Women of the Blood Women of the Blood by Wen Wen Yang

The auctioneer’s price increases at an agonizing rate. I bury my head in my hands. Am I worth this much? My guard nudges me in the rib and I am forced to regain my pristine visage. I stare down at my hands. My skin holds in the blood, holds back the deadliest liquid known to men. I sigh. I am a woman of the blood. I am but seventeen summers matured, and already I am worth more than a dragon’s egg at these prices. I am thankful I am not a pleasure slave, but I think myself little better than them. They please men, the common and the regal kings alike with their bodies, perhaps giving them an heir. I please warlords and emperors with only my presence. My blood can break through anything. If I enchanted this crimson potion, I could bring forth deadly phantom armies. In the same instance, I could kill mortal armies with a drop of the scarlet poison. Even in death, my skin is valuable; it keeps out the enchantments of other blood women. But it will soon rot away, and they will need to buy another of us, should one come along. There are few blood women these days, all the age of the elders at the temple, all soon to die. I am the last for this generation. I have not heard of any more discoveries. They fear I am the last of the blood women. We are rarities, like the white demons of nightmares, created only when the powers have a desire only others can fulfill. That is why women of the blood are so powerful to wield. The mere possession of one means the powers have allowed you to have her and to rule as you dictate. I hate the thought of being a stone, made for another to rise upon, while pushing me down in their triumph. I wait for the chance to throw all those upon my back onto the earth, and smother them in my weight, my powers. Perhaps this can be done if I have enough power with a righteous ruler.
Unlike the pleasure slaves, I cannot produce an heir. Women of the blood do not bleed like girls who will become mothers. But the sacrifice of motherhood is no burden for me; I rather hate children. We also die maidens, chaste and unbroken, for if a man is foolish enough to break us, our blood will spill, and he will most certainly die.
The price has just doubled. I stare at the man who just raised my value. He is wearing the colors of the men from the west, heaven’s blue and shadow’s black. I can smell a lewd desire on him. It is hot, sickly, and thick. Another person raises the price. The western man does not say anything and lets the price escalate.
I fidget with my long sable hair. It is past my waist. Soft against one’s skin, but no sword can break it, nor will it fall from my head. That is how my family learned I was of the blood. They did not reveal it to anyone until after my thirteenth summer, after the drought that cost them dearly. We had no food, no money, nothing but two sets of summer clothes and a shack. They told a monk at the monastery about my powers, fearful anyone else would have killed them to get me. The monks bought me at a very low price, compared to the pounds of gold that these men now promise. The monks’ purpose was pure. They would teach and train me while I protect them, until I am ready to be sold. A pure purpose allows for no bargaining. I believe my family is living comfortably now, but I cannot be sure; I have not spoken to them since I entered the temple, and I do not wish to.
“It is time to go,” Lu’phe, my guard, says. The auctioneer has called off the betting for another day, seeing as the prices are not showing any sign of slowing down and it is past the night’s hour. I smile and happily jump off the pedestal and race my guard to the temple. I win, always. He does not even try. He blames it on his weak legs; I know better.
I race to my quarters in the western courtyard, far off from the monks’ rooms in the eastern portion of the temple. I guess it is for their modesty, something about temptation, some nonsense. I open the doors and smile at the familiar scents of my scrolls and inkwell (though my guard often complained about the stench of it).
“Another day…” my guard reminds me as he closes the door behind him.
“Another day of freedom!” I shout and spin around childishly in the room.
“Another day to study and increase your value,” He retorts softly. I pull a devilish face and curse at the powers for creating currency.
“We should cut out your tongue for that.” He jokes as he pulls out a scroll and stretches it out on the table for me. He is the only one who jokes with me. The monks are too serious, the villagers too frightened.
“You try that, and I will bite my lip and spit at your crotch.” I threaten. I am renowned for my temper… and aim. The villagers have always upset me when they stare at me, as if I was something inferior, to be stared at, laughed at and used until there is nothing left of me.
I begin reading the deadly enchantment for tainting my blood with another’s.
“I wish you happiness,” he says as he stands to leave. I grimace.
“You say it like it is the last time.”
“I hope it isn’t.” He wears a sad smile.
“I’ll take you with me.”
