Remounting Enseres for a little extra speed, Deros made his way down the winding slope at a fair pace. The men gathered around the fallen Bluehand had obviously been exhausting their own knowledge of what to do in the situation. He was on top of a blanket on the dry uprise, and his entire torso had been re-wrapped in white cloth as well as an arm and a leg. Blood did not seem to be soaking through, but the amount of dried blood on the man’s clothes was not a good sign. The Azakan around him seemed quite grave, and the vaeton looked frustrated.
Deros’s approach was noted by Lecto as well as the old man crouched down by the blanket: the veteran scout Bariaki. Both nodded to him while still talking to each other. Two other warriors had fetched the aloga to search through the saddlebags upon it. Deros wasn’t surprised he didn’t recognize the fallen man as he only knew a few Bluehand traders or caravaners. The dyed clothes in mixes of blues and godberry purple, as well as a variety of gemstone jewelry at his ears and neck, marked him as reasonably well-off. Being middle-aged, possessing a fine quiver and what appeared to be a bronze longknife, he was probably a warrior of high rank, possibly a vaeton.
“... see as we have much choice,” Lecto was saying in his measured, slightly-hoarse tones. He was somewhere between middle-aged and ‘old’ to Deros’s mind, with his hair kept in one great braid trailing behind his back, common for men of his status. He had an approachable countenance and demeanor Deros had always liked. Known as a cautious man, he’d been the General of Miracles Springs Canyon — and thus the leader of the Azakan — several years ago. He’d struck gravely ill and been replaced but had recovered enough to take an important, if easier, post. “A dead man tells us a lot of not enough, and we need to know more.”
Bariaki seemed reluctant to speak — that was typical as he was usually a man of few words. He had a severe, bony face of lighter red with many deeper spots and blotches from the touch of Azrom over many calendars. His hair was stark white, long, and unbraided, kept back only by the leather band of his goggles, as many Azakan did in lieu of ties. Bariaki kept a distinctive pointed white beard and mustaches he’d had probably longer than Deros had been alive. He was a cunning scout and had seen his share of war, though he scarcely ever talked of it. A scar like a gouge indented across his forehead, where a spear had just slid from impaling his skull, long ago.
Receiving nothing more than a noncommittal grunt from Bariaki, the frowning Lecto looked up from the presumable corpse to regard Deros as he approached. “Hail, Deros. Come to worry over the slain like the rest of us, have you?”
“Hail Vaeton Lecto, Mister Bariaki,” Deros said as he dismounted from Enseres. “Is he well and truly dead, then?”
Lecto nodded gravely. “We wrapped his wounds, just in case, but he isn’t breathing. It is for a Hospitaller to declare, but it’s plain as daylight.”
Bariaki pressed his fingers up against the fallen man’s neck and looked up at Deros. “No heartbeat,” he resounded in his scraggly voice.
Deros blinked at that — it was typically a Hospitaller thing to do, among the non-Blessed who’d need to. But then, the man was married to Selethea, the eldest Hospitaller alive. Her bones had become weak and her activity highly reduced, but she had refused to fully retire. Her husband must’ve learned a number of things from her in their long years.
Noticing what appeared to be a piece of parchment in Bariaki’s hand, he gestured to it. “What is that?”
Bariaki held it up slightly and looked at it, as though considering exactly what it was.
Lecto answered instead. “Something this Bluehand had stuffed into his belt. If this old staring gargoyle here would oblige, you can see for yourself.”
Bariaki only frowned slightly at the words without looking Lecto’s way, but stood and handed the item out toward Deros.
Walking over to take it and murmur his thanks, Deros held up the parchment in two hands. It was the sort of durable piece that would be used for notes, or maybe to work out math. It had a bunch of lines and scribbles on it, done likely with charcoal. There was nothing discernable at all on it. Looking up from the parchment to the other two men, he asked, “So you think he was trying to write a message? For what?”
Lecto crossed his arms and regarded Deros with raised eyebrows. “What’s your assessment in that regard, young Blessed hunter of the Azakan and son of Beyaugus?”
Deros steeled himself against the obvious challenge by his elder and considered it for a moment. “It could be details of how he was wounded. Or a warning. But that is what we would want it to be. He might’ve just wanted to write a message to loved ones or identify them for whoever found him. He obviously knew he was not faring well and might die. By the same token, whatever was in his head might’ve been hysterical near-death nonsense. He could’ve been trying to draw a rock monster for all we know.”
Both of his elders nodded to this, less thoughtfully so much as approving of his logic. He had not really picked anything, and the neutrality of their expressions made him think they’d maybe had contrary opinions, so he asked, “And if I may ask, what do you two think?” At the same time, he handed the parchment back to Bariaki.
There was a pause as the two older men glanced at each other. Bariaki took the parchment, then his eyes shifted over Deros’s shoulder. “I think your aloga is getting away from you.”
Deros’s head whipped around to see Enseres sniffing around a cluster of reeds, well and entirely too far downriver. He cursed and started that direction instinctively, then caught himself and instead drew up short to whistle loudly, against the background of Lecto’s laughter.
So much for the impressions of elders, Deros chided to himself in some exasperation, as Enseres came trundling back with his head dipped and ears turned down, looking appropriately guilty. Deros waved him over emphatically, annoyed. In truth, it was more with himself for not giving instructions before walking away. When his companion was closer, Deros whistled another command and pointed over to where the other aloga were loosely gathered, sniffing around for insects. Enseres reluctantly joined them, looking back a couple of times before becoming absorbed.
When Deros turned back around, the two younger Azakan were leading the Bluehand’s aloga over to Lecto. The mount seemed fatigued and harried — no doubt the journey had been a laborious affair for it. The two who led it were young warriors, Sirus and Goronkía. With pale mauve-gray hair, narrow blue eyes, and squarish facial features all very similar, they looked like brothers, though technically they weren’t.
“Well,” Lecto demanded of them. “Anything of note?”
“Yes, Vaeton,” Sirus replied and held out to Lecto what appeared to be a booklet or ledger of some kind, long and narrow. “The Bluehand’s bow is nowhere to be found. I’d reckon he dropped it. His supplies are entirely depleted, other than water. I also found a hidden purse of-”
“We found!” Goronkía interjected like there was a prize he was missing out on. “We did. ‘Cause I said to look for it, remember? I did. I have it now.” He held the purse up.
Sirus glanced at his near-physical-twin in disgusted annoyance, before his eyes slid back to Lecto. “We found a purse with additional coins in a hidden pocket of the saddlebags. Porcelain, southern silver, faceless copper. A lot of founder mint, mostly square. Other than that, nothing worthy of note. No sign of his token.”
