Culling of the Blood

Chapter 9-Fangs of Fate

 Among the Elves, it was the season of Esbainn, the interim between summer and winter. As Quadir rode from the palace grounds, he was thankful for the long-sleeved leather jerkin. He would have been cold without it, but the red wool scarf, a gift from Adiadithiel, wrapped about his neck as an extra layer was too warm. He loosened the folds as Merlin trotted energetically onto the main road through Duilithan.   

His presence in the heart of the Roanwolde Forest elicited astonished stares, a few gasps of dismay, and a fair share of mumbled complaints. Quadir was used to being out of place. Of the three black men who worked the Renaissance Faire on the Mt. Hope Estate, he was the only one who played a knight. It was not unusual for the guests to notice his skin color before his full plate armor, his heraldic pennant, or Merlin's vibrant caparison during the climatic battle performances leading up to the final joust.

"Eyes forward!" Vernon would order, when the jeers or snickering created an unwelcomed undercurrent in the crowd.

Heeding that voice and taking comfort in it, Quadir took his time on the cobblestone thoroughfare and took in the sights. Most of the buildings had no rooftops, but were covered instead by vaulted ceilings created by the living boughs of the Roanwolde's ancient trees. The city's architecture thrived within the forest, synchronized with living nature. At the city boundaries, the well-maintained road gave way to a gravel path, small parcels of farmland, and orchards bordered by quaint cottages. A sign, written in Elvish, pointed the way to the humble village of Edylweske.

Stomach rumbling, Quadir breathed in the scent of freshly baked bread and cursed himself for failing to make his rounds through the palace kitchen. Lady Mbaera, the king's chef, had adopted him with a mission to put meat on his bones. Her army of ovens produced enough sweet rolls and scones to spoil any meal before its allotted time.

Quadir was so lost in thought that he did not notice the rider who had darted into the path ahead of him until Merlin came to an abrupt halt. Peering between the stallion's ears, he saw that she was no older than four or five years old, as Humans go. He could not be certain of the Elven equivalent. She was tiny, three feet tall, desperately slumped over the saddle of a black pony so small it seemed to be more a toddler's toy than a reality. The pony had taken the bit in his teeth and dragged the young rider into the middle of the road before she managed to stop him.

"Dhalesh'tal," Quadir greeted, leaning over Merlin's wither.

The child looked up at him, but did not return his greeting. Big brown eyes with flowing lashes widened with astonishment as she seemed to recognize him. Her black hair was pulled back in a series of braids bound by intricate loops, an Elven tradition known as faery knots Selestryel had told him.

"Did I say that correctly?" he asked.

The girl nodded in slow motion, her lips parted in a smile. She was wearing a makeshift baldric made of rope and a wooden sword on her back. The weapon was much larger than she was, and the smooth hilt jutted awkwardly from behind her shoulder and well above her head.

Know a Dakaari from the way he walks, and how he boldly wears his sword. Quadir remembered the poem Selestryel recited in the library.

"Are you practicing to be a Dakaari?"

"Elves can't be Dakaari, Human," an older boy said, scowling at Quadir. Dressed in hunting leathers, he grabbed the unruly pony by the bridle and dragged it down the road. "The Jorhinaar have their own champions, real ones, like Prince Ereithaar Valydrienn. Come along, Rjara, paipa doesn't like us speaking to strangers, especially Human ones."

Without speaking, Rjara waved at Quadir enthusiastically, not sharing her sibling's sentiment.

"Cute," Quadir said under his breath. He waved back as the child was led away by her ill-mannered sibling.