Culling of the Blood

Chapter 8-Hidden in Plain Sight

From a tower window overlooking Duilithan, the capital city of Kär Roanwolde, Quadir basked in the brilliance of a late morning sun. Feet propped against the nearest wall, he laid his head against the stonewall foundation and closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the mound of pillows on the daybed perched at the window's edge.

    The air in the palace library was stale with the scent of aging parchment, so he eagerly breathed in the fresh scent of pine wafting through the casement on a cool breeze. He shivered in the crisp air as the sun momentarily receded behind a cloud bank, only to return, dispelling the cold. After being bedridden for two days, he was delighted to be away from his private chambers and given the freedom to roam the palace and royal grounds as a guest of the Valydrienn family.

    Dressed in a white tunic shirt, loosely laced at his chest, he had draped a leather jerkin over his legs for warmth. Custom tailored for him by order of King Kaj'ryk, the armored jacket was exceptionally well-crafted with interlaced chainmail on the interior and flexible seams for movement. A reinforced pauldron adorned the right shoulder, skillfully stamped with the sigil of a horse's head and a crescent moon over its eye.

    Across from him, Selestryel Valydrienn labored over a complex network of tubing and glass vials brimming with boiling liquids. The archmage moved about the crystalline alchemy lab like a bartender at happy hour, adding iridescent drops to random decanters. He would then recoil with a grin as orange smoke or green fire erupted from them, sending noxious fumes into the air.

    Over six feet tall, the wizard's willowy frame was cloaked in a flowing blue robe. A silver mane of thin, gossamer hair hung well below his hips, swaying with every graceful movement. His astute violet eyes perceived everything, even Quadir staring at him.

    "You'll not get well acquainted with our little kingdom sitting on the window ledge of this library, my Dakaari friend," Selestryel said.

    "I'm not fully recovered," Quadir replied. "You said so yourself."

    It was a poor excuse for avoiding the inevitable. Quadir was in hiding, desperate to avoid any awkward interaction with the Elves of the Roanwolde. Crossing his arms over his chest, he took a deep breath, feeling only a hint of tension in his chest. The culling of the blood had been overwhelming, staggering, upon first meeting Selestryel. It had subsided and grew less dramatic as he got used to the sensation while in the mage's company.

    Leaving his bubbling concoctions, Selestryel picked up a small glass vial from the book shelf and came over to the window. He gently pushed aside the collar of Quadir's shirt and scrutinized the wound beneath the dressing. "Appears to be healing well. Maybe the trouble is not physical, but mental. Here drink this."

    Quadir opened the silver top and swallowed, mouth puckering at the extreme sweetness of the contents.

    "Serves you right, wasting one of my better healing potions when you don't really need it," the mage scolded. "A few more days and you'll barely be able to see the scar."

    "General Gannonor told me that you are the youngest wizard ever to be promoted to the rank of archmage. He said you were 1015 years old." Quadir snorted. "You don't look a day over 30."

    "Jest if you must," Selestryel replied, returning to his experiments, "but the moire from the ancient Mhadurai bloodline within your veins will allow you to live much longer than the average Human. Your companion Darach Faraji was known to me and was over 500 years old." He glanced back at Quadir. "Do you miss him?"

    "Didn't know him long enough to miss him," Quadir lied. He rubbed his hand over the hilt of the ith'nael blade laying beside him.

    "Still homesick?"

    "I don't know, Selestryel. My parents died getting me away from this world. Darach died getting me back. Not sure I'm worth the trouble."

    Selestryel leaned against the work table, intently studying a tome of alchemy. "Know a Dakaari by the way he talks, for he never breaks accord. Know a Dakaari from the way he walks, and how he boldly wears his sword. You are a Dakaar'I, Quadir Janszoon, and your destiny lies here in this world." Crossing his long arms over his chest, the mage sighed. "Only you've come at a very troubling time."

    "Ilbád'ne de Éirasdiad. Adiadi mentioned something about that when she came to visit. She was so sad."

    "Your Elvish is improving."

    Quadir shrugged. "Working on it."

    "Your pronunciation is flawless. The Rite of Abdication." Selestryel stared into a beaker that magnified his eyes, making them appear three times normal size. "King Kaj'ryk has decided to surrender the throne of the Roanwolde to his heir. With Elves this is usually a simple matter of ceremony."

    "But the king's wife had twins."

    "Thus, complicating the line of ascension."

    "I thought Elves weren't patriarchal. Adiadi is the oldest."

    "Adiadithiel is a mage, unlike her martial-minded sibling, Prince Ereithaar," Selestryel corrected him. "Every crowned ruler of the Roanwolde has been a mage. It is clear who the king should abdicate his throne to, but Adiadithiel has her share of detractors."

    "Who?"

    "Who is not nearly as important as why," the mage replied, adjusting the burners beneath a decanter. "While she is a promising elementalist, Adiadithiel is an anomaly. What we wizards refer to as a wild mage, struggling to harness her abilities."

    "A wild mage? You were brought in as her tutor?"

    Selestryel absently nodded his head in confirmation. "And given the rank of court archmage for my small successes, but I fear for her. While there has always been a fierce rivalry between the twins, Adiadithiel has no ambition for the crown, not like her brother."

    "He doesn't like me."

    "He doesn't care for Humans."

    "Feeling's mutual." Quadir stared into the manicured city, crossing his arms over his chest. "Something about him just rubs me the wrong way, like his moire is tainted."

    "It is never the moire that is tainted, but the intent," Selestryel said. "On occasion, beasts absorb the moire and in not understanding the culling of the blood, they become quite dangerous. That's how the Dakaari initially came to fame, using themselves as bait and putting down these monsters. It is why they are so feared and respected, even by Elves. But have a care, Quadir, the moire is the essence of a divine power. The more you absorb, the more powerful you become. The notion of power is the real taint." 

    Selestryel placed a black vial on the corner of the table with a mischievous grin. "I have a task for you. Take this to an herbalist named Devvae who lives on the southern outskirts of the city in a small village called Edylweske. Follow the main road and you cannot go wrong. You can walk, if you can manage it in your state," his tone was teasing, "or ride. Might be good for you and that stallion of yours to stretch your legs."

    Quadir hopped down from the daybed. Though he wanted to refuse, the call to adventure was irresistible. "What is this?" He ran his fingers along the crystal flask.

    "Antivenom. Some of the children have come across nests of Tunneler Spiders in the forest, hordes of them. Frightful creatures as big as hounds with a terrible, sometimes deadly, bite. King Kaj'ryk as seen fit to dispatch soldiers to find the nests and burn them, eggs and all. If anyone is bitten, a drop of this simple concoction of salt, charcoal, and lavender will reverse the effects of the venom."

    "Is there a reward?" Quadir could not hide the grin on his face. "I understand Dakaari are well compensated for their services."

    "That is how the tales go, isn't it? The hand of a beautiful maid offered in marriage." Selestryel laughed. "Not certain I could manage that one, perhaps a seat at her table for afternoon tea? For the moment, you must be content with the undying gratitude of an archmage, which is no small thing." The wizard bowed dramatically, his forehead nearly touching the fabric of his robes.

    Quadir rolled his eyes. "Thanks, I think."

    "Don't thank me yet—you haven't returned from your quest with all your fingers and toes."