It was tragic news. A cothvmesi, or spirit token, was the one thing other than a robe that one’s body was burned on a pyre with, after death. Made of wood or laminate papyrus layers, it was painted by one’s mother on one side with a scene of her dreams of or for them, days after birth. The other side was painted when one obtained a dream of what they wanted to be or do in life, as a young child generally. When one’s flesh was destroyed, the spirit was freed to the winds and heaven, and the token was a remembrance of the life before. An eternal link or tether back to one’s kin, descendants, and general material existence. Only the truly vile and hated were denied their token at cremation, as if to tell them to forget and lose themselves. Wars had been waged over cothvmesi.
Deros mused aloud, “If he noticed his token was missing, he could’ve been trying to draw it, or write about it… or plead to go find it, in his panic. That would certainly be on a mortally-wounded man’s mind, I would think.”
There was a mix of reactions from the others. Goronkía muttered something under his breath and reached his hand through his tunic, no doubt to grip his own token on its necklace as if to ensure it was there. Bariaki nodded approvingly and seemed almost… relieved? But that made little sense. Lecto just frowned deeper as he flipped through the ledger he’d been handed.
Wait — ah ha. That must’ve been the argument. Lecto believed it to be a warning about raiders or other trouble, and Bariaki that it was more personal. Well. The missing token was hardly confirmation worth deciding the matter on. Lecto was probably seeing things from the perspective of assuming the worst, in case the contrary assumption was wrong.
Goronkía appeared nervous and was fidgeting. “Might’ve just dropped it somewhere. But it wasn’t on the aloga, for sure. We checked every nook and cranny, Vaeton Lecto, we sure did so.”
“Stellar work,” Lecto murmured with a touch of sarcasm, without looking up. Goronkía grinned and nodded, while Sirus had a sour wince on his face while staring sidelong at his friend. Lecto continued flipping through the ledger, saying, “Forty-first of Algâs, seventy founders from Grenháme, for six-man retainer… seventh of Tortaeus, two lakes, three-hundred and eighteen founders from Grenháme for six-man escort, Calm Waters Dam direct to Many Sands… and there is math written out for share distributions…”
“Grenháme is a trader of fine wares,” Bariaki offered. He was now scowling worse than Lecto, though why wasn’t entirely clear. “He comes here rarely, only in wet seasons.”
Sirus looked down at the fallen man and said, “I guess he was a caravaner captain. That’s not a common route, from all I’ve heard. Most go up through Sylmex territory. I reckon this other is faster? But dry. Wet weather must’ve opened it up for travel.”
“Yea, probably the wet weather,” Goronkía repeated.
Lecto finished turning pages and snapped the ledger shut, sighing. “Corsinids don’t ravage entire caravans, so this is the work of bandits or northern raiders. Them being this close is difficult to accept, but here’s the obvious evid-”
“Hospitallers,” Bariaki interrupted, his eyes set on the path up the slope, that he was facing.
Deros turned to see four aloga coming down the pass, three of them with riders seated on thick cloth hanging over saddles — the fourth would be carrying various medical supplies and implements. He recognized two of the three — the one in the lead was Eursett, a mature, veteran Hospitaller and surgeon, who was frequently one trusted with field excursions outside the city. The other he knew very well, and the sight of her to him was more stirring than any celestial rising.
Palamera Serrâtus Huar was an apprentice Hospitaller, just barely, as her final tests were imminent and a foregone conclusion. While she had encountered early difficulties in her walk, when she conquered them she blazed to the top of her class. Sadly, this did not matter due to their rigid protocols. Everyone knew she could’ve been done with it many calendars ago, but the tests were locked into timeframes set in stone. This was frustrating for a number of reasons — of particular note to Deros was that Hospitallers could not marry before it was through, and they were very much overdue for it. It was an uncommon torture of fate, but she was well worth any wait, to Deros. So he had assured her.
As the party arrived at the bottom of the pass, Eursett moved her aloga close enough to Palamera to say something to her, to which the apprentice nodded and agreed. Palamera’s eyes then shifted over to Deros and she favored him with a brief, small smile.
In truth, it was difficult to take his eyes off of her. He hadn’t seen her all of the day before, which wasn’t typical, and he could see why. Last night she clearly had visited the barber, as her pure white hair was trimmed and dyed black on the top and tips — something she’d talked about doing for many months. Though the wind was blowing it, he could tell the bangs on the front were cut to frame her face, just above the vibrant violet of her eyes. He was still getting used to the dark, flowery tattooing contoured all around her right eye, but they were a source of honor and pride as a Blessed Hospitaller. All of her features, cast in the palest red of her skin, were perfect to him — down to every freckle on her cheeks.
“Wipe that dumb grin off your face, Deros,” Lecto’s voice came, now right next to him. “It’s no good distracting our fair healers right now with that mooning around.”
“Yes, Vaeton Lecto,” Deros answered, clearing his throat and ceasing his staring, though he caught bemusement in the features of his elder. As Deros’s eyes shifted to the prone Bluehand, he felt a measure of shame. The dead deserved some respect, after all.
Eursett had increased her speed in the distance remaining, but drew rein and dismounted smoothly before them once she arrived, calling, “Clear the way, now, Azakan! Give us space.” Her penetrating gray eyes brooked no argument as they swept over the men gathered, the dark swirls of tattoos around her right eye and cheek an emblem of her status. Her elaborate braided updo made the curling path of tattooing down under the ear to the back of the neck evident. She wore the uniform of a Hospitaller — a fitted blood-crimson dress flowing into dividing skirts, with a loose white robe over it, black stitching on the back and left breast displaying the rune of Healer, effectively the symbol of their creed.
As everyone complied, Eursett rushed past them over to the splayed-out body, while Palamera dismounted and caught up just in time to take Eursett’s robe, as the Hospitaller shed it and tossed it to her. The dress of Eursett went only to the elbow, and so the snaking tattoos could be seen in their continuance, winding down the left forearm and hand until their final end at the pointer finger. The final bits at the palm of the hand and finger were those Palamera lacked as the completion of her apprenticeship. ‘Where The Work begins at the foot by walking, it ends at the hand by doing, from Spirit out to Flesh.’ Or so they said. The ink was etched over many years, winding its path up the body.
The third rider lagged further behind with the lead of the final aloga in his hands. He was a young man, a boy really, just years out of adolescence, and looked almost panicked in the duty assigned to him, by the look on his face. Deros didn’t recall his name. He had no tattoos and probably never would, as they were the mark of The Blessed only, and he was not so.
“How long has he been out?” Eursett asked loudly as she knelt by the dead man. “I see new wrappings — were his old ones removed?”
“He’s been still as death since we found him,” Lecto said with flat dismissiveness.
“His bandages were left on, Matron,” Bariaki added.
Eursett frowned at Lecto’s words but nodded to Bariaki. She said nothing more, however, as her hand went to the Bluehand’s chest and she closed her eyes.
Having never dropped his farsense entirely, Deros could feel her spin out her makar and makar’osa, a ‘heavy’ concentration sweeping through the body and back into Eursett in a spiral storm of energies, from the head to the toes. To Deros’s senses, it was a great indistinct smudge he was trying to get into focus, but never could. It had no analog to a normal sense like his own abilities and instead was a unique one, like the farsense itself. He understood what it told them — the state of a subject’s injuries and general health.
