The Blood Burns in My Veins by Megan Derr

Prologue

 

 

Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

 

 

Carac waited until he was absolutely certain the entire household slept, save the guardie, who'd reduced their patrol to one while the rest of them played cards. If his father found out, he'd have them all whipped and thrown out. Carac certainly wasn't going to be the one to tattle.

Soon, he'd never have to see this horrid place ever again. Soon, he'd be far, far away, on a boat with Arata off to see the world. No more feuding, no more blood, no more of this rotten city he never wanted to see again.

When he was certain it was safe, and the guardia on patrol was on the far side of the house grounds, he threw his pack out the window, swung out to the rough, ivy-strewn walls, and carefully made his way to the ground. Stifling an excited cheer as he made it, he scooped up his pack, slung it over his shoulders, and darted off through the garden. Ignoring the creaky gate, he squirmed under the stone wall by way of a tunnel he'd been carefully digging for the past few weeks. Like the guardie, the gardeners only did the work they couldn't avoid and neglected everything else.

He couldn't help a giggle as he climbed to his feet and brushed dirt from his clothes. Giving the house a final look, he turned away and ran off through the dark, quiet streets.

On the corner, a short figure bounced in place to stay warm against the cold, holding the reins of two horses, their breaths coming out in clouds of mist. Reaching them, Carac greeted quietly but breathlessly, "Brom! You made it."

"'Course I made it," Brom said. "Said I would. Here's your horses too."

Carac hugged him tightly. "I don't know what I would have done without you. I'll write you all the time." He shoved a small purse of coins into Brom's hands. "Here's to cover the cost of them. I hope you don't get into too much trouble."

Brom rolled his eyes, but took the money. "Papa won't mind I sold these old nags. You ready?"

"Yes! Let's go."

Smiling, Brom handed off the reins of one of the horses, and they walked together through the quiet streets until they reached the tavern where Carac and Arata had met up a few times a month. When they were unable to go anywhere else, they could always count on this place to have a table where they could drink saké and eat dumplings and simply be.

No family. No fighting. No worrying or secrecy.

His heart pounding so loud it drowned out the rest of the world, Carac looked anxiously around the yard in front of the tavern—and there, still wearing his jinbei and raised sandals, his long, night-dark hair pulled loosely back and held in place with sticks, was Arata. He also had a fresh bandage around one forearm, making Carac frown. Had his family bled him again? Why couldn't they just let his magia come when it would? But he didn't seem too pale, so Carac shoved that worry aside for later. It didn't matter anymore, anyway. They were going away, to be together, to be free.

Letting go of the reins of his horse, Carac rushed across the yard and swept him up, laughing in delight. "We're finally going to be free!" He kissed Arata soundly, smothering his answering laugh, then drew back. "I was worried you wouldn't be able to get away."

Arata shrugged. "Me too, but then an emergency commission came in, and Mother had to pull the rest of the family to blood thirty amulets to be ready by morning. Nobody missed me, except that I'm still useless when it comes to blooding." He grimaced. "Not that they don't try."

Carac frowned at how tired he looked—and up close, he was also paler than he'd seemed before. "Are you all right?" He reached up to cup Arata's cheek. "How badly did they bleed you?"

Turning his head, Arata softly kissed the palm of Carac's hand. "I'm fine. We'll get to the coast tonight, and then I can rest all I like. You can spoil me rotten until my blood is restored, and then we can go anywhere we want."

"Anywhere we want," Carac echoed softly, scarcely daring to really believe this was happening. He kissed Arata again, enjoying the flavor of plum wine that lingered in his mouth, a fading hint of the fragrant, herb-rich pasta he must have had for dinner. "I love you."

Arata twined around him, his dark brown eyes shiny. "I love you more."

"Impossible," Carac said, pressing their temples together, heart fit to burst.

Behind them, Brom coughed quietly. "You should probably be on your way; it's only luck no one has noticed either of you is missing and raised a cry."

"Brom, dōmo for everything." Arata hugged him tightly. "We couldn't have done this without you. I promise if we can ever repay the favor, you've only to contact us—and we'll send you that information the moment we have it."

Smiling, Brom gripped their shoulders and shook them gently. "I know. Get on, now."

Carac gave him one last hug, then took hold of Arata's hand and led him to the horses. He was just about to mount when the smell of steaming buns reminded him. "Hold on one moment! I was going to buy us some buns for the road."

Old man Janshai kept his tavern open at all hours, so those who worked early and late would always have somewhere to eat. During the day, his children and in-laws ran it, but in the quiet hours it was just Janshai, occasionally the old woman down the road that he kept company with.

