Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  Spade’s eyes showed no pity. It made Cambria feel like an equal; not some upset child.

  “How do you plan to get him back?”

  “I don’t know. But I have to try.”

  “Yes.” Spade reached out and placed a hand on Cambria’s shoulder. “And I will go with you.”

  “Spade,” called a nearby Descendant rebel. “You can’t be serious.”

  Spade turned and marched up the hill to the group of survivors. All eyes were on her, waiting for answers. When she spoke, her voice boomed with the confidence of a true leader.

  “How many of our people are in the Temple dungeons? How many of our brothers and sisters? We have lived with their suffering because we told ourselves it wasn’t time. We needed to build an army first. We needed to prepare a plan. Well, we can wait no longer. They have the boy. With his blood, their armies will be unstoppable. Prepared or not, now is the time to fight.”

  “It’s suicide,” a man yelled. He looked around the group pleadingly. “You saw the size of their army. It can’t be done.”

  “Spade,” another man said. “You can’t ask us to do this. To throw our lives away.”

  “I’m not asking you,” Spade said. “I said that I would go with the girl. I speak for no one else here. I’m not your leader in this; each of you must make your own decision.”

  There was a long silence. People lowered their heads, avoiding Spade’s gaze. It was then, in their frightened hesitation, that Cambria saw the survivors on the hillside for what they were. Not evil rebel outlaws. Not gifted, magical warriors. These were just people. People born with a different type of blood.

  Geyer climbed slowly to his feet. He limped down the hill towards Spade, his left leg dragging stiffly.

  “You’re mad because you’ve lost and now you want to go out fighting,” he said. “I understand that feeling.”

  Geyer came to stand face to face with Spade. He fastened his sword to his belt at the hip. “But you should know whoever goes with us is not coming back.”

  Cambria’s heart leaped. Her eyes met Geyer’s for a moment, then he looked away, shaking his head as if embarrassed.

  Spade didn’t argue; she simply nodded to Geyer. “Everyone dies. Even those with good blood.”

  The hilltop was quiet as people searched the faces of their neighbors. Most ducked their head, ashamed of their fear. Then a voice spoke up.

  “I can’t let you have all the glory, Spade,” Taro Kine said. He leaped to his feet, and a smile crossed his handsome features. He walked up to Geyer. “Nor will the fall of the Faith come at the hands of some dry blood.”

  Geyer scoffed. “Nothing like going into battle with false-confidence.”

  “The Temple is where our ancestors fell,” the one called Solvan Ra called. “It’s as good a place to die as any.”

  Two other Descendant rebels joined them, though Cambria didn’t know their names. The old man whose leg Cambria had mended in the breakout volunteered to come, but Spade told him he needed to stay and lead those that remained.

  “You are the last of the free Descendants,” Spade announced to those on the hillside. “Go and make a new home for our people. I wish I could say I’ll see you again, but I’ll fight happy knowing you will live well.”

  With that, the party gathered horses and supplies and set off for the Temple. Seven riders on their way to challenge the most powerful force in Terene. Cambria hoped she had not talked them all into their deaths.

  Part III

  THE TEMPLE

  34

  “We cut them down in droves, but they keep coming, an endless swarm empowered by generations of oppression.”

  For days, Ara drifted in and out of consciousness. Being awake and remembering was too painful, but sleep brought a pain of its own. Nightmares of Briton’s bloodied corpse reaching out to him. Of Geyer and the doctors burning in the inn. His name the last word on Cambria’s lips.

  The road stretched on, but Ara was hardly aware of time passing. He no longer cared about the fate that awaited him. Cage him, beat him, drain his bloods, it didn’t matter. His friends were dead. Ara sat in his wagon cell, refusing to eat and drink. There was no healing from this.

  A few days later, golden domes glinted on the horizon like setting suns. Ara had returned to the Temple of the Faith.

  “Get a good look at the sky,” a Temple guard said, riding beside Ara’s cell. “Because this is the last you’ll ever see of it.”