After passing the robe to the boy — who kept it and stood there awkwardly — Palamera knelt by Eursett and closed her eyes as well, clearly farsensing to pay heed carefully to what the Hospitaller was doing. She had not removed the off-white cloak that was over her shoulders, perhaps because it was still rather cool.
Opening eyes she kept downcast, Eursett lifted her hands away from the body and proclaimed, “This man’s body has ceased function. His blood is spent from his wounds and his heart is done. He cannot be revived.” Her eyes lifted to regard Lecto. “Please depart a ways so we can conduct a more thorough autopsy, with respect and dignity, for the spirit yet remains. Afterward, we will speak of these ill matters.” She looked to the boy and snapped her fingers to get his attention. “Tanmari! A tent wall — now, child.”
The one so identified jumped and sputtered, “Y-yes, Matron Eursett!” He rushed over to the pack aloga, set the coat over it, and began undoing the ties of a large bundle of heavy fabric. Deros didn’t envy him — that was not an instantaneous project by any means, and it looked like Palamera was getting a training session from the way Eursett was leaning over to whisper to her. Someone else could help, but no one was going to defy a Hospitaller instruction directly relating to not nosing in their business.
“Let’s go, colts and old men,” Lecto said, and waved his hand for everyone to follow as they all walked far out of earshot. “Let it not be said that the Azakan can’t wait with the best of them.”
“Our specialty, Vaeton,” Sirus offered.
“Yea, specialty, definitely,” Goronkía had to repeat.
Deros eyed the nearby aloga, still foraging for insects in a progressive scouring of the rocky incline, leaving dug-up rocks and vegetation scattered everywhere, by the work of their retractable claws. Some of them seemed antsy, likely because some part of them would prefer defying their masters and wandering down the river banks, where reeds and thus the goba mounds that thrived off of them were plentiful. It wasn’t worth the risk, however. The mostly-domesticated beasts didn’t have the greatest instincts for avoiding trouble on their own.
As they waited, Deros stood somewhat apart from the others. Lecto and Bariaki were silent, the latter now sifting through the coin purse he must’ve retrieved from Goronkía. The two near-brothers were a bit off to themselves, Sirus looking typical in his mild annoyance with the other, though they were talking back and forth about something.
The young Hospitaller hopeful had half of the topless tent up, which was admirable, though he was sweating and panicked about it all the same. Deros could still see Palamera, eyes closed and working her own makar’osa to analyze the body. Her hand on the chest suddenly made him think of the time she’d used it on him, years ago. At first, just an assessment of health. But the hand had lingered.
‘I can tell if you’re lying, now,’ she’d said with a teasing smile. ‘Do you love me, truly?’ And he had said, ‘With all my heart. Surely you can feel it.’ She’d quirked her lips, narrowed her eyes as if in consideration, and said, ‘Mmn — no. Your heart is just pumping blood.’ Such was the humor of a Hospitaller, he supposed. He had known she wasn’t actually trying to glean for lies, of course. It wasn’t in their creeds to do so, nor to even train as such — not that it stopped the ignorant and superstitious from believing otherwise.
Feeling a twinge of hunger and fatigue, he decided to drop his farsense and daug’makar entirely. While the more intensive makar’osa could be like a run or sprint depending, just the farsense itself was more like a brisk walk or jog. This was doable for long periods but it still cost energy and one could spend themselves into a unique exhaustion, and even into a pain that made focus impossible. It was both mental and physical.
A sound caused him to look up and see more people coming down the pass. Two riders. At the head was Beyaugus, his father and Chancellor of the Senate, largely the most powerful person in Miracle Springs. Close on his heels was the former Chancellor, Senator Vesânth, a close ally, advisor, and mentor to his father. She had largely taught him the politics of governance, to add to his keen diplomatic and mercantile skills.
“The Peacemaker himself,” Lecto declared when he saw. “That will speed resolution of this mess, at least.”
The pair cantered up to Lecto and drew rein. Beyaugus was a stately, wizened figure, somewhat older-appearing than he was thanks to a full, gray-and-white beard. His braided hair was the same mix of colors and threaded-through with a golden cord, while his eyes were the mirror of Deros’s own — gray-violet with scarce speckles of deeper color. He wore the trappings of a senator — white robes with a sash of brilliant purple over the shoulder. Multiple necklaces of gems, charms, and beads, as well as several gold and silver jeweled rings, displayed his wealth. A simple, braided leather bracelet with a crude, painted porcelain heart attached looked out of place with the rest. It was crafted by his daughter at a young age, shortly before she was lost to them. Deros could barely recall a time his father wasn’t wearing it.
Vesânth, in contrast, was less decorated, though she wore the same robes and had a few pieces of jewelry as if to pay lip service to expectations. Her white hair was held back by a simple tie, though numerous strands had been loosened from the wind and travel. Her blue eyes regarded the world in supreme calm, and her aged countenance radiated the same. There was an air of enjoyment to her as well, Deros felt. He’d bet on it being the ride. She spent most of her time governing, and the rest counseling others thanks to her reputation for wisdom. No doubt the little trip was a welcome change of scenery.
“Hail, Beyaugus Peacemaker,” Bariaki called, nodding respectfully. “Vesânth, Wise Seer.”
“Hail, Bariaki Shadestepper,” Beyaugus replied amiably with his own nod. “Good to see you still breathing free, old friend.” He turned to Lecto. “Lecto. I forget your earned name — what was it?”
Lecto breathed a laugh at the dry jest. “Lecto Sandkicker, these days. If I don’t earn a better one I can be happy, though, because it means there was mildness and peace in my latter days.”
Vesânth’s eyes were on the tent. “I surmise they are performing an autopsy?”
“They are, Senator,” Lecto answered. “I think the Matron is getting in some practice for the young lady. Though from what I hear, it's hardly needed.”
“The Hospitallers will do as they will,” Beyaugus said simply. Briefly, his eyes passed over all of them, including Deros, but they didn’t linger. “Lecto, give us a summary of all this, if you would.”
The vaeton did so, explaining the detection of the rider, their response to get down as quickly as they could, and the ensuing results. Deros listened to it all while watching poor Tanmari finally finish with the tent, looking exhausted. No sooner had he finished than Eursett barked something else, to which the boy scrambled over to the pack aloga and began searching through the saddlebags frantically. Just as his name was being called again, he rushed through the tent flaps with a heavy leather bag in his hands.
By the end of the vaeton’s rundown, Beyaugus was frowning much as Lecto had been, like it was the standard expression of leaders, to strange news. “There aren’t any raiding tribes that we know of that would attack Bluehands, jeopardizing trade and treaty. I hope this is just banditry, and it might be depending on the number of mercenaries. This man tells us of only one band — usually there are more if the merchant can afford it, to dissuade bandits as much as possible.”
