The King's Blood (43 page)

Aldrin solemnly folded every pair of partially shredded hose and fraying tunic as if he were about to be graded upon it. Each perfectly square pile went on top of the books, nestled safely in the bottom.
 

"We need food," Ciara said. They tore through their meager supplies most of the trip out and a few late nights when none of them wanted to risk the glares of the priests huddled over tables, poking various anatomical wax models with pins.

"I can get it," Isa said, stretching her arms. Even if any of the doctor priests found her, they'd probably run screaming the other way.
 

"No, the kitchen is near the door. We go together, scavenge what we can, then leave. Preferably before anyone catches on to our leaving," he said, almost commandingly.
 

Ciara wanted to argue, something about the plan stuck to her like a thorn to a sock, but she couldn't verbalize it. Instead, she stuffed the last few piles of their discarded clothing into the bags and picked her coat up off the floor. Aldrin did the same, draping it around his shoulders and not bothering to cinch the waist.

"Torches would be a very bad idea," Ciara said, picturing the glow that would follow them down every narrow hall, their shadows dancing upon walls.

The witch smiled again, "Then, I believe I can help." She reached into her pocket and pulled out another crystal, this one clear as a diamond.

Walking over to the brazier, Isadora closed her tiny eyes and turned her hand so the crystal and her fingers, dipped into the flames. "What in the hell are you..." was as far as Ciara got before the witch removed her unburnt hand.

A small orange glow pulsed inside the diamond, flickering like a small flame. Isa breathed out slowly, and small plumes of smoke dribbled from the corner of her mouth. But the dancing light remained.
 

"And that's better than a torch..." Ciara prompted, the fresh shadows dancing on her periphery.
 

Without saying a word, Isa closed her fist, shutting off the flames trapped inside. When she opened it again the light flared back to life. Isa looked up through her lashes at Ciara, her pale eyes gaining a red tinge in the ethereal light.

"Magic," Ciara muttered, grabbing her pack and heading out into the silent hall. With the sputtered cough of a woman up to two ounces of ditchweed a day, the witch laughed, more plumes of smoke kicking from her breath like a frosty night.
 

The walk to the kitchen was silent, Aldrin leading the way. Isa kept her fist closed as Ciara watched behind. The three were prepared for the entirety of the order to swoop out of their cells and rain surgery down upon them. But it was an almost uneventful trip to the dining hall. A mouse skittered out of the walls and made it within a few inches of the witch before it paused, looked up, then beat haste the way it came.

Cautiously pushing open the dining room door, a fluffy blonde head poked around the edge hunting for shadows within. But only the dark shadows of some chairs bounced against the walls as the hearth snored softly, flaring occasionally as it dreamed. "Perhaps our luck is changing," the prince whispered.

Ciara looked around as well, trying to spot a pair of occupied shoes hidden behind a tapestry or beneath the table, but the boy was right. There was no one. Not even one of the younger ones, drinking a gallon of that black tar and chattering about the rhythm of circadas before he passed out into a plate of what was supposed to represent the digestive tract.
 

That thorn was back, digging into tender shins. Her growing fever turned to chills in the dead room. "Let's get what we need and leave," she whispered into his ear.

The prince's eyebrows flatlined, but he otherwise nodded and took one careful step into the hall. When nothing happened, he placed a second down. It took about ten before he stopped pausing every moment, waiting for something to come seeping from the walls after him.
 

Isa walked crisply into the room, heading directly for the kitchen, pausing only to bonk Aldrin over the head with her diamond hand. The boy was mid over step, and the shift in his center caused him to weave. Ciara tried to grab his hand but it was too little too late and he crashed to the floor. A smoky chuckle puffed from the pantry, as the witch made herself at home digging through shelves.

Ciara's hand grabbed the prince's and pulled him up while their eyes gravitated to the side and front door. But despite the loud thud from noble ass hitting stone, no one came running, hobbling, or snorting at being awakened through the doors. It was still whisper quiet.

By the time they joined Isa most of the day old bread already made its way into her pack, as well as the dried beef and handfuls of dried fruit that didn't make it into Brother Balm's liquid Soulday cake. "You want to leave some of that for the monks?" Ciara asked.