Darting inside, Carac pulled out coins as he approached the counter. On the other side of it, Janshai was already pulling freshly steamed buns out of the reed steamers and packaging them up. "Saw you out there, thought you might be coming this way," Janshai said, and took a pull on his long pipe, the fragrant smoke wafting through the tavern, as ingrained as the smells of buns, beer, and saké.

"Dōmo, Janshai-san." Carac slid a single yinn across the counter, well over what the buns cost. "I hope you have a quiet night."

"Farewell, Cara-don." Janshai lifted a hand, then went to work folding more dumplings and placing them in steamers.

Carac carried his package outside and tucked it into the saddlebag of his horse. With a last wave to Brom, he led the way out of the courtyard, reluctant to mount and ride until they were further from the city and the noise wouldn't draw as much attention. Horses plodding along in the night were one thing—farmers arriving late to attend markets in the morning, merchants going to and fro. But riding was largely done only by nobili, and people would remember that.

They hadn't gone far when a figure darted out of a dark, narrow alley. The heavy tang of bad iron shivered through Carac's blood. "Ciao, Tani-san."

The stranger didn't reply, save to lunge forward. Carac's blood was all the warning he had before he saw the blade, and he flung himself out of the way. The blade sank into the chest of his horse, which screamed and reared up. Carac threw himself out of the way of its hooves—but that gave the stranger time to attack him again.

Carac threw up his hands in a panic, and screamed as the blade plunged through the center of his hand.

His blood sang with the feel of iron and burned hot.

The man turned away as Arata bellowed and tackled him, sending them both to the stone-paved road with pained cries.

Choking back bile, Carac grabbed the hilt of the blade in his palm, braced himself, and yanked it out with another scream.

It was a mano sinistra—a bad one. But a bad blade was still a blade, as his father loved to say.

Carac was a Ferro, however, and there was no such thing as a bad blade in a Ferro hand. Summoning all his magia, fledgling but strong, Carac expunged the impurities and hardened the iron, sharpening it as best his magia permitted.

His nose dripped blood as he surged forward—just as the attacker threw off Arata and started to stand.

Bellowing, Carac slammed into him and thrust the dagger downward. It took the man's finger off right at the bottom and punched into his shoulder.

Then the man bucked him off and came up swinging with his good hand, slamming a fist into Carac's face, shattering his nose and sending him toppling from surprise and pain.

Voices filled the street, and the man rose and ran off. On the street, Carac could see his severed finger lying in a pool of blood.

Arata. Where was Arata?

Carac looked jerkily around and let out a sigh of relief as he saw Arata lying nearby. "Arata!" He swooped in and turned him around—and wailed. "No, Arata! Arata!" But no matter how many times he sobbed Arata's name, the eyes remained dull, the body too heavy and still. "No, no, no…" Carac cupped Arata's cheek with his bloody hand, sobbing so hard he started coughing.

Rough hands grabbed him, dragged him away even as he kicked and fought to get back to Arata. To wake him up. To make sure he'd be all right. Alive. He wasn't dead, he wasn't wasn't wasn't. They were going away. They were going to be free. Together. Happy.

Someone wrapped him up in a heavy cloak and threw him over their shoulder, and Carac threw up as pain and grief and overtaxing himself finally won out. The man carrying him swore but didn't stop walking.

They traveled through the streets, but it was too dark for Carac to see who was there, though he thought he heard his mother's voice. And now he could smell anise, which mean it was probably his father carrying him. He was the only one big enough to do it, other than a few of the guardie.

Eventually the movement stopped, and he was set on his feet and unwrapped. His mother stood in front of him.

"Mama," Carac sobbed. "Arata— Is Arata—"

"That's enough!" a voice bellowed out, making even his mother jump.

Carac tried to stifle his tears as Hardegin-principe stormed across the room, and all the angry voices abruptly cut off.

Behind him was a tall, spindly man dressed in the ponderous robes of a giudice, with the three gold dots painted on his forehead that marked him a Giudice Principale of Verona. He was grim-faced as he took in the room, hard, dark eyes eventually settling on Carac.

"What is going on here?" Hardegin demanded, looking over Carac, his parents, Arata's family, and all the way at the back were Brom and Janshai. He glanced back at Carac, the lines of his face deepening.

Then he turned sharply away and looked to the couple crying quietly over what must be Arata's draped body. "Ishikawa-donni, is it true your son is dead?"

"Yes," Izumi hissed. "That Ferro whelp killed him in a street fight!"

"No, I didn't!" Carac bellowed. "I love Arata. We're going to run away! That man from the alley killed him! I cut off his finger! I didn't—"

The sound of the slap made more than a few people gasp.