“The token is its own special problem,” Vesânth said. “His kin would not want his spirit freed, yet lost and ignorant upon burning. If it cannot be found, one of his kin must fashion a replacement. Further, his belongings must go to them.”
“We don’t even know who he is, and there are no Bluehands here.” Beyaugus sighed and sat back in his saddle, running a hand through his beard.
“Someone in Many Sands will recognize him or his belongings.”
“Are you suggesting we haul a decaying corpse twelve days east?”
Deros noticed the tent flaps suddenly opening. “Here they come,” he said.
Eursett and Palamera exited the tent and headed briskly in their direction, Tanmari apparently left with the dead man. Palamera was gingerly holding a small bit of folded-up cloth in her hands.
After stopping in front of the group, Eursett nodded respectfully with eyes on the two mounted figures of Beyaugus and Vesânth. “Chancellor. Senator. We have conducted our autopsy of the Bluehand. This unfortunate man suffered two separate attacks, many days apart. His first injury was likely five to ten days ago from some sort of bizarre metal object that lodged into his knee, causing a fracture. There is a minor infection suggesting re-injury or interference due to the inconvenience of the wound, as the unknowledgeable are prone to do. That or it was very slow-developing from the initial injury.”
She motioned to Palamera, who handed over the wrapped cloth to Lecto. After unwrapping it, he held up a misshapen bit of metal between his fingers, the inside cloth very slightly stained red from blood. “This is lead,” Lecto declared. “Sometimes used for sling bullets.”
“The other injuries,” Eursett continued, “were far graver, sustained on the side of his abdomen and his arm. I would hazard to suggest it was likely corsinids tracking wounded prey. His abdomen is gored and torn as from their hind talons, his torso — particularly his back — bruised from a jarring impact and his arm was bitten, perhaps in warding off a more fatal bite. Though he somehow fended off the attacks enough to get away and clearly attempted to bandage himself, it was not good enough and he did not stop bleeding. He inevitably spilled too much and perished, in my estimation around an hour ago, at most.”
“Corsinid bites have to be cleaned,” Lecto muttered. “Else they’ll keep bleeding.” He gestured with the metal piece Bariaki’s way, but the old man was not looking, staring at the sand in front of him pale-faced. Haunted with his own thoughts.
“He has a strong spirit,” Vesânth said in tones of admiration. “One worthy of his ancestors. Few who suffer an attack from those beasts rob them of their meal.”
Lecto brought the metal bit over to Beyaugus and handed it up to him. Beyaugus examined it and asked, “Such a small, irregular shape would scarcely fly well, mmn?”
Rubbing his chin with a hand and contemplating it for a moment, Lecto finally shrugged. “Probably not. Slung lead can travel hard and fast, though. It might’ve hit a hard rock and broken into fragments. Take Estrioso Ran—... well I forget her star name, actually. But during the war, an arrow narrowly missed her and hit a cliff face. The damn arrowhead shattered and a piece ricocheted right into her cheek. Embedded. She survived it, though she’s no longer with us now. Had a nasty time with the wound for a while, and a nasty scar after.”
Palamera spoke up suddenly, “That’s consistent with the wound site!” As all eyes turned to her, she was slightly embarrassed, but continued, “Small bits of metal, which we thought might be from the bone impact. But I think additional… ricochets are also feasible for an explanation. And there was evidence of superficial impact damage to the skin on the knee, perhaps from even smaller bits of material. Like, say, stone. I didn’t think it was pertinent to mention, sorry.”
Eursett nodded approvingly, seeming a tinge surprised. “Discussion often changes what’s pertinent, Palamera. Feel free to speak up. And well done.”
As Palamera murmured her thanks, Deros felt a measure of pride. He wasn’t surprised by her analysis — she was gifted in finding such details — but was glad to see her speak up in front of elders, and in a matter of importance. In her youth, she’d been unshakably confident and competent, but her difficulties with her ability in the initial stages, where she’d been on the verge of rejection from service as a Hospitaller, had shattered that. It had only been the rest of her life in regaining it, trial after trial, and doubting herself constantly. She’d persevered though, through dedication. He had not doubted her, at times desperately believing for her — and praying to gods he scarcely believed in. Perhaps the only pious period of his life.
“An obsidian arrowhead?” Vesânth queried of Lecto. She had taken the lead piece and cloth from Beyaugus and was examining it herself. After Lecto nodded an affirmative, Vesânth squinted her eyes in thought. “Is a lead slinging really so fragile as to shatter on rock?”
There was a momentary pause as no one answered. Then Beyaugus shook his head and said, “It doesn’t matter. He was attacked by bandits or a new raiding tribe while in a caravan on its way here or to Many Sands. Or Many Sands was raided and he escaped. We need to know, and we can’t just from this dead body. The Bluehands might need aid, and this man, one of theirs, lacks his spirit token. I’m dubious we’ll find it laying in the sand, and thus we may need a recreation from his kin, as Vesânth mentioned. The only solution is to send a party. Vesânth? Any counsel?”
She was holding the lead piece up to Azrom’s light as if its contours held hidden answers. “A party is the only course, to investigate and to deliver news. As well as his belongings. His body is too much trouble to send, hmm?”
“Yes. On top of the issues of decay, the group needs to be mobile. As fast as we can make it. Scout-led, elites to cover and ensure retreat, the best riders of each necessary element ...”
“Lots of fresh mounts,” Lecto added. “Bariaki, what do you think is the fastest such a group can get to Many Sands?”
The man seemed not to be paying attention at all, his eyes looking down the river and the snaking walls of the canyon beyond. The lines of his weathered face made his stare at rest almost a scowl. “Nine days,” he said finally, simply.
“This is not a matter for a senate vote,” Vesânth declared, “as it is an emergency and one of honor to our allies. Though it carries risk. A delegation of peace and aid, then. On the authority too, of the Hospitallers? I think even the gripers against us will hold their tongues, so described, Chancellor.”
“The Hospitallers are bound by duty,” Eursett said, her eyes on Vesânth, “to render aid and healing wherever our hand can reach. Whether the senate agrees or not. We’d go without escort if need be.”
Beyaugus sighed as his eyes were fixed on the tent and the body behind it like he was looking at a sandstorm on the horizon. “It will have to do. We can pray it is bandits and the worst we suffer is the worry extorted by this caravan’s misfortune.” His face creased in a thoughtful pause. “Ten for the party, no more. Six Azakan, two Hospitallers, an emissary, and perhaps a runner. I’ll leave that otherwise to General Kionmus.”
“I concur,” Vesânth said crisply. “Urchon Windwhipper?”
Beyaugus nodded. “If she would. I’ll ask her myself. And I’ll inform the hall. I can trust you to finish any matters here?”
“With ease and excellence, Chancellor.”
Beyaugus’s eyes then turned to Deros for the first time. “What say you, son?”
Deros froze, stunned by the sudden focus. “About what?”
