Ethelynne approached to peer at the vials, the contents all a different shade of crimson. Light and almost clear for the Blue. Opaque with a faintly amber hue for the Green. The Red dark and the most viscous, clinging to the glass like oil. The Black was little more than slightly reddened pitch. The colours were not natural but the product of the harvesters’ art, a result of the various chemical additions to stop the contents spoiling and alleviate the effects of imbibing undiluted product, effects that would be dangerous for a Blood-blessed but fatal for others.
“When the sun’s half-set,” Madame Bondersil said, extracting the Blue and tapping it lightly against Ethelynne’s nose. “Not before. Not after. I do have a schedule to keep.”
The Badlands remained stubbornly beyond the horizon as the sun began to dip, heralding the fast descending chill that made traversing these wastes such a trial. This sea of iron would retain heat for only a short while, becoming sheened in frost by the time the sky grew dark, and cold enough to strip skin from unwary hands as the night wore on. Ethelynne closed the duster and tightened her belt before pulling on her gloves, green-leather like the duster and perfect for protecting flesh from extremes of temperature. But she knew this chill would not be easily assuaged and she was so tired.
She had cleared the taller dunes a mile back and now laboured across the flat expanse forming the border with the Badlands. She was keenly aware of the complete lack of cover, taking only scant comfort from the fading light and the empty desert revealed by her frequent backward glances. Could have lost him in the dunes, she thought, knowing it a desperate appeal for luck.
She stumbled to a halt as the half-sun finally appeared on the western horizon. Her shadow stretched away across the sands, an unmistakable marker to any pair of eyes, but it had to be risked now. Despite the gloves her hands still shook as she opened the box to extract the vial of Blue. The tremble grew worse as she fumbled with the stopper, almost dropping it and choking down shout of panic as the precious crimson drops retreated from the lip of the vial. She cast one final glance at the way she had come, seeing only her footprints in the carpet of deepening red, then poured the remaining Blue into her mouth.
For an unblessed the taste of Blue was bitter, vile even, leading to an instant, often unbearable headache and nausea. For a Blood-blessed, however, it was always a profound experience. The acrid taste faded as the trance took hold, normal vision segueing into the mists of memory and imagination. Losing oneself in the swirl could be blissful and Ethelynne’s early lessons at the Academy had been rich in warnings regarding addiction, but today the fear and panic made it a dark trance, the mists storm clouds amid which recent events flashed like lightning. Fortunately, Madame Bondersil had evidently been awaiting this moment and the warm concern in her greeting was enough to calm the impending storm.
Ethelynne. What has happened?
Dead they’re all dead apart from Wittler and he’s trying to kill me…
Calm. Focus. Ethelynne felt the storm abate further as Madame Bondersil’s thoughts flowed into her, replacing panic with sober reflection. Tell me.
The Crater, Ethelynne replied. We reached the Crater. She paused to refocus as the upsurge of memories threatened to reawaken the storm though Madame Bondersil was quick to interpret the images.
You found a White? she asked, her thoughts conveying a sense of amazement Ethelynne had thought beneath her.
Yes… No. We found bones, a skeleton. Too large for a Black. It had to be a White… And an egg. I have it.
The others? What happened to them?
Clatterstock, the Harvester, he thought the bones might contain marrow, so he broke one, powdered it… The powder did something to them… Something that made them fear, and hate, and kill… Bluesilk killed the Crawdens, Clatterstock killed her… Wittler killed him.
But not you?
No. It had no effect on me. When the killing began I took the egg and ran… Wittler is coming for me, Madame… He’s tried twice now… He said something to me, when it happened, just after he shot Clatterstock… ‘You know what I saw.’
And do you?
No. I saw nothing but madness.
Where are you?
On the Red Sands, near the Badlands.
A pause, Madame Bondersil’s thoughts now forming their own storm. Ethelynne found a crumb of comfort in the deep affection she saw amongst the roiling frustration. You have product left?
Ethelynne replied with an image of the vials, concentrating on the empty Blue and the meagre stock of Black.
Madame Bondersil’s storm became more concentrated, flashing as it shifted through the memories Ethelynne had shared of the journey, settling on something from just a week ago, something from the river. What is the first thing I taught you? the tutor asked.
Her memories calmed, forming into an image of a little girl in a new dress, a dress Ethelynne’s mother had spent a month’s wages to buy. The little girl stood among a dozen other children of the same age, all with their hands outstretched, displaying the patch of white skin on their palms. Not burnt like the thousands of other children tested that year, their parents bound by law to present them to the local harvester and watch as he used a long glass pipette to drop a single bead of undiluted blood into their hands. Most screamed and cried as the blood left a dark, black mark, but some, only a very few, stood and stared in wide eyed wonder as the bead seeped into their skin and turned it white.
Blue for the mind, the children chanted in unison. Green for the body. Red for the fire. Black for the push.
Red for the fire, Madame Bondersil’s thought was implacable, emphatic, the accompanying images unnervingly clear. Now you need to get moving.
Despite their coarse manners and coarser language, Ethelynne still found reason to like each of the Sandrunners. Clatterstock was a wall of green-leather criss-crossed by belts festooned with knives. His face was a slab of stubbly granite with thin lips that parted to reveal a smile that was three parts gold to one part teeth. She liked him for his knowledge; a lifetime harvesting blood made him an expert in their quarry.
“You ever see a wild one, little miss?” he asked two days out from Cravenport. The inland road they followed wound through dense bush country that would soon transform into thick jungle where contractors still came to hunt for Greens, though they were fewer in number every year. She was obliged to travel on the supply wagon with Clatterstock, sitting next to him for many an uncomfortable hour as the oxen hauled them over countless ruts. “A real live wild one,” he went on, leaning close, a glint in his eye she might have taken for a leer but for the humour she heard in his voice. “Not those sickly, tooth-pulled things in the breeding pens.”
She gave an honest shake of her head, provoking a laugh as he drew back, snapping reins on ox rump. “Well, that’s one thing we’ll fix for sure. You mind me well, little miss. When it comes to the blood, it’s all me. You watch all you want, but you leave the harvesting to me. First time you gaze into the eyes of a wild one, you’ll know what hate looks like.”