by Ben Galley
Merion reached up to scratch his nose, nonchalant as can be. Merion looked right back at her, with a gaze as flat as the very desert. He did not seem browbeaten, or guilty, as Lilain had hoped. He was angry, she could tell that much, but he boiled underneath his skin, holding it back for the moment. Lilain glared at him.
‘You hear me, Nephew?’ she snapped.
‘I hear you alright,’ Merion hissed in reply. ‘but I don’t care.’
‘I beg your p—’
Merion cut her off. ‘I know what you were hiding from me now. The Shohari told me,’ he said, his voice rising, the way it did when he knew he had the upper hand.
Lilain did not wilt. She was a veritable bonfire of rage. She turned on Lurker and pointed the knife at him. ‘The Shohari? Well, you’re a true idiot, John Hobble. An idiot and a fucking liar, and I don’t want you in my sight! Get away, until such time as I can stomach to look at you!’ Lilain screeched, wrinkling her lip in a way that made Lurker’s heart fall just a little, though he wouldn’t have admitted it. His only reply was a grunt and a tug of his hat, before trudging off down the path and into Fell Falls, his head drooped even lower than before.
Lilain turned back to her nephew. ‘You’ve got some nerve…’ she growled.
Merion wrestled Gorm back onto the trail. ‘And so do you. How dare you lie to me, keep me in the dark about secrets like your little vials of blood? Oh yes, I know all about your little hobby now, and why you keep such things.’
Lilain smiled, though it was one that was cold and devoid of humour. ‘Whatever they told you, you don’t know the half of it.’
Merion smiled right back. Amongst all his righteous anger, his confusion and the disappointment he had spent the last few days trying to ignore, a tiny part of him had doubted the Sleeping Tree and its strange words. It was a talking tree, after all. But there it was: an admission of guilt if ever he had heard one. There was no doubt about this now; the tree had spoken the truth, and with that revelation came a fresh rush of excitement and fear to swirl alongside his anger.
Merion leant forwards in his saddle. He spoke very quietly and very firmly. ‘And that’s why you’re going to tell me every last, tiny, little thing.’
All Lilain did was wave her knife and turn away, stomping back to the house. Merion scowled, He tugged at Gorm’s reins and led the pony down the trail and up the rise to the house. He was not surprised to see yet another body lying on the cart. The railwraiths had been at work again, that much was obvious. He wondered how many had died since he had left.
Lilain was by the cart. ‘Three,’ she said, interpreting his look, her voice still strained with anger. ‘In a week, the railwraiths have come three times. While you were off gallivanting with Lurker, going behind my back, I had to do all the work. On my own.’
‘I saw one,’ Merion said, slowly sliding from Gorm’s back. ‘On the plains.’
Lilain looked up. ‘A wraith?’ she asked.
‘Big as a house.’
Lilain gave the cart a kick with her boot. ‘That damn Lurker!’
‘He was trying to help.’
‘Dragging you into the desert and filling your mind with nonsense don’t help one tiny bit!’
‘But it’s not nonsense, is it?’ Merion challenged her. ‘You’re lying.’
Lilain grit her teeth and busied herself with the body. ‘Who told you? Was it Lurker? It was, wasn’t it?’
Merion shook his head. ‘No, a Sleeping Tree told me. The Shohari took me to it and it told me everything. About what you do, down in that basement of yours. About what my father was capable of, and how I’m like him. I know it all.’ He sounded proud of that fact, proud and resentful.
‘And what else did this tree say?’ Lilain’s tone had abruptly softened.
‘That father was killed for money,’ Merion answered her. If he wanted the truth, he supposed he had better dish some out as well. Besides, he wanted to see what Lilain would say, see whether he could spy another flicker of guilt in her face. ‘But you knew that already, didn’t you?’
Lilain sighed. ‘Well, he wasn’t short of it,’ she said, in a quiet voice. There was no flicker of guilt there. Not a trace. Instead her eyes were hard, and Merion knew she was telling the truth. ‘No, I did not, Merion. But I suspected it. Karrigan was a rich and powerful man. It always has something to do with money, amongst such men. But to kill him? Somebody was desperate.’