“The entire situation, of course.” His father waited expectantly, an eyebrow raised.
“I…” His eyes shifted over them all as he fought down the panic of having no clue what to say. He decided to stick his eyes on the tent and collect his thoughts. He had to say something. “... think… we had best proceed with all haste, while we still have daylight. Preparation for this party will take a fair portion.”
His father didn’t seem terribly impressed with his ‘insight’, chin and lower lip rising in what could only be described as an indifferent shrug. “True enough. Lecto, shall we ride up?”
Great job, he told himself as he watched Lecto walk off and whistle for his aloga, while his father talked of needing Lecto to ‘confer’ with General Kionmus. Deros took a deep breath, seeing their backs and suddenly materializing a certainty that he was going to get into that emissary party. No doubt such an endeavor was useful for his training, and clearly everyone still quite believed he had much to live up to. He had to earn a new name someday. He couldn’t be ‘Son of Beyaugus’ forever. As his friend Daexo With Eyes Closed had said, ‘Make the news, be there for it, instead of hearing the tale at the ciderhouse.’
Remounting Enseres for a little extra speed, Deros made his way down the winding slope at a fair pace. The men gathered around the fallen Bluehand had obviously been exhausting their own knowledge of what to do in the situation. He was on top of a blanket on the dry uprise, and his entire torso had been re-wrapped in white cloth as well as an arm and a leg. Blood did not seem to be soaking through, but the amount of dried blood on the man’s clothes was not a good sign. The Azakan around him seemed quite grave, and the vaeton looked frustrated.
Deros’s approach was noted by Lecto as well as the old man crouched down by the blanket: the veteran scout Bariaki. Both nodded to him while still talking to each other. Two other warriors had fetched the aloga to search through the saddlebags upon it. Deros wasn’t surprised he didn’t recognize the fallen man as he only knew a few Bluehand traders or caravaners. The dyed clothes in mixes of blues and godberry purple, as well as a variety of gemstone jewelry at his ears and neck, marked him as reasonably well-off. Being middle-aged, possessing a fine quiver and what appeared to be a bronze longknife, he was probably a warrior of high rank, possibly a vaeton.
“... see as we have much choice,” Lecto was saying in his measured, slightly-hoarse tones. He was somewhere between middle-aged and ‘old’ to Deros’s mind, with his hair kept in one great braid trailing behind his back, common for men of his status. He had an approachable countenance and demeanor Deros had always liked. Known as a cautious man, he’d been the General of Miracles Springs Canyon — and thus the leader of the Azakan — several years ago. He’d struck gravely ill and been replaced but had recovered enough to take an important, if easier, post. “A dead man tells us a lot of not enough, and we need to know more.”
Bariaki seemed reluctant to speak — that was typical as he was usually a man of few words. He had a severe, bony face of lighter red with many deeper spots and blotches from the touch of Azrom over many calendars. His hair was stark white, long, and unbraided, kept back only by the leather band of his goggles, as many Azakan did in lieu of ties. Bariaki kept a distinctive pointed white beard and mustaches he’d had probably longer than Deros had been alive. He was a cunning scout and had seen his share of war, though he scarcely ever talked of it. A scar like a gouge indented across his forehead, where a spear had just slid from impaling his skull, long ago.
Receiving nothing more than a noncommittal grunt from Bariaki, the frowning Lecto looked up from the presumable corpse to regard Deros as he approached. “Hail, Deros. Come to worry over the slain like the rest of us, have you?”
“Hail Vaeton Lecto, Mister Bariaki,” Deros said as he dismounted from Enseres. “Is he well and truly dead, then?”
Lecto nodded gravely. “We wrapped his wounds, just in case, but he isn’t breathing. It is for a Hospitaller to declare, but it’s plain as daylight.”
Bariaki pressed his fingers up against the fallen man’s neck and looked up at Deros. “No heartbeat,” he resounded in his scraggly voice.
Deros blinked at that — it was typically a Hospitaller thing to do, among the non-Blessed who’d need to. But then, the man was married to Selethea, the eldest Hospitaller alive. Her bones had become weak and her activity highly reduced, but she had refused to fully retire. Her husband must’ve learned a number of things from her in their long years.
Noticing what appeared to be a piece of parchment in Bariaki’s hand, he gestured to it. “What is that?”
Bariaki held it up slightly and looked at it, as though considering exactly what it was.
Lecto answered instead. “Something this Bluehand had stuffed into his belt. If this old staring gargoyle here would oblige, you can see for yourself.”
Bariaki only frowned slightly at the words without looking Lecto’s way, but stood and handed the item out toward Deros.
Walking over to take it and murmur his thanks, Deros held up the parchment in two hands. It was the sort of durable piece that would be used for notes, or maybe to work out math. It had a bunch of lines and scribbles on it, done likely with charcoal. There was nothing discernable at all on it. Looking up from the parchment to the other two men, he asked, “So you think he was trying to write a message? For what?”
Lecto crossed his arms and regarded Deros with raised eyebrows. “What’s your assessment in that regard, young Blessed hunter of the Azakan and son of Beyaugus?”
Deros steeled himself against the obvious challenge by his elder and considered it for a moment. “It could be details of how he was wounded. Or a warning. But that is what we would want it to be. He might’ve just wanted to write a message to loved ones or identify them for whoever found him. He obviously knew he was not faring well and might die. By the same token, whatever was in his head might’ve been hysterical near-death nonsense. He could’ve been trying to draw a rock monster for all we know.”
Both of his elders nodded to this, less thoughtfully so much as approving of his logic. He had not really picked anything, and the neutrality of their expressions made him think they’d maybe had contrary opinions, so he asked, “And if I may ask, what do you two think?” At the same time, he handed the parchment back to Bariaki.
There was a pause as the two older men glanced at each other. Bariaki took the parchment, then his eyes shifted over Deros’s shoulder. “I think your aloga is getting away from you.”
Deros’s head whipped around to see Enseres sniffing around a cluster of reeds, well and entirely too far downriver. He cursed and started that direction instinctively, then caught himself and instead drew up short to whistle loudly, against the background of Lecto’s laughter.
So much for the impressions of elders, Deros chided to himself in some exasperation, as Enseres came trundling back with his head dipped and ears turned down, looking appropriately guilty. Deros waved him over emphatically, annoyed. In truth, it was more with himself for not giving instructions before walking away. When his companion was closer, Deros whistled another command and pointed over to where the other aloga were loosely gathered, sniffing around for insects. Enseres reluctantly joined them, looking back a couple of times before becoming absorbed.
When Deros turned back around, the two younger Azakan were leading the Bluehand’s aloga over to Lecto. The mount seemed fatigued and harried — no doubt the journey had been a laborious affair for it. The two who led it were young warriors, Sirus and Goronkía. With pale mauve-gray hair, narrow blue eyes, and squarish facial features all very similar, they looked like brothers, though technically they weren’t.
