Blood Gift Part One

By Tegan Abbott

Book one in a dramatic new trilogy

In a world of impossible things, where to touch the ancient power of the Strand brings mysterious and powerful gifts, an unnamed assassin on the edge of death is rescued by a nobleman driven by the urge to use his gift to bring ease to the peoples of the land.

It is an opportunity that brings the promise of redemption to the man renamed Vehemence. But Vehemence is more than an assassin wanting to give up his burdens. He is a blood-linker and the needed talent in the nobleman (under the alias of) Dolour's group of hex-breakers. It is as a blood-linker that he is given a home and a new cause - to assist the group in their good works.

But Dolour's group operates under the watchful eye of the oppressive Guild of Impossible Things, and when their attention is turned elsewhere, does not hesitate to associate with the Faction, which works against the Guild in an invisible war.

Just when it seems likely that Vehemence will bring the Guild and Faction together in a new peace, he is uneasy. What are Dolour's real motives? Is there really a war between those who touch the Strand, and those touched by it? As they make plans to head out into the fearful Swamps, where the whole land lies under a deadly hex, Vehemence finds himself asking difficult questions, and deciding he must find the answers - even if it costs him his one chance for redemption.

Blood Gift is the first book in a dramatic trilogy that unfolds within a fantasy world of seemingly impossible things.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tegan Abbott
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780987539700

Tegan Abbott

Tegan Abbott is a creative writer and novelist, who wrote her first book at 18. Her 2012 self-published fiction novel, "Blood Gift: Part One", was inspired by a White Wolf table-top role-play game, Exalted. "Blood Gift" is a fantasy novel series complete with redemption and failure. Readers follow the journey of an assassin who develops into a hero, all while fighting his own complicated internal battle."Blood Gift" was an intentional name for the series that she bled for and worked profoundly hard to create ... while creating herself in the process. Like writing, it did not come easily or for free, it was earned while she was working and or studying full time. After finishing her "Blood Gift" trilogy and then completing the first book in a new series, Tegan showed that despite obstacles such as her dyslexia, she could be a successful writer.Not only is Tegan an avid writer influenced by other creatives, such as Robin Hobb and Brandon Sanderson, but she also finds inspiration for her creative works from the world around her. She enjoys studying and writing biology, psychology, and botany. The scientific questions that we are not yet able to answer serve as an encouragement for her fantasy writing and development of new ideas to incorporate into her novels.Her books are available on her website.www.TeganAbbott.com

Book preview

Chapter One

Puppet Theater

The water was cool against his fevered skin. Even while it eased his hands, it sent a shiver to his toes, and made something in his stomach move. He took a heavy breath, and removed his hands from the water. The drops that fell home were red. It seemed useless to wash this un-washable blood. It had been work, before: cold and methodical. But this blood stained his skin; he could never wash it off. It was there as a cruel reminder of what he had done. He rubbed his hands. This time, it drove a shudder through him more intense than the cold. He was hot and cold, and neither was comfortable. He braved another hand in the water, and brought some captured drops to the surface. He held the water in his cupped hand until he found the nerve to splash his face. The shock of the cold made his stomach lurch again. He rubbed his shirt on his face, then shook. He moved his left arm, and queried the pain in his movements. He had sustained a wound that would have taken his head had he not offered his arm. His fingers worked. And his elbow bent. Good. The rest could heal. He would not brave a look at the wound beneath the bloodied shirt, though. Not yet.

He stood—and felt every muscle ache in protest. Enough! He was master of his flesh. His body would submit! He moved, and shivered at the excruciating pain as he did so. He laughed. Now, the thumping of his head had a contender. A wounded man is a dead man on the roadside. Move! he growled, as he slowly brought himself to a walk. Everything ached, and nothing was prepared to obey him. His hand reached for the sword at his belt. He felt nothing but his belt and the leather sheath where his weapon belonged. He looked down to confirm what his fingers had told him. His sword was gone. He laughed again.

Save me from death, save me from having to face, without my blade, those I have killed! As he spoke, he heard something. He could only hope his death would be a swift one. It might be a release from the horror he lived, even if he would have to face his victims. Before he dropped to his knees, he remembered his sword.