He laughs. I love his laugh. The other monks never laugh. They call it a sin to enjoy anything. He laughs because he was not born to be a monk; he was born to be a warrior. He was raised as rugged as one can be, with no rules about what one should and shouldn’t do. But that lifestyle was his past, as much as my family is a part of my past. He was injured in battle. More dead than alive, he crawled to the temple, seeking refuge. I had just become a part of the temple then. I did not know the rules about never opening the door and allowing strangers in. I had brought him in and healed him best I could. Humans, I realized, are just like pigs. Our bodies, and sometimes habits, are similar. They gorge themselves, roll about in their filth, and label others by purpose, one who gives food, one who washes, one to avoid. I healed his wounds as I would do to the hogs on my family’s farm. But in the end, he discovered his strength to be a fraction of what it was before. His arms and legs, he claimed, had the strength of a schoolboy.
“You are strong, Lu’phe. You lie.” I argued back one day. That was the last day I called him by name.
“Lu’phe is a failed warrior,” he grunted as he caught up to me. “Fine me another name.” I never did.
During that same time he was complaining, an army tried to break into the temple, hearing rumors of a blood woman’s presence. My guard was able to fight them off, teaching the younger monks some fighting techniques. The elders were too stuck in their ways and feeble to learn the moves. In a few days, the seizure was held back and the temple was safe. The monks persuaded him to stay, though he wasn’t very enthusiastic on leaving, something about a warrior’s honor. I never paid much attention to his ramblings at the time. The monks had convinced him that the powers where punishing him for killing by taking away his strength in battle, letting him lose. His strength, they claimed, would return once he defended the weak. I doubt the monks’ reasoning. Either way, he stayed, gave up fighting unless it was to defend me or train the monks to defend themselves (and allowed me to watch their lessons, in case I had no time for enchantments). He also discovered the scrolls with countless incantations and spells for my powers. He owes me his life. I owe him my power.
“I will bring you with me.” I repeat after one of his sad looks.
“You cannot bring a monk with you.”
“You’re not a monk; you weren’t cut.” I retort quickly. His cheeks blush and he looks away. I laugh and clap my hands in childish glee. Monks are cut soon after birth. He joined the monastery too late to be cut for time to erase the memory.
“You should learn manners.” He retorts with a hollow bitterness.
“Never!” I reach out and grab onto his hand, as a child would when watching his father leave for the fields. “A little longer…in case I can’t take you with me.” He smiles and takes a scroll from the table.
“Two more lessons…” He agrees. I grin. I know I can get more time out of him.

“Last day!” the auctioneer calls out in the central dialect. The bets begin. I shudder and pray in the form the monks taught me. Merciful powers…If no one has a top price today, I can live at the temple for another year, then I go through this again. The province rulers and overlords, maybe emperors if there is a war, will be notified again. Otherwise, I am sold. I shudder harder. My guard notices and covers me with the cloak I had refused to wear. I am grateful he is with me. Still, I wish I could hide behind him as I did when I was younger. While the worshippers prayed for a good harvest or advice, their children bickered and picked on me for living in the monastery. I had not realized my full power then, or else I would have taught them manners. But I was a mere child. I would slink away and find my guard in the studies. True, he is a few years older than I am, but I found no brotherly comfort in the monks. They seemed to fear my touch, the touch of a female. With Lu’phe, I studied and learned to read, an ability forbidden to women, thus beginning my yearning for what I could not have. With him, I was safe, my gender and powers mattering little to him. I was just like him, kindred, reaching for what we cannot have. He wants repentance for his past; I want freedom. However, the auction takes away any sense of safety. I am losing him as well.
As the prices are flying, my life seems to approach its end. The sun moves across the sky. I watch the shadows shrink away then take their throne, changing the yellow village to a bruise colored void. There are less people now; I could count them with my fingers. Gold and vibrant colors adorn them, showing their wealth. The western man is here again. I cringe. “Stop that.” My guard warns me as he pats my back to make me straighten. I hiss softly and straighten up. The price is slowing down as people realize they cannot wager more. Two men are left. The western man is one of them.
“All my horses, half my food surplus, and the monks’ choice of the finest women in the village,” he offers in his thick western accent. His grin and ignorance disgust me. The auctioneer takes a moment to comprehend his words past the differences in dialect.