“Well,” Lecto demanded of them. “Anything of note?”
“Yes, Vaeton,” Sirus replied and held out to Lecto what appeared to be a booklet or ledger of some kind, long and narrow. “The Bluehand’s bow is nowhere to be found. I’d reckon he dropped it. His supplies are entirely depleted, other than water. I also found a hidden purse of-”
“We found!” Goronkía interjected like there was a prize he was missing out on. “We did. ‘Cause I said to look for it, remember? I did. I have it now.” He held the purse up.
Sirus glanced at his near-physical-twin in disgusted annoyance, before his eyes slid back to Lecto. “We found a purse with additional coins in a hidden pocket of the saddlebags. Porcelain, southern silver, faceless copper. A lot of founder mint, mostly square. Other than that, nothing worthy of note. No sign of his token.”
It was tragic news. A cothvmesi, or spirit token, was the one thing other than a robe that one’s body was burned on a pyre with, after death. Made of wood or laminate papyrus layers, it was painted by one’s mother on one side with a scene of her dreams of or for them, days after birth. The other side was painted when one obtained a dream of what they wanted to be or do in life, as a young child generally. When one’s flesh was destroyed, the spirit was freed to the winds and heaven, and the token was a remembrance of the life before. An eternal link or tether back to one’s kin, descendants, and general material existence. Only the truly vile and hated were denied their token at cremation, as if to tell them to forget and lose themselves. Wars had been waged over cothvmesi.
Deros mused aloud, “If he noticed his token was missing, he could’ve been trying to draw it, or write about it… or plead to go find it, in his panic. That would certainly be on a mortally-wounded man’s mind, I would think.”
There was a mix of reactions from the others. Goronkía muttered something under his breath and reached his hand through his tunic, no doubt to grip his own token on its necklace as if to ensure it was there. Bariaki nodded approvingly and seemed almost… relieved? But that made little sense. Lecto just frowned deeper as he flipped through the ledger he’d been handed.
Wait — ah ha. That must’ve been the argument. Lecto believed it to be a warning about raiders or other trouble, and Bariaki that it was more personal. Well. The missing token was hardly confirmation worth deciding the matter on. Lecto was probably seeing things from the perspective of assuming the worst, in case the contrary assumption was wrong.
Goronkía appeared nervous and was fidgeting. “Might’ve just dropped it somewhere. But it wasn’t on the aloga, for sure. We checked every nook and cranny, Vaeton Lecto, we sure did so.”
“Stellar work,” Lecto murmured with a touch of sarcasm, without looking up. Goronkía grinned and nodded, while Sirus had a sour wince on his face while staring sidelong at his friend. Lecto continued flipping through the ledger, saying, “Forty-first of Algâs, seventy founders from Grenháme, for six-man retainer… seventh of Tortaeus, two lakes, three-hundred and eighteen founders from Grenháme for six-man escort, Calm Waters Dam direct to Many Sands… and there is math written out for share distributions…”
“Grenháme is a trader of fine wares,” Bariaki offered. He was now scowling worse than Lecto, though why wasn’t entirely clear. “He comes here rarely, only in wet seasons.”
Sirus looked down at the fallen man and said, “I guess he was a caravaner captain. That’s not a common route, from all I’ve heard. Most go up through Sylmex territory. I reckon this other is faster? But dry. Wet weather must’ve opened it up for travel.”
“Yea, probably the wet weather,” Goronkía repeated.
Lecto finished turning pages and snapped the ledger shut, sighing. “Corsinids don’t ravage entire caravans, so this is the work of bandits or northern raiders. Them being this close is difficult to accept, but here’s the obvious evid-”
“Hospitallers,” Bariaki interrupted, his eyes set on the path up the slope, that he was facing.
Deros turned to see four aloga coming down the pass, three of them with riders seated on thick cloth hanging over saddles — the fourth would be carrying various medical supplies and implements. He recognized two of the three — the one in the lead was Eursett, a mature, veteran Hospitaller and surgeon, who was frequently one trusted with field excursions outside the city. The other he knew very well, and the sight of her to him was more stirring than any celestial rising.
Palamera Serrâtus Huar was an apprentice Hospitaller, just barely, as her final tests were imminent and a foregone conclusion. While she had encountered early difficulties in her walk, when she conquered them she blazed to the top of her class. Sadly, this did not matter due to their rigid protocols. Everyone knew she could’ve been done with it many calendars ago, but the tests were locked into timeframes set in stone. This was frustrating for a number of reasons — of particular note to Deros was that Hospitallers could not marry before it was through, and they were very much overdue for it. It was an uncommon torture of fate, but she was well worth any wait, to Deros. So he had assured her.
As the party arrived at the bottom of the pass, Eursett moved her aloga close enough to Palamera to say something to her, to which the apprentice nodded and agreed. Palamera’s eyes then shifted over to Deros and she favored him with a brief, small smile.
In truth, it was difficult to take his eyes off of her. He hadn’t seen her all of the day before, which wasn’t typical, and he could see why. Last night she clearly had visited the barber, as her pure white hair was trimmed and dyed black on the top and tips — something she’d talked about doing for many months. Though the wind was blowing it, he could tell the bangs on the front were cut to frame her face, just above the vibrant violet of her eyes. He was still getting used to the dark, flowery tattooing contoured all around her right eye, but they were a source of honor and pride as a Blessed Hospitaller. All of her features, cast in the palest red of her skin, were perfect to him — down to every freckle on her cheeks.
“Wipe that dumb grin off your face, Deros,” Lecto’s voice came, now right next to him. “It’s no good distracting our fair healers right now with that mooning around.”
“Yes, Vaeton Lecto,” Deros answered, clearing his throat and ceasing his staring, though he caught bemusement in the features of his elder. As Deros’s eyes shifted to the prone Bluehand, he felt a measure of shame. The dead deserved some respect, after all.
Eursett had increased her speed in the distance remaining, but drew rein and dismounted smoothly before them once she arrived, calling, “Clear the way, now, Azakan! Give us space.” Her penetrating gray eyes brooked no argument as they swept over the men gathered, the dark swirls of tattoos around her right eye and cheek an emblem of her status. Her elaborate braided updo made the curling path of tattooing down under the ear to the back of the neck evident. She wore the uniform of a Hospitaller — a fitted blood-crimson dress flowing into dividing skirts, with a loose white robe over it, black stitching on the back and left breast displaying the rune of Healer, effectively the symbol of their creed.
As everyone complied, Eursett rushed past them over to the splayed-out body, while Palamera dismounted and caught up just in time to take Eursett’s robe, as the Hospitaller shed it and tossed it to her. The dress of Eursett went only to the elbow, and so the snaking tattoos could be seen in their continuance, winding down the left forearm and hand until their final end at the pointer finger. The final bits at the palm of the hand and finger were those Palamera lacked as the completion of her apprenticeship. ‘Where The Work begins at the foot by walking, it ends at the hand by doing, from Spirit out to Flesh.’ Or so they said. The ink was etched over many years, winding its path up the body.