Oh, that is just not fair! he managed. I would not die without my sword! He lowered his head as he spoke, then turned to look behind him. It was a carriage. He did what he could to raise his left arm, then winced and remembered the wound that now oozed blood onto his shoulder. He lowered his arm, and looked through blurred eyes. The carriage slowed. He looked up to the dark sky that had swallowed the sun this night.

Strand, I plead, let them give me a sword before I die. It is all I will ask! When he looked back down, he saw the carriage door open. He could not keep his feet, and he fell. The open carriage door was the last image he saw before his vision went black. He did not see the three figures in white jackets that stepped out of the carriage and moved toward him.

• • •

The assassin opened his eyes to another morning. He lay within the comfort of a soft bed. The warmth of the fine sheets and expensive mattress embraced him. His head was sunken into a fluffy pillow. An expensive quilt had been pulled to his neck, saving his body heat from escaping. He was warm, rested, and more comfortable than he had ever been—and yet, he was lethargic, had a thumping headache, and his body still felt heavy and over-used. Of course, he would never complain of the discomfort he felt now. This was a splinter compared to the pain he had been in when he was last awake. And he was alive to feel it again. When he was last awake, he did not know he would come to appreciate the pain he felt now.

His wounds ached. This was better than the debilitating pain of the wind clawing at his gaping lacerations. He let his hands fall flat against the bed on either side of him, and felt the ache that had been waiting in his joints. Refusing to succumb to the pain his body had in store, he pulled himself to a seated position. The blanket fell to reveal his unclothed body and its well-tended, bound wounds. He felt the stitches in him move as he did.

He appreciated all the effort that had, in truth, kept him alive. But he refused to stay in an unknown location, and he certainly refused to stay still. He did not want to be naked, lost, and still. Fixing one of these problems would find him immediate comfort; then, he could go about fixing the others. He swung his feet out of the bed, and let them fall to meet the cool timber floor. The freshly cleaned room had an acceptable amount of expected guest-room items—just enough to bestow cordial courtesy: house shoes, some books, candles, spare blankets folded on a chair beside a table, and neatly folded clean clothes. This gave him comfort. This was the first of the changes he needed to see, and he quickly resolved to dress.

Standing, he found that his debilitating ache had somehow doubled while he slept. The comfort he had felt had been deceptive and cruel, considering what was waiting. All movement felt like force against the tide, but was frustrating enough to provoke his irritated determination. He moved toward the chair with the clothes and dressed—admittedly, very slowly, and with a liberal amount of quiet complaining and cursing. But he dressed.

• • •

Beyond the door of his room was a softly lit hallway. Somehow, the hall seemed to display a certain amount of wealth without boasting about the owner’s finances. The assassin’s host had money enough to hire a cleaner—or to attract a clean mistress. Two cunningly placed mirrors hung from the walls, and gave a better view of the hallway and its welcoming wealth. They also made the hallway look longer and the house much bigger. It was odd to be comforted by such things, but somehow, it was all tactfully inviting. The assassin walked down the hallway, past a few well-arranged flower vases and a portrait of a figure he did not recognize.

He soon found a staircase leading downstairs. The window in his room had been closed, disguising the fact that he was on the second storey. The hallway had one window above the stairs, with doors lining the other walls. The single window was enough to light the whole hallway, aided by the mirrors reflecting the light. He moved down the stairs slowly. The pain of his joints increased as he made his careful descent.

The lower floor was similar to the one above—paintings on immaculately painted walls, no apparent dust, and no possessions. This house seemed to be more a statement than a personal comfort. He made his way further down the hallway. It was only then, distracted by the thumping of his head and the feeling that he had stepped into a painting, that he heard muted voices. He balled his hand into a fist, cursing himself for not having heard them sooner. He should have been gathering information about who had saved him, rather than losing himself in the beauty of the house. There was no time to delay now.

He walked to the end of the hallway to see what he guessed to be the front door. Three long coats hung there. They disturbed the decor with their mud-soaked hems. The voices came from the archway near the front door. The assassin strained his ears to hear what was being said, but he could not make out the words, even though he was standing near. It seemed they were talking very quietly, or he was even more groggy than he thought. So, he moved forward to confront his hosts.