  Ara lay down and closed his eyes.

  He woke later as the wagon bumped along the cobbled streets of the Temple market. Lanterns and torches filled the square with light as vendors picked up their carts to go home. No one paid the boy in the cart any mind.

  “Get out,” a guard shouted. He pulled open the wagon door. Ara didn’t move. The guard grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him out onto the ground, slamming his head on the stony street.

  Ara awoke sopping wet. He shook water off his face. A guard tossed an empty bucket to the floor of the room. Ara couldn’t move. Straps on his wrists and ankles pinned him to a chair. The table beside him was lined with familiar instruments: blades, tubes, and a line of empty glass bottles.

  A Curor stepped forward, his sharp nose pointed to the side as if it couldn’t bare Ara’s smell. His robes were vibrant red with a gold heart emblem embroidered on his breast. He stepped forward and inspected Ara with a frown. “I was told they were bringing me the most powerful Descendant in centuries. And then they bring you.” He poked Ara’s wrist with a curved metal tool. “A skeleton of a boy who’s barely alive.”

  The Curor bent in close to whisper. He moved the metal instrument gently along Ara’s neck, drawing a line down his chest. His eyes were wide with hunger.

  “I’d cut you open right now to see the root of your ‘pure blood,’ but the Highfather has other plans, unfortunately, for you.”

  Ara would have spit in the man’s face if he had the saliva to do so. His body felt dry and rung out. It had begged him for water on the road, but Ara refused to drink. Every drop of blood he produced only strengthened the Faith’s hold on this world.

  The door swung open. An old man strode in like the room and everything in it belonged to him. He wore immaculate white robes decorated with thin red patterns. On his head sat a high pointed red hat; a ridiculous looking article by itself, it somehow added to the man’s aura of authority. The Curor and his attending guards bowed before the Highfather of the Faith.

  “So this is the famous Descendant boy,” the Highfather said, looking Ara over. He too must be disappointed with his prize. “It’s no surprise my Curors thought nothing of you at the auction. A gift from Hemo, wrapped in rags. Remarkable.”

  Ara said nothing.

  “Have you begun?”

  “Your men left him in terrible shape,” the Curor said. “It looks like he hasn’t eaten anything in days; it would be like squeezing blood from a stone and would likely kill him.”

  The Highfather rubbed his chin, puzzling over Ara. “Where do you come from boy? How did you come about your powers?”

  Ara said nothing.

  “All that running in fear and for what reason? You must have known you’d end up here eventually? Think of all the people who needlessly suffered because you tried to save yourself.”

  The words were meant to hurt, but Ara had told himself as much over the past few days. Briton, Geyer, Cambria…Chancey. They would all be alive if not for him. He had nothing to say to this man.

  “I can get him to talk,” a guard offered.

  The Highfather held up his hand, silencing the guard. He looked to Ara and sighed.

  “I’ve waited a long time for your blood; I can wait until morning. But know this, boy. I’ll get what I need to save Terene. Even if it takes bleeding you to your very last drop.”

  He turned to the Curor. “We will have the ceremony in the morning before the Fathers. See that he is ready by then.”

  “Yes, Father,” the Curor bowed.


  “Tomorrow begins a new day for the Faith,” the Highfather said, his wrinkled face warping into a smile. “We finally have the power to shape Terene. All the world will fall under Lord Hemo’s will. With this boy’s blood, our reign shall prove everlasting.”

  The Highfather left the room, his white robe sweeping behind him. Ara didn’t know what his words meant, but he knew it didn’t bode well for him. Or the Descendants.

  “What do you want me to do with him?” the guard asked the Curor.

  “Take him to a cell in the dungeon,” the Curor said. “See to it he gets plenty of food and water, even if you have to cram it down his throat.”

  The Curor snarled at Ara.

  “Get some rest, boy. Tomorrow you’ll need all your strength.”

