Culling of the Blood

Chapter 11-A Pentient Tongue

 Curled up beneath tousled sheets, Adiadithiel slept with her head cradled on her hands. She was smiling, and Quadir took no shame in being the reason for her bliss. Utterly mesmerized by her beauty, he watched from the doorway of his bedroom and grinned like a lovestruck fool.

Adiadithiel rolled to her side and extended a hand to where he had been lying beside her. Fearing she would awaken and not find him there, Quadir took a step toward the bed, but stopped short. With a sigh, the princess sank down into the warm impression in the mattress and drifted back to sleep.

Stepping out of the room, he quietly closed the door and tiptoed down the palace corridor. When Adiadithiel did awaken, Quadir wanted her to find, not just him, but a platter of scones fresh from the oven and a decanter of hthali, a heavy cider made with honey.

The usual way to the wine vaults involved an intricate process, requiring a series of requests and permissions, access to household keys, and guarded checkpoints. Fortunately for him, head chef Mbaera had shown him a hidden passage to the cellar from the kitchens, so that he could help himself to the royal stores. To ensure that he did not get lost in the palace's secret labyrinth or ensnared by a magical trap, Selestryel assigned him a house familiar known as a luqha to guide him.

The overeager wisp was waiting for him when he slipped into a recessed vestibule behind a fountain. "The wine cellar," he said to it.

Elven eyes needed little illumination to navigate the darkness. Hung at regular intervals, moonbeam lamps cast ghostly halos into the shadows. The presence of the wisp intensified the fixtures, helping Quadir find his way. Shirtless and barefoot, he padded down the winding staircase toward the vaults beneath the estate, following the luqha.

"That wasn't our deal!" said a voice.

Quadir recognized the nasal pitch of Prince Ereithaar's voice and rolled his eyes, cursing his luck. Adiadithiel's sibling was the breathing cliche of the spoiled, entitled noble, the epitome of a narcissist. He walked the palace corridors with his head cocked back, as if some foul odor had perpetually offended him.

"You were to kill her, not abduct her," the prince said.

"After the Rite of Abdication, it would not have mattered," a cold, feminine voice replied.

The hairs on the back of Quadir's neck stood on end. Fearful of being discovered, he cupped the luqha in his hand to extinguish its light. The house spirit nipped at his hand until his fingers loosened. "Ssh," Quadir blew into his fist.

"Honor your pact, neámglith!" Ereithaar hissed. "If she lives, the people will always look to her. Even though she's a wild mage. Even if I wear the crown. She must die. Summon your master. I will speak with him in our usual place."

Neámglith? Quadir felt his heart quickened. While perusing a tome in the library, he kept coming across the word. As he was not fluent in Elvish and there were no pictures to go by, he questioned Selestryel, learning that the word referred to a wraith.

A low-creeping fog gathered at the bottom of the stairs where he stood, numbing his toes with cold. Bás Anáil! Quadir retreated a few steps into the passage. He moved with deliberate strides, his need for stealth honed by years in the foster care system. His hand itched for his longsword, but he had left the blade in his room with Adiadithiel.

Blood pounding in his ears, he released the luqha and followed it, carefully making his way back to the palace's main floor. The plan was simple: call for the guards and make a dash into his room to retrieve his sword. But as Quadir pushed through the secret wall into the corridor, a blast of frigid air assailed him. Before he could sound the alarm, he winced in pain, feeling the sting of a blade at his throat.