• • •

When he stepped into the doorway, the assassin found himself the focus of four men sitting around an eight-seated table. It was a dining room, although the entire length of the right-hand wall was lined with bookcases. There was not a single empty space on the bookshelves. A quick glance told the assassin that the dining room was being used as a meeting room today. The room was warmed by the full light of the late morning sun. The noble at the head of the table was the one who seemed the most comfortable with his surroundings. All the people present were seated facing the man in the middle. The intrusion had made them turn their heads, but it was still evident where their attention had been.

The noble was an old man. His hair was a light blond, and despite his aged appearance, he only had a few grey hairs amidst the rest. His hairline had not receded, nor had it thinned. What reflected his age were the lines on his face, as well as the furrows in his brow and the lines beside his mouth. This had not begun to degrade his appearance, however. His hands, which rested on the table, showed some small wrinkles, but at a glance, there was no evidence of hard work in them.

He wore clothing that matched the mood of the house, expressing his wealth and comfort. It was evident he had money in abundance, yet he did not adorn every one of his fingers with rings. His tousled hair suggested an amount of hard work recently undertaken. However, the black lace at his throat denoted clothing not fit for such activities. A heavy, formal white jacket hung on the back of his chair, like a dirty apron. At first glance, it appeared to be just a jacket. However, the assassin knew this to be the jacket of an agent who served the Guild of Impossible Things—the true authority of the isle.

Three other nobles sat around the table. They were dressed in common and comfortable clothing that nevertheless attempted to express their wealth. Their jewelry had been polished, but it looked cheaper than the work it would have taken to make it shine. The dyes used on their clothing were attractive, but the weave of the material betrayed the wasted effort. It seemed evident that they had dressed themselves in false finery to impress their host. The assassin was no man of politics, but he knew that games were afoot.

The noble seated at the top of the table spotted the assassin. A cunning smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned to the intruder. For a moment, the assassin glimpsed the trap he was about to walk into. It concerned him that they looked at him as if they had been expecting him. The noble folded his arms on the immaculate wooden table.

Good morning, Vehemence. When the noble had spoken, he lifted his teacup from its saucer. These were the first words that the noble and assassin had ever exchanged. The assassin understood that making up a name was the only way to establish familiarity where there was none. For now, he would play his noble host’s game. He now felt he was correct to assume that this was his host. He thought it best not to reply with words, so he nodded.

Please be seated. When the noble spoke again, Vehemence nodded graciously, turned the closest chair out from the table, and sat on it, straight-backed. Even though he had only just left his bed, sitting was a welcome expectation. It hurt to maintain good posture, but he felt the situation demanded it. The small amount of movement he had undergone so far had both loosened and strengthened the ache he felt in almost every muscle.

So, this is the guard you spoke of, Dolor? The host was addressed by the man at his left. The assassin thought Dolor might be a name his host had given himself. What parent would name their child thus?

It is, indeed.

Vehemence felt a little awkward being spoken about while in the room. He did not yet know the nature of the trap into which he had been woven, so he thought it best to be polite until he knew what type of mess he was in.

So, then, tell me more about the south. Dolor spoke across the table, deliberately not asking anyone specifically.

As I have told you, Dolor, it seems a little too much to handle. And, as I have said, I only know what I was told. When the noble beside him spoke, Dolor lifted his head absently.

Is it your lack of faith in me that makes you unwilling to tell me what the cartographer told you?

I believe in you. Yet, I also know about the region. Dolor, hear me well when I say no explorer will go there. When this noble had finished speaking, another stood up to interject.

Forgive me, but I fear this speaks too strongly of the impossible. And I do not think it appropriate to discuss such matters before a complete stranger! He took his hat from the table as he moved to stand behind his chair. Vehemence could see the scene unravelling now. What had this assassin walked into? It seemed he was unwelcome and sitting in on his host’s political affairs.

It is I who should beg forgiveness. Vehemence stood as he spoke. I entered uninvited. He would never admit how much it cost him to stand, but he did so with all the fluidity he could muster, and hoped it would be enough. Thankfully, his action had been worth the pain, for it was apparent that it had confused the guest at the side of the table. The noble remained standing, although he did not move toward the door.

