grown since he last saw it, it’s petals were faded and lifeless.
“It’s dying,” a voice said.
Ara spun around to see Semus leaning on a shovel.
“We’ve done everything we can for it,” the gardener said. “Kept it enclosed and warm—even fed it live critters. But nothing has worked.”
Ara turned back to the flower. It drooped so low it was almost laying down in its bed of sand. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s not meant to be here. As much as we try to recreate its home.” Semus shrugged at the exotic garden around him. “This is no desert.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Not much I can do. These things are said to live for up to fifty years in the desert. Fifty years. This one will be lucky to see the summer through.”
Ara stepped forward and touched the glass container. He didn’t know why but it saddened him to see the flower like this. Trapped and wilting. It had been carried across the world to be placed in a cage.
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