  Aeilus Haemon bent to one knee, something he hadn’t done in years. His muscles ached from the strain as he lowered himself down. Getting up would prove painfully difficult, but sacrifice was pleasing to Lord Hemo. And he had sacrificed much to get to this point. Now, all his discipline and piousness was paying off. Hemo had blessed him with not one answer, but two!

  Haemon closed his eyes and prayed.

  He thanked Hemo for delivering the boy to him. With his good blood, Haemon could reign as Highfather for decades more. With that blood in the veins of his soldiers, his army would be unstoppable. Hemo had also given the Faith another weapon. A weapon that would see the end of the Descendant rebellion and all those who opposed the Faith. With the splash of blood, their enemies could be transformed into obedient slaves. What the Descendants were always meant to be. Mindless creatures to do his bidding. And with their new forms, they would be stronger than ever. Hemo’s plan was coming together.

  Forgive my doubtfulness, my Lord. You placed the vision of a great future in my heart, but there were times I lost sight of the path. Times I wondered if I was somehow wrong and all my effort and had been for naught. But today you have shown your light on me and my quest. Today, all the things I’ve had to do as Highfather of the Faith, are justified.

  There were no such things as accidents. Years of work trying to replicate the Descendants blood hadn’t ended in failure but an entirely different solution. One guided by Hemo’s own hand. At this very moment, the Temple Curors were reproducing gallons and gallons of Vorrel’s dark blood.

  Lord Hemo, thank you for trusting me to fulfill your vision of a better Terene. I am now, and will always be, your humble servant.

  Haemon opened his eyes and smiled. Even without the Descendant boy’s blood, he felt renewed. Alone on the floor of his study as night reigned outside, Aelius Haemon was stronger than ever. For, the pain in his old body was temporary but his legacy was forever.

  Guards carried Ara down a stairwell to the Temple’s dungeon. He was not alone; shadows moved behind the bars. His eyes adjusted to the darkness but there was no adjusting to the smell. The dungeon reeked of rotting corpses.

  The guards dropped him in a small cell; his body slammed on the cold stone floor. A plate of food and jug of water was set beside him. He wanted to deny them, to not fatten himself up for tomorrow’s slaughter, but this time his hunger overruled his defiance. He ate quickly and greedily, his movements becoming easier with every bite.

  With his meal done, Ara lay alone in the cell. This was the end of his journey. He couldn’t help but think of the Highfather’s words. How much pain and suffering he had caused because he couldn’t accept his role as a Descendant. Did he really think he was better than others? That he deserved freedom? Had he stayed at Castle Carmine, his blood would have made Carmine rich, but it also would have healed people. People dying of sickness and injury. What was his one life compared to all those his blood could have saved?

  Now, in the hands of the Faith, his blood would be used to build an army to conquer the world. They would hunt down and defeat every last Descendant rebel. Because of him, his people had no future.

  Shapes moved behind the bars of his cell. Ara sat up and peered through the darkness—the strength of his sight already increased from the food in his belly.

  “Who’s there?” Ara whispered. A shape from one of the adjacent cells staggered towards the bars and sat on the floor nearby. It was a ragged man with bushy hair that stood on end, unmoving. A beard stretched to his waist. He looked as if he had been trapped in this dungeon for decades.

  “You are the boy they speak of,” the man said, his soft voice coarse from neglect.

  “Who are you?”

  The man considered Ara’s question. His eyes searched past Ara into the light of the dungeon’s single lantern.

  “My name…was Tar Shen.”

  “You are part of the Descendant rebellion?”

  There was silence as Tar Shen looked away. Had Ara somehow offended the man? Maybe he didn’t understand. It was easy to see how someone could lose their sanity trapped in this windowless prison.

  “I was…long ago,” Tar Shen said. “Those days are gone. I am a prisoner now.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  Tar Shen looked up to the stone ceiling as if the days were written there but beyond count. “I do not know. Time does not exist in the dungeon. You will learn this.”

  “Has anyone escaped?”

  Tar Shen shook his head. “It is not possible.”