Vehemence, please be seated. Dolor’s words shocked the assassin. The host turned to the noble at the end of the table. You did not complain when my housekeeper served you tea. So, I would appreciate it if you did not blame your discomfort on my guard. Please, let us all be seated. Dolor’s eyes remained on the standing noble as he spoke. After a while, the noble seemed to weaken. He pulled his chair out and sat. Vehemence saw Dolor motion him to sit, so he complied. Again, the seat on which he rested cooled the fire of the assassin’s pain, but still, the ache was cruel.

I know this is a favor. But I need the maps you have. Dolor’s words made the three around the table pause and think. Vehemence knew more than most that information was a truly valuable thing.

I doubt the cartographer who has been there will allow you to see him, let alone have access to his life’s work. It was the noble at the right of the table who spoke. However, he raised his index finger when he spoke, I will tell him about you, and only time will tell what he will choose to do.

I shall speak for you, Dolor. This was the noble furthest from Dolor. But he does not trust me as much as he does others. It was evident that this man was challenging the others at the table.

This is all I could ask. If Dolor did not mean these words, his acting was exemplary.

Very well, then. It was the noble who had been momentarily outraged who saw the sense in the other’s words. After a while, their business done, the nobles stood almost simultaneously.

Good day, then, Dolor, Vehemence. They bowed their heads as Dolor stood to accept the courtesy. Vehemence stood hastily, and bowed as the three men left. Dolor and Vehemence heard the front door open and a female voice bid the guests a safe journey, before the door closed again.

• • •

Dolor sighed, then seated himself at the table again. He smiled behind clasped hands.

Vehemence? It was the assassin who spoke his new name.

Dolor nodded as he lowered his hands from his chin. It suits you. The accuracy of Dolor’s words was confusing. The two knew nothing about each other.

What have you got planned for me? Was the scene before not the trap I assumed it to be? The bluntness of Vehemence’s question surprised Dolor, and raised the noble’s level of honesty.

It was not a trap for you. I have been meeting with those men for the past three days. In fact, when I met you, I was returning home to meet them here, as I had arranged.

Wait, I have been sleeping for three days?

Yes. When the noble did not volunteer more information, Vehemence felt a little cheated. He chose to leave that be for now, though.

So, then, I could not have been in your plan.

You appeared at the right moment, for the second time. They were about to make me wait another day. You seemed to make them uncomfortable, and rushed their choice.

You mean I also appeared at the right moment when you found me? Why did you choose to help me?

I am far more calculated than I am compassionate. I helped you to help my own cause. You looked like a man who could handle himself.

How did you come to that conclusion? I was dying when you found me.

That is my point exactly. You were still alive.

Barely!

I have seen men die from much less than what your body had taken. So, it is not about your flesh, but your spirit.

Vehemence chose to think for a moment, then he looked at Dolor squarely. You said you know ‘what’ I am?

You are asking me only to hear what you already know. If it will make you believe me when I say I know what you are: another consciousness is linked to you. And from the look of your eyes, it is fighting you. I would think that neither of you speak coherently to each other yet. Can you hear whispers and growls? Dolor spoke truths Vehemence had thought to be his own crazed imaginings. The noble’s words were disturbing. His hallucinations were real.

Invasions into my consciousness.

Yes, I can imagine. You should be careful, too, your eyes give you away as what you are. When the one linked looks out of them. You will have to learn how to control it. Vehemence was not happy with Dolor having said what he was instead of who.

So, you know all this about me because of my eyes? Now, I wish I did not sleep with my eyes open.

Of course, there was also the conversation I had with the one linked to you. You should be aware of the one linked to you.

What did you talk about?

We talked about changing your life…among other things. I am certain you will find my work more challenging, rewarding, and satisfying than wasting your life as a clot. Through my work, you could be not someone’s dog but a man of your own. Dolor’s blatant honesty did not offend Vehemence, somehow. It felt like another life, now…one of Vehemence’s many other lives. Or perhaps Vehemence was too distracted by Dolor’s offer.

How did you know I was an assassin?

The discreet markings on your clothing betrayed that truth to me. When the noble said this, the assassin lowered his head. Had Vehemence really just forgotten what he had been wearing when Dolor found him? Dolor continued.