“The temple needs no women sire,” the auctioneer says with a snort.
“Shame, they are awfully beautiful.” He grins at me. I look away. I notice the whites of his eyes are a pale yellow. The monks had told me once that it was the sign of a devil beneath the mortal clothing. His eyes make me wish I could pour the contents of a chamber pot into his throat. He corrects his bargain so the temple will get half his armory. There is a cold, black silence. The street dogs are howling at the moon. No one else dares to breathe. I stare up at my guard, hoping to see his reassuring eyes. He doesn’t look away from the man’s face, afraid to meet my gaze. I turn back to the auction.
“Is that all?” Silence roars like the crunching of dried leaves under a marching army’s boots.
“Then she is sold, to the westerner.” The gavel sounds. I can’t stop shuddering. I am lost. The westerner comes up to my pedestal and reaches out for my hand. I am lost. His grin…
“My lady,” He says slurs, attempting to speak in the central tongue. His fingers approach me, ready to take me far away, ready to grind me into the ground and make him his.
“I,” my guard steps between us. “I will deliver her to you after your payment.”
The westerner frowns. “I bought her. She is mine, now.” Roughly, he pushes my guard aside. My guard nearly falls, but regains his composure at the last moment. He looks at me with a frown. I meet his eyes. Sorry, he says, I cannot protect you. I am lost. Everything is gone.
“No.” I shout and jump backwards off the pedestal, knocking it down. The villagers stare at me, but dare not to approach. “I will not be bought.” A hand grabs my wrist. I recognize the touch.
“Don’t be foolish.” My guard whispers softly. He knows that no matter how powerful I am, I am still a woman, still lower than males, despite my powers. I don’t want it like this. I want something different.
“I will rule myself, and the temple, and I will not be bought today or ever.”
The westerner seems unsurprised. “This one has quite a mouth.” He mutters and waits for the others to laugh. I blink back my surprise. He doesn’t know I am a blood woman. He thinks I am a pleasure slave. He has spent half his village’s armory and more for a woman for the sole purpose of bedding.
The villagers know better than to laugh. They fear my blood, my enchantments, my unwomanly temper, and my aim.
I smile. “A skilled mouth,” I bite my lip and cast the enchantment. My guard hears it. He grabs onto my waist to pull me away but it is too late. I spit. I catch him in the eye. He howls like a dog being cut. He falls to his knees, his hands cup his eye as he begins to curse at me. I know better curses than him. The wound on my lip heals as I listen to his cries, now begging for mercy. He chokes as my blood finds his. His blood seeps from between his fingers and fall like dirty water droplets onto the dirt. He falls forward, his body finally silent and still. A hush holds the crowd. I must act before they come to their wits. I have heard old men on their stoops preaching to the next generation, “A woman must never be allowed to roam on her own, no matter how powerful.” With those words, they would all turn to stare at me. I always hated them.
I cut my fingertips against my thumbnail in one fluid movement. I place my fingers together and slowly part them. The blood stretches, becoming four red strands, shining in the moonlight. With a flick of my wrist, the strands unleash themselves on the corpse of the westerner. They turn at their own will and cut his body into perfectly aligned, perfectly even slices. I step away, keeping my eyes on the remains of the westerner.
"Are there any objections to my self rule?" A glorious silence. “Good,” I have their fear, their attention and, above all, their respect. The wounds on my fingertips heal, creating another scar upon scores more. I grab my guard’s hand, still at my waist. “You will be my strategist.” He nods numbly. “Excellent, now, we have a temple to teach, and a kingdom to rule.”
“What kingdom?” He asks as I make my way through the crowds. They clear the way for me. Their mouths are agape as they stare at me, the first blood woman to rule herself. I wonder why none of the others had done so before. I look up at my guard and smile. Perhaps they didn’t have any help. Perhaps no one showed them the other side, the ability to read, the ability to have a companion, an equal, and not a master, and the ability to be a person and not a weapon. “Well, for one, the westerner’s, seeing as he’s now…unavailable. And then whichever one is tired of their ruler. Maybe we should start a waiting list, in case I cannot spit in all their eyes… or crotches.” He smiles with me.
My life is mine, and I will rule it as I wish.