  Ara sighed. So this was to be his fate. Forgotten in the Temple dungeons, with no sense of time or self. Through the dim lantern light, Ara saw that Tar Shen’s cell was filled with other prisoners. The cell on the other side was also filled with huddled shapes. How long had these people been imprisoned here? Years? Decades?

  Think!

  Ara looked around, startled.

  What’s the problem? Briton’s voice sounded in his head, clear as if he’d been standing over him. Delivering Ara another lesson. But it was but a trick of his imagination. His friend was gone.

  To find the answer, you must first identify the problem.

  “I’m trapped,” Ara snapped.

  Tar Shen glanced at him but did not speak.

  Trapped from what? Somehow he could clearly hear his teacher’s response in his head. He still had the annoying habit of answering questions with more questions.

  “From getting out of here. From freedom.”

  Why do you want freedom?

  “So they don’t take my blood!” Ara yelled, frustrated with this game.

  “He’s already going mad,” said a woman from the next cell. “That didn’t take long.”

  Ara pulled his knees to his chest and rocked up and back. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t live his days locked in this darkness, alone.

  Don’t quit now, think!

  Ara closed his eyes. “Just leave me alone.”

  Feet shuffled closer on both sides of his cell. Descendant prisoners come to see him crack up.

  “There is no escape from the Temple dungeons,” a man said. “There is no escape from the Curor’s touch.”

  That’s not true.

  The muscles in Ara’s face tightened as he strained to shut out the voice. The rusted metal bars surrounding him rose up into the stone ceiling. The dungeon had only one door. One exit. And they were buried in the heart of the Temple surrounded by an army of guards. There was no escape.

  Briton’s voice returned, louder. What have I told you, Ara?

  “Every problem has a solution,” Ara whispered. “One need only discover the answer.”

  A man scoffed. He pressed tight to the bars, looking in at Ara. Dark rings circled his eyes; his cheekbones threatened to puncture the thin skin. “You think you can do what no one else has ever done?”

  “Yes,” Ara said.

  “What makes you special?”

  “Because I believe it can be done.”

  The man answered in a sickly laugh. “You’re a fool.”

  “Leave the boy alone,” Tar Shen said. “Just because we lost hope long ago, don’t rob him of his last time with it.”

  Others came closer to the bar
s, a crowd of skeletons looking in at the naive boy. Ara didn’t care. He wasn’t ready to give up yet. If there was an answer he would find it. He had to.

  But he would need help.

  “I can’t escape this cell, Briton.”

  What happens if you can’t escape this cell?

  “They’ll take my blood.”

  Will you give it to them?

  “I have no choice. Armed guards will come in the morning and take my blood. I can’t stop them.”

  Ara sat in silence, waiting for Briton’s voice to speak to him. But it didn’t come. He concentrated, searching his mind for an answer. But it was useless. Briton was gone, along with everyone who had ever cared about him. Ara was lost, alone.

  Ara took a deep breath and relaxed. He closed his eyes, imagining he was free. He saw himself slipping like a ghost through the dungeon walls and flying away from the Temple. He rose over the forest, high above the trees to the top of a great mountain peak that overlooked the world below. This was his vision, his old memory. From this great height, the world and its problems seemed so small. The trivial fighting of Descendants and dry bloods was lost in the distance—dots on a map. Up here, Ara felt at peace. Here, Ara was home.

  The answer struck like a knife into its target. He could imagine that familiar twinkle in Briton’s blue eyes whenever he got an answer right. Ara’s eyes snapped open. Scores of Descendant prisoners were gathered at the bars all around his cell; their gaunt faces watching him. Ara picked up his empty food bowl. Then, he turned to the old Descendant rebel.

  “Tar Shen,” Ara said. “Find me something sharp.”

  35

  The early morning fog hung like an old sheet as Cambria and her companions crossed the Temple square. The few vendors setting up their carts paid the seven cloaked strangers no mind. They had ridden at a frantic pace for days, and now here they were: five rebels, a lame knight, and a young doctor on the doorstep of the most powerful army in the world.