Although I would have helped you, regardless, the reason you have stayed here is because of your potential use to me. Otherwise, you might have woken in a monastery.

I am not in the habit of accepting favors while I am unconscious. Or letting the one linked to me make decisions for me.

I would never put that to you. The favor is asking you to join me. The favor you return to me for my help is merely hearing me. I would not have you accept my dangerous proposition believing you had no choice. What I offer you is the choice to be better than you are.

I have faced danger.

No, this is danger beyond another man’s sword. And if you join me, I need you to promise me that you will not return to your master. Dolor’s words confused his listener. Vehemence was an assassin. He had murdered another human, and had nearly lost his own life in doing so. What Dolor was asking was for Vehemence to have another man’s blood on his hands and another face to haunt him, all without payment.

You know I am an assassin, so you know I need to collect due payment for the man I ran through. When Vehemence spoke, he saw that Dolor understood the full weight of his words.

I know that. Dolor said this with undeniable conviction. I also know that if you do not return to your master, he will think you dead. And for that, I will pay you twice the due coin.

You want my master to think me dead? Vehemence knew the answer to his question before he asked it. However, situations seldom re-invented themselves for further investigation.

If your master thinks you dead, the secrets you know are no threat to him. Then, I will not have to concern myself with your protection, or with your being murdered.

I see now why you would call me valuable. You want a combatant without the burden or security of a past.

The security of being able to return to being an assassin does not bother me. You will find my work far better than the work of a dog. See: I also know what you are. And that is why you would fit my cause so well. Dolor’s words met with a hasty reply.

Only if you are me can you know me! For an instant, anger burned in Vehemence’s eyes before he calmed himself. Dolor seemed to be curious now about the cause of his anger. The assumption—or the fitting use—of the animal name, for the second time. After a delay, the assassin spoke again.

Tell me of this ’cause’.

I wish for you to guard me while I continue my work as a hex breaker.

Hexes? Had he the energy, Vehemence would have jumped up from the table. Dolor seemed to expect such a reaction, and retrieved his teacup from the table. He lifted it to his lips, and sipped.

Are you looking for death? Vehemence was irritated not only by the mention of serious danger but because Dolor made no attempt to explain the work he would be involved in.

Dolor returned his cup to the saucer. Precisely the opposite.

So, this good work you speak of is about curing people of their fate? Most of the people on the island only knew of hexes in passing, so sitting at a table with a hex breaker would have been intimidating and frightening. However, Vehemence did not scare easily. Dolor seemed to enjoy the horrors Vehemence was imagining he faced.

You expose your lack of experience with hexes. A hex haunts the bloodline of the person who contracts the ill will. A hex is not always justly cast on the person. And there is never justification for suffering it to torment their children.

So, you remove these ‘injustices’? Vehemence was still unconvinced of the noble’s intentions.

Yes. I bond and mend lives, and heal people. A hex can be as simple as numbing their taste, or as detrimental as seeing them and all their children born deaf, dumb, blind…or worse.

How do you…? The assassin was answered before he could finish asking the question.

I have to first find the conditions of the hex before I can sever it. Sometimes, it is simple, and sometimes…well, people have proven to be quite devious and…immoral. Of course, I could not work with hexes without being touched.

"You are touched? So, that is a Guild jacket on the back of your chair!" Dolor nodded in reply to Vehemence’s question. Before he could speak, however, the assassin cut in.

You have the ability to touch the strand?

Yes. And because I can touch the strand, every time I use my abilities, I can be watched. Your ability can be used in secret. Dolor’s words inspired some thought—mostly about how this well-groomed and comfortable noble could know anything about what Vehemence was capable of. Vehemence turned his attention to the open window. It looked nice outside, warm and free.

I understand.

If you are not sure about joining me, then perhaps you would accept a contractual trial?

Vehemence’s attention turned abruptly from the window to Dolor. He tried to read his eyes, but Vehemence could not interpret what was hidden there. Whoever the noble was, cunning was what he did best. Vehemence always thought the best place to be was beside a brilliant mind. The only question that ran through Vehemence’s mind was regarding Dolor’s intentions. Saving people was the best offer Vehemence had ever received. However, his role had not been established. And it would not be