Culling of the Blood

Chapter 7-Lady of Tears

The moon dominated the night sky, drowning out all but the most brilliant of the stars. Quadir stared up into the skies and wondered if his gift could teleport him home. In his mind, he could see the gates of the Mt. Hope Estate and the entrance onto the grounds of the Renaissance Faire village: the life-sized chessboard, the riding ring lined with shields, wooden swords, and lances, as well as the mud pit where the beggars performed their pranks for guests. 

    Though he wanted to hold onto the fond memories, they quickly faded, overshadowed by stark reality. When morning broke over Central Park, the body of a dead cop with her throat slit would lead the news cycle. As the last person to be seen with her, there was no doubt in his mind, despite the preponderance of evidence at the scene, he would be a suspect in her murder. His truck and trailer were surely in police custody, and within twenty-four hours of the discovery, detectives would be sent to investigate his whereabouts and interview connections in Pennsylvania.

    Lying on his back, he closed his eyes, and tried to think of nothing. The ground beneath him was hard, cushioned only by his sleeping bag and Merlin's saddle blankets, which reeked of sweat. The stallion was nearby, tied in a line of Khal'Tapa horses, an Elven breed renowned for their speed and sure-footedness. Merlin seemed content to be at rest among them, even if they were strangers. He lowered his head over a succulent morsel of dried grass that the Elves had provided, but he was too exhausted to eat.

    Quadir could relate. After being discovered by the Roanwolde military, Adiadithiel and he were immediately separated, despite her keen protests. She was kept under heavy guard at the rear of the company near the man she had called General Gannonor. He was an exceptionally shrewd-looking man with a long hook of a nose, long, gray hair and ice blue eyes. He would most certainly have played a villain in the Ren-Faire drama.

    Permitted to keep his sword, honoring Dakaari tradition, Quadir had been forced to ride point at the front of the company. A dozen archers rode beside and behind him, wary hands on their bows. He made no sudden moves, remaining polite and respectful and compliant.

    After an hour on the trail, the soldiers were ordered to set up camp, for which he was grateful. The effects of the endelia leaf had worn off, and if they had gone another half mile, Quadir would have ended the ride face down in the dirt unconscious. At Adiadithiel's insistence, a healer who travelled with the band treated his injury, cleaned it, and changed the dressing. However, he made no effort to resolve Quadir's pain or reduce his fever. If the medic had any of the wondrous leaves in his bag, he was not apt to share with a Human.

    As exhaustion overcame him, he glanced at the two Elves guarding him. Their disdain of him was evident, as obvious as walking into a White Nationalists' gun rally and fundraiser. Though palpable, their contempt was distant, restrained by civil courtesy. Cold, stiff, and shivering, Quadir huddled for warmth beneath his sleeping bag and rolled to his side, closing his eyes and praying for sleep.

    "I will hear no more of it, General Gannonor!" Adiadithiel shouted. "Where was your sword when I was abducted from my father's garden? Where were you or any of your men when I was nearly raped? Quadir risked his life. One man against fifteen, and he nearly died as a result of it."

    "Lady Adiadithiel," Gannonor pleaded.

    "I will not look to your blade to protect me. Nor any of my father's so-called royal guard," she said. "There is one sword that I trust my life to in this hour. One sword that I trust within 1000 leagues, and it's his!"

    Quadir pretended to be asleep, listening to her quiet footsteps. When he felt her cool hands on his face, he opened his eyes and smiled. She was still wearing his Henley.