Merion narrowed his eyes. ‘And you have no idea who?’
That stern face of hers didn’t waver. ‘Like I’ve said before. Not a clue. Just like you, Nephew.’
A moment passed, filled with silence, then Merion spoke. ‘I want to know about the blood. About what my father could do. What I can do. I have a right to know,’ he said.
Lilain scowled. ‘As I told that magpie-toting idiot last week, you’re too young.’
A deep voice rang out from behind her then, unmistakeable. ‘He ain’t Lil,’ it said.
Lilain whirled around, instantly enraged. ‘Lurker! Get off my property!’
‘I’ve seen it. He can rush alright, Lil. No doubt about it.’
It was then that Lilain slapped him, good and hard across the face and nose. Lurker took it without complaint. He simply spat in the dirt and pointed at Merion. ‘The boy rushed the horse’s shade, you hear me? Clear as day, I saw it. He’s Karrigan’s boy alright.’
‘You …’ Lilain could barely form words, she was so livid. ‘You knew what it could have done to him. You knew, and you did it anyway. Horse-blood could have killed him, stone dead, and you would have been standing here with a dead boy in your arms! Did you even think? Did you?’
Lurker nodded. ‘Long and hard, ma’am.’
Lilain leant so close they almost touched noses. ‘I said, get your bullsnatch off my property,’ she hissed.
‘So be it,’ Lurker grumbled, and turned his back. For the second time that day, he bowed his head, and set a course for the town.
‘What does he mean, rushed?’
Lilain waited until her knuckles popped before finally unclenching her fists. ‘Maker damn it,’ she sighed.
‘Are you going to tell me now?’ Merion asked. ‘Finally?’
Lilain shoved Mister Khurt onto the table before answering. ‘I suppose I’ll have to.’
Merion’s face was a picture of grim satisfaction. He nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose you will.’
*
Waiting for answers can be torturous. Enduring the display of a man being cut open and prepared for burial, whilst waiting for answers, is even worse. Merion had thought himself numbed by now, but here he was, as squeamish as ever. Blood had new meaning to him now. It was not just the gore, but the feral power it hid. Not only did he find himself disgusted by it, but somewhat afraid of it. So it was that he sat on his hands and stared at his aunt’s fingers moving as deftly as they always did, cutting and slicing, turning the pieces over and over, drilling down into some imagined core. Lilain was taking her time with this one, stalling perhaps. But he would have his answers.
‘Why do you cut them all open? You know what killed them. Why examine them?’ he asked. His voice sounded harsh against the silence and the wet squelching.
Lilain sniffed. She too seemed angry, but Merion didn’t care. All she had to be angry about was his running away, and Lurker. But he had been lied to. The high ground was his.
‘Although we’re all made of the same stuff, each one of us different. Science, Merion. Its roots lie in research.’
‘So it isn’t to do with their blood?’ Merion asked. This time Lilain flinched.
‘No. I only take their blood as a sign of respect. A burial of sorts.’
‘Another vial for your collection.’
Lilain flashed him a glare. ‘As I said before, I cannot abide sneaking in my house. Nor anywhere else for that matter.’
‘It isn’t magick then?’
‘Oh, all blood has magick in it, Merion. Human blood is sacred, however. It ain’t to be
touched.’
Merion leant forward. ‘While we’re on the subject, touched by whom? People like my father? Like me?’
Lilain slammed her open palms down on the table, leaving bloody handprints on her table. ‘You really want to know, don’t you? Every last grisly detail. You still think magick is something to be gawped at, something exciting and wondrous, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong. Magick is dirty. It’s rough. Raw. Magick isn’t pretty, it isn’t stars and sparkles. It’s blood and guts and vomit, you hear me? All humans have ever done with magick is use it to kill, coerce, and destroy, and that’s all we’ll ever use it for. So, I ask you Merion, do you really want to pick at this scab? Do you really want to open that door and stare into magick’s twisted face? Because if you are your father’s son, and Lurker is right, there is no going back. You better be ready for what comes at you.’
Merion scowled. ‘Is this the part where you tell me that with great power comes great responsibility? Because I’ve heard that from my father a hundred times.’