The witch spun around, her arms overloaded with cans of flour, as if they'd have much use of that on the road, "If their stomachs grumble, they can pray to their god for manna."
 

Aldrin laid a hand upon her burdened arm, which earned him a razor glare but little else, "There are people suffering here, only take what we need to survive."

Isa glared at the prince, "They only suffer because these fools and their mighty gods force them too. Some of them could have been healed by a witch's hand."

"Then why didn't you?" Aldrin asked removing his hand.

Her lips pulled into a deadly pout as her eyebrows lowered. Slowly, Isa turned and placed the canisters of flour back upon the shelf. "You know nothing about life, little king," she muttered threateningly under her breath.

Aldrin chose to ignore her, restocking a canister of salt that must have taken years of petty pilgrims to fill. Ciara joined him, replacing most of what the witch piled upon the small barrel of pickled pig's feet. "An entire ham? What were we going to do with that?"

"Raise a demon from the depths beyond the veil to do my bidding," Isa said morbidly, "Or, I don't know, perhaps consume it."

They settled on most of the old bread, the chipped bits of beef, a handful of bones in case they decided to make soup, and refilled their water skins in the rain bucket. Aldrin nodded approvingly as the witch continued to glare, slipping a sugared plum deep into her pockets. As the three exited the dining hall for the front door, an old pair of eyes watched from atop the long vacant pedestal. No one ever looks for the crazy old guy posing as a statue until it's too late.
 

"Witch, shield your torch," Ciara hissed, as they passed the only maintained room in the entire city, the chapel.

"Sandworm, shield your tongue," Isa responded but still closed her fist, sending the hallway into darkness. Aldrin promptly ran into her, apologizing profusely and drawing more attention to them than any small candle would have.

And still nothing. Isa crossed the open threshold first, watching through the sides of her eyes. She tiptoed carefully in the shadows, leaving no sound from her tiny feet. Aldrin followed, hunched over deep as if the altar could shield him from any wandering eyes.

Finally Ciara, who didn't have it in her to crouch, stepped lightly into the harsh glow of a judgmental god and froze. The endlessly spinning head of Hospi shined her beacon of cleanliness, health, and having liquids come out of your nose upon the shadow cowering in her temple. Ciara froze, waiting for the other hammer to drop, for a horde of blue robes to descend having finished Mass, or Services, or Vespers, or whatever they called waking at 3 in the morning and braying like donkeys for an hour.

But only silence answered back.
 

Finally, she exhaled and looked in, shielding her eyes from the straining glow of the goddess and snapped her head around at Isadora, "There's no one in there."

"I know," the witch smiled.

Aldrin stood sheepishly, stretching his shoulders. How moving at crotch height made anyone vanish from sight he was uncertain, but one of the Historians raved about it being a masterful skill in other kingdoms.
 

"Let's get the hell out of here," Ciara grumbled and stomped loudly across the threshold, just as the light of Hospi rotated from her face.

She led the final way, only down the short-term patient corridor (which, as they'd learned on the first day was unoccupied...now) and to the door. Then out of the ruins, out of the caravans and no more having to keep a princeling alive. Freedom sparkled in the air.

Isa opened her hand wide, casting more light across the dead hallway. Aldrin watched it bobbing in her palm and asked, "Do you mine those yourselves?"

"What?" she'd been listening to something no one else could hear.

"The gemstones, or crystals, that you use. Do you witches mine and cut them or do you hire out?"

Isa pulled the diamond closer to her eyes, which had a strange ring of blue about the iris despite the orange haze, "This is Dwarven make."

"Really?" Aldrin lit up like the Soulday tree after Mitrione and his dangling cigarette got too close.

Her stubby finger pointed to a small etching in the bottom. Sure enough, there was the tiny hammer flanked by a "D" for Dwarven and a curious symbol to represent whichever clan made it. Or so the old legends said of the Dwarves.

Aldrin wanted to reach out and touch it. He'd been intrigued as a child by not only Dwarven skills, but their history, their culture, their love of eating rocks. But because the great miners all vanished deep into their underground lairs centuries ago most of what is told was actually made up by a very nice man who needed to stop licking rocks he found by the side of the stream.