The third rider lagged further behind with the lead of the final aloga in his hands. He was a young man, a boy really, just years out of adolescence, and looked almost panicked in the duty assigned to him, by the look on his face. Deros didn’t recall his name. He had no tattoos and probably never would, as they were the mark of The Blessed only, and he was not so.
“How long has he been out?” Eursett asked loudly as she knelt by the dead man. “I see new wrappings — were his old ones removed?”
“He’s been still as death since we found him,” Lecto said with flat dismissiveness.
“His bandages were left on, Matron,” Bariaki added.
Eursett frowned at Lecto’s words but nodded to Bariaki. She said nothing more, however, as her hand went to the Bluehand’s chest and she closed her eyes.
Having never dropped his farsense entirely, Deros could feel her spin out her makar and makar’osa, a ‘heavy’ concentration sweeping through the body and back into Eursett in a spiral storm of energies, from the head to the toes. To Deros’s senses, it was a great indistinct smudge he was trying to get into focus, but never could. It had no analog to a normal sense like his own abilities and instead was a unique one, like the farsense itself. He understood what it told them — the state of a subject’s injuries and general health.
After passing the robe to the boy — who kept it and stood there awkwardly — Palamera knelt by Eursett and closed her eyes as well, clearly farsensing to pay heed carefully to what the Hospitaller was doing. She had not removed the off-white cloak that was over her shoulders, perhaps because it was still rather cool.
Opening eyes she kept downcast, Eursett lifted her hands away from the body and proclaimed, “This man’s body has ceased function. His blood is spent from his wounds and his heart is done. He cannot be revived.” Her eyes lifted to regard Lecto. “Please depart a ways so we can conduct a more thorough autopsy, with respect and dignity, for the spirit yet remains. Afterward, we will speak of these ill matters.” She looked to the boy and snapped her fingers to get his attention. “Tanmari! A tent wall — now, child.”
The one so identified jumped and sputtered, “Y-yes, Matron Eursett!” He rushed over to the pack aloga, set the coat over it, and began undoing the ties of a large bundle of heavy fabric. Deros didn’t envy him — that was not an instantaneous project by any means, and it looked like Palamera was getting a training session from the way Eursett was leaning over to whisper to her. Someone else could help, but no one was going to defy a Hospitaller instruction directly relating to not nosing in their business.
“Let’s go, colts and old men,” Lecto said, and waved his hand for everyone to follow as they all walked far out of earshot. “Let it not be said that the Azakan can’t wait with the best of them.”
“Our specialty, Vaeton,” Sirus offered.
“Yea, specialty, definitely,” Goronkía had to repeat.
Deros eyed the nearby aloga, still foraging for insects in a progressive scouring of the rocky incline, leaving dug-up rocks and vegetation scattered everywhere, by the work of their retractable claws. Some of them seemed antsy, likely because some part of them would prefer defying their masters and wandering down the river banks, where reeds and thus the goba mounds that thrived off of them were plentiful. It wasn’t worth the risk, however. The mostly-domesticated beasts didn’t have the greatest instincts for avoiding trouble on their own.
As they waited, Deros stood somewhat apart from the others. Lecto and Bariaki were silent, the latter now sifting through the coin purse he must’ve retrieved from Goronkía. The two near-brothers were a bit off to themselves, Sirus looking typical in his mild annoyance with the other, though they were talking back and forth about something.
The young Hospitaller hopeful had half of the topless tent up, which was admirable, though he was sweating and panicked about it all the same. Deros could still see Palamera, eyes closed and working her own makar’osa to analyze the body. Her hand on the chest suddenly made him think of the time she’d used it on him, years ago. At first, just an assessment of health. But the hand had lingered.
‘I can tell if you’re lying, now,’ she’d said with a teasing smile. ‘Do you love me, truly?’ And he had said, ‘With all my heart. Surely you can feel it.’ She’d quirked her lips, narrowed her eyes as if in consideration, and said, ‘Mmn — no. Your heart is just pumping blood.’ Such was the humor of a Hospitaller, he supposed. He had known she wasn’t actually trying to glean for lies, of course. It wasn’t in their creeds to do so, nor to even train as such — not that it stopped the ignorant and superstitious from believing otherwise.
Feeling a twinge of hunger and fatigue, he decided to drop his farsense and daug’makar entirely. While the more intensive makar’osa could be like a run or sprint depending, just the farsense itself was more like a brisk walk or jog. This was doable for long periods but it still cost energy and one could spend themselves into a unique exhaustion, and even into a pain that made focus impossible. It was both mental and physical.
A sound caused him to look up and see more people coming down the pass. Two riders. At the head was Beyaugus, his father and Chancellor of the Senate, largely the most powerful person in Miracle Springs. Close on his heels was the former Chancellor, Senator Vesânth, a close ally, advisor, and mentor to his father. She had largely taught him the politics of governance, to add to his keen diplomatic and mercantile skills.
“The Peacemaker himself,” Lecto declared when he saw. “That will speed resolution of this mess, at least.”
The pair cantered up to Lecto and drew rein. Beyaugus was a stately, wizened figure, somewhat older-appearing than he was thanks to a full, gray-and-white beard. His braided hair was the same mix of colors and threaded-through with a golden cord, while his eyes were the mirror of Deros’s own — gray-violet with scarce speckles of deeper color. He wore the trappings of a senator — white robes with a sash of brilliant purple over the shoulder. Multiple necklaces of gems, charms, and beads, as well as several gold and silver jeweled rings, displayed his wealth. A simple, braided leather bracelet with a crude, painted porcelain heart attached looked out of place with the rest. It was crafted by his daughter at a young age, shortly before she was lost to them. Deros could barely recall a time his father wasn’t wearing it.
Vesânth, in contrast, was less decorated, though she wore the same robes and had a few pieces of jewelry as if to pay lip service to expectations. Her white hair was held back by a simple tie, though numerous strands had been loosened from the wind and travel. Her blue eyes regarded the world in supreme calm, and her aged countenance radiated the same. There was an air of enjoyment to her as well, Deros felt. He’d bet on it being the ride. She spent most of her time governing, and the rest counseling others thanks to her reputation for wisdom. No doubt the little trip was a welcome change of scenery.
“Hail, Beyaugus Peacemaker,” Bariaki called, nodding respectfully. “Vesânth, Wise Seer.”
“Hail, Bariaki Shadestepper,” Beyaugus replied amiably with his own nod. “Good to see you still breathing free, old friend.” He turned to Lecto. “Lecto. I forget your earned name — what was it?”
Lecto breathed a laugh at the dry jest. “Lecto Sandkicker, these days. If I don’t earn a better one I can be happy, though, because it means there was mildness and peace in my latter days.”
Vesânth’s eyes were on the tent. “I surmise they are performing an autopsy?”