Lilain flashed him one of her mirthless smiles, to let him know she was deadly serious. ‘No, this is the part where I tell you that with great power comes a great cartload of enemies, Merion. This isn’t a fairy tale, understand me?’
Merion ached to snort at that, but he caught himself. This was a time for answers, not for jokes. ‘I understand,’ he told her.
Lilain turned back to her corpse. ‘So be it,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘Maker, what would Karrigan say if he was here.’ The stool creaked as Merion shifted his weight. ‘And Maker forgive me,’ she whispered under her breath.
Lilain worked as she spoke, perhaps trying to distract herself from her own words. She spoke slowly and calmly, with none of the finesse she usually spoke with. This was not a story. Not tonight.
‘Bloodrushing is what it’s called. And rushers rush with the help of a little blood. It’s an ancient magick, one that we’ve practised for thousands of years, ever since the first ancestor cracked open his brother’s skull with a rock and wondered what his brain tasted like. See? I told you it weren’t pretty. Ever heard of Arexinder the Great?’
‘I have,’ Merion said. There was a painting of him in his father’s study.
‘He was a rusher. It’s what helped him blaze a path all the way to Indus, centuries before the Empire was even a whisper on the wind. When he put the red in his belly, it was that of a lion.’
Merion held up a hand. ‘You’re speaking in riddles, Aunt.’
Lilain sighed curtly before continuing. ‘Rushers drink blood to gain power. Your average rusher can only stomach—and I mean that literally—one shade of blood. If a rusher is lucky, or trains very hard indeed, they might be able to stomach two or three. Maybe four. And by shades, I mean types. Types of animal. Each animal has its own shade, and each animal belongs to a certain vein. Fish, birds, mammals, mythical. These are all veins.’
With every word, Merion’s heart beat a little faster. He did not know whether it was fear, excitement, or anger that he hadn’t known sooner. In any case, his chest thudded and his skin prickled.
‘If you’re lucky enough to have the stomach for bloodrushing, and very few bloodlines do in this day and age, then you don’t get to choose your shades, or your veins. You are simply born with them. Like your eye or your hair colour. Stuck with them for life. Stronger bloodlines, like ours, are usually lucky. Like Arexinder, we’ve got a natural aptitude. Harks are naturally stronger than other, lesser rushers, who have to be content with bloods possessing powers that are weaker, or just plain useless.’
‘Such as?’ Merion asked. He could feel sweat on his brow despite the cool of the basement. Magic was what every boy dreams of, and yet … what if he wasn’t good enough? What if his shade was weak?
‘Pelican blood, for instance,’ said Lilain, ‘is a shade that allows a rusher to drink seawater in great quantities without dying.’
‘And what’s a good shade? What does lion blood do?’ Merion asked, hoping his would be lion.
‘Strength, ferocity, and a hunter’s instinct.’
‘And others?’
Lilain pushed herself away from the table and went to lean on one of the wooden pillars. ‘You understand this isn’t a game?’
Merion was starting to realise it. ‘Of course.’
Lilain squinted at her nephew for a spell. ‘Firefly blood makes you glow. Cuttlefish makes your skin change colour. Horse makes you want to run, gives you stamina. Magpie blood, well, I assume you already know that one.’
‘Lurker’s shade.’
‘His only shade, or so he says,’ Lilain replied, visibly fuming at the mention of the prospector.
‘They call his kind a goldnose. There’s all sorts of nicknames, and not all of them kind ones. Smartbeak, dustkicker, mortscent. The bird vein always has the best ones.’
‘And my father? What was his shade? Will mine be the same?’
Lilain held up her bloody hands. ‘We’ll get to that,’ she told him. ‘But please, before I say any more, you have to promise me that you will not breath a word of this to anybody. Not a soul, you hear? The people who knew what Karrigan could do feared him. They would fear you just the same, and hate you for it. He was dangerous, and maybe that’s what got him killed in the end. I don’t want the same happening to you, alright? They’ll smile alright, before going behind your back, and melt your insides while they’re at it. Not a soul, do I have your word?’
‘You do,’ Merion said. He resented it—that was for sure, promising this lying aunt of his anything at all; but then again, he was not sure he wanted his insides to melt any time soon. Better to keep a tight lip, for now.