Carac stared in disbelief at his mother. "Mama—"

"Not another word out of you," she hissed. "You've caused enough harm for one night."

"I didn't do it," Carac sobbed out. "We were going to run away. That man attacked us. He had bad iron in his mano sinistra. I-I-I purged the blade and hardened it, and cut off his finger before putting it in his shoulder. I didn't kill Arata! I love him!" He whipped around, staring at the back of the courthouse hall they were in. "Brom! Tell them!"

Everyone turned to face Brom, and Hardegin motioned for him to speak.

"Principe-sama, he asked me to bring two horses tonight at the Neko Tavern. I brought two old nags my father would be glad to see gone, and he paid me for them. I was leaving when I heard the commotion. That's all I know." He bowed low to Hardegin.

"What—" Carac stared, horrified. Confused. "That's not true! You walked with me to the tavern! You knew I was running away! You—" His mother slapped him again, and Carac dropped to the floor sobbing.

"Grandpa-san," Hardegin said to Janshai. "What can you tell us?"

Carac looked up hopefully.

"Principe-sama, I wish I could offer more help, but I'm only an old bun-maker. Ferro-don came in to buy some buns, and then went on his way. He does so often, but I've never paid any mind to what else he does."

"Dōmo." Hardegin turned to Carac. "Your story has fallen apart. Best to tell the truth."

Carac swallowed. "By the Flame in my blood, Principe-sama, I have told the truth. They are lying."

"Enough," his mother hissed. "Principe-sama, I cannot apologize enough for this. We have abided by your edict. I did not know the boy was carrying on, else I would have put an end to it."

"Apologies grew wearisome a long time ago, Ferro-donna," Hardegin said. "Apologies do not bring back the dead boy. Do better than apologies."

"Kattalin," his father said quietly, and she shared a brief look with him before stepping back and bowing her head.

Carac's heart sank further.

Hardegin looked at Carac's father. "You have something to say that you think might keep your family from having their heads removed, Ferro-don?"

"Nothing I do will bring their son back," Ferro said, "but we had no knowledge of this. We do not condone it. We have abided by your edict, Principe-sama. If Carac cannot do the same, then he is no longer a part of this family. I renounce him and cast him out. He is yours to do as you see fit."

Carac stared at his parents, but they turned their backs. Brom and Janshai were gone. The Ishikawa family looked both anguished and smug.

Numbness spread through Carac, drying up his tears. No one believed him. His best friend had lied. Betrayed him. Janshai… he'd helped Janshai a thousand times, washing dishes and disposing of the trash, running out troublesome customers. He'd betrayed Carac too.

Even his own family would not listen to him.

He went without resistance as he was hauled to his feet by Hardegin and stood in front of the giudice.

"Gorvenal-giudice, I entrust you with his sentencing. He is guilty of murder and flagrantly disobeying a royal edict."

Gorvenal looked like he wished he was anywhere else in the world, but he drew himself up and stared sternly at Carac. His dark eyes seemed to explore every scrap of Carac, from his broken nose to the blood smeared down his shirt, and the wounded hand he held cradled against his chest.

He then looked to Hardegin. "With respect, Principe-sama, I do not like this sentencing without trial."

"I have already made that decision," Hardegin said. "Stop cowering and do your job."

Mouth flattening, Gorvenal gave a terse nod and said, "Cara-don, for the crimes of defying a royal edict and murder of intent, I sentence you to twenty years' incarceration on the Isola del tasso. May the Gods have mercy on your soul."

Gasps and shouts and protests filled the room, but Hardegin lifted a hand to silence them. "The sentence has been pronounced, and it is just. Ferro-donni, you will pay the mourning costs. You are both dismissed. Ishikawa-donni, please come with me." He motioned to a guardia standing at the fringes to take the body away.

Carac watched as Arata vanished through the door, gone forever now. Tears wanted out, but he still couldn't cry them.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Hardegin asked.

Carac met his eyes and said quietly, "Everything I said tonight is true."

Looking disgusted and disappointed, Hardegin motioned to more guardie. "Take him away. Lock him up until a boat arrives that can carry him to Tasso. I hope while you are locked up, Cara-don, that you have the sense to mature and learn from your mistakes. There is no life for you left here in Verona, but you could rebuild somewhere else if you can learn to be a better, more honorable and noble man."

Carac said nothing, only went quietly as the guardie hauled him away.

But his mind burned with thoughts the way his blood burned for iron.

Thoughts of Arata, so loving and warm a short time ago, now stiff and cold. Murdered by a brigand for money that Carac would have handed over without protest.

Thoughts of his mother; his father; Brom; Janshai; Gorvenal; Hardegin; that murderous thief.

Thoughts of revenge.