There were still remnants, pieces that would float into bazaars and market places. Fantastical machines full of gears that, when cranked, tended to do nothing. Gemstones the size of fists that sparkled made the perfect paperweight or present for that hard to buy for person. And all stamped with the hammer. He was only six when he discovered a small screw, little bigger than his own small finger, with a microscopic hammer etched into the head and excitedly shown it to Henrik. His brother grabbed it from his hand and threw it down the midden.
 

His finger glanced across the gemstone's surface and the small flame leapt out, reaching for his hand. Aldrin jerked back and the only bit of light puffed up into the air, its life lost in the darkness. He could feel the icy witch glare on his burning ears even in the blackness.

Ciara's voice rang from further down the hall, "Would you two stop playing. We're almost out of here. Just get to the door and..."

She screamed as an icy hand grabbed her wrist and turned her arm back upon itself. Aldrin ran towards the sound uncertain what he would face, as his fingers fumbled for his rusty sword.
 

A ring of flame flared into life as one of the brothers unshielded his lantern and dropped it into the oil trough. The foyer illuminated five of the nondescript brothers who'd filtered around the edges of their life, each holding various terrifying surgery tools. One even had the same mechanism Balm used to unstick the library door.

"I'm afraid you will not be reaching the door."

Aldrin turned, pointing his sword at the man who held Ciara tightly, the Bishop. Isa hissed like a cat, but did little else. Witches tended to skip combat training. All of the priestly eyes turned to Aldrin who wavered a moment, the sword almost slipping from his sweaty palms. He raised it to Bezoar, who barely took notice of the blade inches from his throat.

"Come, we can handle this like civilized beings," the words oozed from his mouth. His hair, brushed up and back in a hurry, appeared like a pair of horns tufting from the sides.

"Let her go," Aldrin said. It was all he could say as it was all he could think at the moment.

The Bishop turned his head, "Very well." His vice released its prey and pushed her. Ciara's hand dropped and found the familiar pommel. She turned, bringing it to the Bishop's throat but he'd been expecting the feisty one to fight back and, curling his fist, punched her swiveling face in the jaw.

The dagger fell to the ground and she crumpled after it, cracking her nose and forehead against the rocks. A small pool of blood dribbled into the masonry cracks.

"Cia," Aldrin squeaked. She didn't answer him, but kept breathing raggedly. He hadn't killed her, yet.

"What do you want?" Isa asked, growing restless. Her fingers were pricking.

"Finally, someone rises to the occasion. A woman whose blood reeks of fish, but a start nonetheless." The Bishop's remarks earned a fist raise from Isa but he placed a boot upon Ciara's hip and ground down. As the girl struggled to not scream, the witch dropped her hand, letting the magical streams dribble out.

"You travel in interesting company," the Bishop said, "A sandworm and fuel for the pyre. I'd have expected better from the prince of Ostero."

Aldrin didn't even blink, "What are you speaking of?"

The Bishop folded his arms, "Come now. Pretending is beneath someone of your bloodline. The swooping nose, the indented forehead, the curve of the ice grey eyes. Your veins are thick with Ostero blood."

Great. Out of all the monasteries they had to walk into, this one was ruled by a phrenologist with a royalty fetish. "I'd quite like to keep my blood where it is," Aldrin said staring steadily up at the Bishop.

He clucked his tongue, as if he were reprimanding a poorly performing student, "We will not be draining you," he looked down at the girl under his boot, "unless you give us probable cause."

The blue robes advanced a step. "Word has already been sent for the bounty."

A voice rose from the floor, full of rage, "You're for the Empire? Bastard."

The Bastard looked down at his handy work trying to crawl away and tsked his tongue again, "You really should train your servants better, milord." He even bowed deeply, putting more pressure on Ciara.

Aldrin instinctively stepped closer, pulling the ring of armed priests with him. "This monastery would be crushed under the Emperor's thumb without the Ostero protection," Aldrin said, lessons on the fragile politics of the region floating into his brain. He didn't add the second half of his lesson aloud, "And ye'd be up a bum fuck creek without a paddle."