‘Good. Now, your father weren’t no ordinary bloodrusher. Like our father, he was what we call a leech. Your father wasn’t stuck to stomaching one shade, or three, no. He could rush with all different kinds of bloods, all from different veins. For that reason, leeches are very dangerous, both to themselves and others.’
‘Does that mean I am a leech?’ Merion asked, in a voice a little more high-pitched than he would have liked. His emotions kept swirling.
Lilain didn’t look too impressed with that question. ‘Your father is one of only three leeches I know of. They’re rare, and it’s been known to skip generations. You may be just an ordinary rusher, Merion. Don’t get your hopes up. Leeches may be able to tolerate different shades of blood, but that doesn’t mean to say they can tolerate all shades. Some even become more deadly to a leech. The purity of the blood is key as well, and for that you need a good letter.’
‘What’s a letter?’
‘Why do you insist on jumping … Oh, for Maker’s sake. A letter is a blood-letter, Merion. A bleeder. A butcher. The person who collects, purifies and sells the blood to bloodrushers. Letters were once prized possessions. Every bloodrushing kaesar of the First Empire had his own personal letter, though they left it out of the history books. Bloodrushing used to be the sport and skill of nobles, and nobles only. A lot of gold was spent and a lot of swords drawn to keep it that way, to keep the magick secret. Letting was no different. It’s a dying art now. Shame.’
Merion was starting to read between the lines. The way Aunt Lilain spoke of letting compared to the way she had spoken of Karrigan’s leech-powers was noticeably different. Even her posture had changed. From slumped shoulders to a raised chin, Merion could see it now. He went about it delicately, if that were possible for a Hark.
‘And what, if I may ask, is your shade, Aunt Lilain?’ Merion enquired.
Lilain rolled her eyes and moved to the sink so she could wash her blood-encrusted hands. ‘I don’t have one,’ she replied. It sounded like a confession, the way she mumbled it, almost as if she were ashamed.
‘So, you’re not a bloodrusher?’ asked Merion.
Lilain watched the water drip brown and bloody into the white porcelain sink. ‘No, I am not. As I said, it can sometimes skip a generation, or a sibling, in my case. Karrigan got all the powers, w
hereas I was left with my mind and my hands. If my father couldn’t have two rushing offspring, he’d raise a letter instead. That was why he’d surrounded me with tutors since I was a child. I’ve been doing this since I was your age.’
Merion nodded. ‘So I take it you sell the blood you collect? This is your business.’
Lilain snorted. ‘Why do you think I’m so keen to bury the cats and dogs of this town, as well as its people? I’m a Hark as well, remember. I too have business in my blood.’
Merion could not help but curl his lip. ‘What a business it must be.’
Lilain almost threw her towel at the boy. Instead she took a step closer and stared down at him. ‘Let’s say you are a rusher. Maybe even a leech. Where are you going to get your blood from, hmm? Just going to strut into the desert and bleed yourself a lion, are we? Or an eagle? What about a bluebuck, or an auk? No, you would go to your letter, and they would give you what you need. For a price.’
Lilain kept her eyes fixed on her nephew as she bent down and pulled a lever underneath the counter. Merion heard a click and a rattle of chain, and before he knew it, the wall behind her was moving. A whole bookshelf was swinging inwards, revealing a dark passageway into the earth. Something glittered in the darkness. Lilain reached for a lantern so she could light the way. Merion, fidgeting with undeniable curiosity, hopped from his stool and followed her into the gloom of her little lair.
Blood. The hidden chamber was full of it, from top to bottom and end to end. A hundred colours shone on a hundred different shelves, captured in vials and bottles of all different shapes and sizes. Some were square, others round. A few were banded with metal as if their contents were struggling to burst out. Each wore a little label on a string, with a strange, spiked pattern scrawled on it. Merion peered at every one in turn as he followed Lilain deeper into the chamber, hoping for a more familiar language. A thousand different hues of red watched him pass, the lantern light splashing their carmine colours against the sandy ochre of the walls. Here and there other colours stuck out: yellows, browns, even blues.
