Culling of the Blood

Chapter 12-The Last Dakaar'I

 Bren'ilbrithe—place of the wise briars—was the embodiment of power in Kär Roanwolde. An architectural masterpiece, the throne hall surpassed the splendor of the throne room in the Palace of Versailles and even the St. George Room in the Winter Palace of St. Petersburg. Quadir based his comparisons on the elaborate sets built on the grounds of the Renaissance Faire through the donations of wealthy patrons and a trust fund left by a best-selling author of historical romance.

Carved from polished green and brown agate, the rippled texture of the floor gave the illusion of walking on the ocean's surface. A dozen twenty-foot statues leaped from the waves on the perimeter of the circular chamber. Sculpted from black and gray marble, the figures resembled aquatic Elves, whose upraised arms supported a canopy of grapevines as a ceiling. Ripe with fruit, the heavy vines hung within reach of guests to enjoy at their leisure.

King Kaj'ryk Valydrienn sat listlessly on a mahogany throne adorned with blood-red roses. Beside him, a second throne sat empty, draped with a cloak in memory of his deceased queen. The crestfallen monarch's head was buried in his hands. Graying brown hair flowed from beneath a golden circlet and partially covered a handsome, but distressed face. The damning parchment laid in his lap with evidence detailing the crimes of his only son and potential heir.

Dressed in his soot-smeared tunic and jerkin, Quadir stood immobile as if in a trance and stared at the floor. His hands were still bloody and stained from the black ichor that he had wiped from his mother's lips as she died in his arms. He experienced neither pain nor revulsion. His spirit was shattered beyond sense and possibly sanity.

The inquisitive Elven eyes of the court were upon him, but there was no longer a sense of derision in their gaze, no disdain, only sorrow and empathy for his loss. Still, Quadir could find no warmth in their sentiment, his only comfort being the weight of the ith'nael blade strapped on his back.

Escorted into the throne hall by a heavily armed guard and her mentor, Adiadithiel made no obeisance to her father. She went immediately to her Dakaari, staring up at him. "Quadir?" Tears in her eyes, she wiped those running down his cheeks.

Quadir grit his teeth so tightly his jawbone cracked under the strain. Refusing to be distracted by her, he closed his eyes and held his breath, desperate to cling to his rage. His grief was all the solace he wanted, and he would not abandon it.

"My Liege," Gannonor announced. "The necromancer is here at your summons."

"All of you, out of my sight," Kaj'ryk declared. "Gannonor, see to it. If there must be witnesses to my shame, I'd prefer to be among family and trusted friends." The throne room emptied, but there was no sign of the necromancer. "Well, where is he?"

Gannonor bowed his head in deference. "He refuses to enter the palace without his ... creatures ... the Bás Anáil."

Kaj'ryk sighed and sat back on his throne. "Let them enter."

Keeping a restless hand on the hilt of his sword, Gannonor looked to members of the royal guard and took a defensive position beside the king. "Be vigilant." His eyes rested on Quadir as he uttered the order.

Surrounded by three of the Bás Anáil, a raven-haired man in black robes strolled into the throne room. He walked with a conceited air, his coiled locks swaying across his shoulders from beneath a slouched cap of equally black suede. The necromancer grinned, his teeth so white against the darkness of his beard that it was unmistakeable as he spun from left to right and pretended to take in the splendor of Bren'ilbrithe.

The staff he carried was nearly as tall as he was, capped with an elegant blade that curved like a scimitar, reminding Quadir of a scythe. Encrusted on the blade's edge, a cluster of black crystals clung to it like barnacles. They shimmered with an ostentatious aura that rang as false as the grin on the mage's smug face.