“They are, Senator,” Lecto answered. “I think the Matron is getting in some practice for the young lady. Though from what I hear, it's hardly needed.”
“The Hospitallers will do as they will,” Beyaugus said simply. Briefly, his eyes passed over all of them, including Deros, but they didn’t linger. “Lecto, give us a summary of all this, if you would.”
The vaeton did so, explaining the detection of the rider, their response to get down as quickly as they could, and the ensuing results. Deros listened to it all while watching poor Tanmari finally finish with the tent, looking exhausted. No sooner had he finished than Eursett barked something else, to which the boy scrambled over to the pack aloga and began searching through the saddlebags frantically. Just as his name was being called again, he rushed through the tent flaps with a heavy leather bag in his hands.
By the end of the vaeton’s rundown, Beyaugus was frowning much as Lecto had been, like it was the standard expression of leaders, to strange news. “There aren’t any raiding tribes that we know of that would attack Bluehands, jeopardizing trade and treaty. I hope this is just banditry, and it might be depending on the number of mercenaries. This man tells us of only one band — usually there are more if the merchant can afford it, to dissuade bandits as much as possible.”
“The token is its own special problem,” Vesânth said. “His kin would not want his spirit freed, yet lost and ignorant upon burning. If it cannot be found, one of his kin must fashion a replacement. Further, his belongings must go to them.”
“We don’t even know who he is, and there are no Bluehands here.” Beyaugus sighed and sat back in his saddle, running a hand through his beard.
“Someone in Many Sands will recognize him or his belongings.”
“Are you suggesting we haul a decaying corpse twelve days east?”
Deros noticed the tent flaps suddenly opening. “Here they come,” he said.
Eursett and Palamera exited the tent and headed briskly in their direction, Tanmari apparently left with the dead man. Palamera was gingerly holding a small bit of folded-up cloth in her hands.
After stopping in front of the group, Eursett nodded respectfully with eyes on the two mounted figures of Beyaugus and Vesânth. “Chancellor. Senator. We have conducted our autopsy of the Bluehand. This unfortunate man suffered two separate attacks, many days apart. His first injury was likely five to ten days ago from some sort of bizarre metal object that lodged into his knee, causing a fracture. There is a minor infection suggesting re-injury or interference due to the inconvenience of the wound, as the unknowledgeable are prone to do. That or it was very slow-developing from the initial injury.”
She motioned to Palamera, who handed over the wrapped cloth to Lecto. After unwrapping it, he held up a misshapen bit of metal between his fingers, the inside cloth very slightly stained red from blood. “This is lead,” Lecto declared. “Sometimes used for sling bullets.”
“The other injuries,” Eursett continued, “were far graver, sustained on the side of his abdomen and his arm. I would hazard to suggest it was likely corsinids tracking wounded prey. His abdomen is gored and torn as from their hind talons, his torso — particularly his back — bruised from a jarring impact and his arm was bitten, perhaps in warding off a more fatal bite. Though he somehow fended off the attacks enough to get away and clearly attempted to bandage himself, it was not good enough and he did not stop bleeding. He inevitably spilled too much and perished, in my estimation around an hour ago, at most.”
“Corsinid bites have to be cleaned,” Lecto muttered. “Else they’ll keep bleeding.” He gestured with the metal piece Bariaki’s way, but the old man was not looking, staring at the sand in front of him pale-faced. Haunted with his own thoughts.
“He has a strong spirit,” Vesânth said in tones of admiration. “One worthy of his ancestors. Few who suffer an attack from those beasts rob them of their meal.”
Lecto brought the metal bit over to Beyaugus and handed it up to him. Beyaugus examined it and asked, “Such a small, irregular shape would scarcely fly well, mmn?”
Rubbing his chin with a hand and contemplating it for a moment, Lecto finally shrugged. “Probably not. Slung lead can travel hard and fast, though. It might’ve hit a hard rock and broken into fragments. Take Estrioso Ran—... well I forget her star name, actually. But during the war, an arrow narrowly missed her and hit a cliff face. The damn arrowhead shattered and a piece ricocheted right into her cheek. Embedded. She survived it, though she’s no longer with us now. Had a nasty time with the wound for a while, and a nasty scar after.”
Palamera spoke up suddenly, “That’s consistent with the wound site!” As all eyes turned to her, she was slightly embarrassed, but continued, “Small bits of metal, which we thought might be from the bone impact. But I think additional… ricochets are also feasible for an explanation. And there was evidence of superficial impact damage to the skin on the knee, perhaps from even smaller bits of material. Like, say, stone. I didn’t think it was pertinent to mention, sorry.”
Eursett nodded approvingly, seeming a tinge surprised. “Discussion often changes what’s pertinent, Palamera. Feel free to speak up. And well done.”
As Palamera murmured her thanks, Deros felt a measure of pride. He wasn’t surprised by her analysis — she was gifted in finding such details — but was glad to see her speak up in front of elders, and in a matter of importance. In her youth, she’d been unshakably confident and competent, but her difficulties with her ability in the initial stages, where she’d been on the verge of rejection from service as a Hospitaller, had shattered that. It had only been the rest of her life in regaining it, trial after trial, and doubting herself constantly. She’d persevered though, through dedication. He had not doubted her, at times desperately believing for her — and praying to gods he scarcely believed in. Perhaps the only pious period of his life.
“An obsidian arrowhead?” Vesânth queried of Lecto. She had taken the lead piece and cloth from Beyaugus and was examining it herself. After Lecto nodded an affirmative, Vesânth squinted her eyes in thought. “Is a lead slinging really so fragile as to shatter on rock?”
There was a momentary pause as no one answered. Then Beyaugus shook his head and said, “It doesn’t matter. He was attacked by bandits or a new raiding tribe while in a caravan on its way here or to Many Sands. Or Many Sands was raided and he escaped. We need to know, and we can’t just from this dead body. The Bluehands might need aid, and this man, one of theirs, lacks his spirit token. I’m dubious we’ll find it laying in the sand, and thus we may need a recreation from his kin, as Vesânth mentioned. The only solution is to send a party. Vesânth? Any counsel?”
She was holding the lead piece up to Azrom’s light as if its contours held hidden answers. “A party is the only course, to investigate and to deliver news. As well as his belongings. His body is too much trouble to send, hmm?”
“Yes. On top of the issues of decay, the group needs to be mobile. As fast as we can make it. Scout-led, elites to cover and ensure retreat, the best riders of each necessary element ...”
“Lots of fresh mounts,” Lecto added. “Bariaki, what do you think is the fastest such a group can get to Many Sands?”
The man seemed not to be paying attention at all, his eyes looking down the river and the snaking walls of the canyon beyond. The lines of his weathered face made his stare at rest almost a scowl. “Nine days,” he said finally, simply.
“This is not a matter for a senate vote,” Vesânth declared, “as it is an emergency and one of honor to our allies. Though it carries risk. A delegation of peace and aid, then. On the authority too, of the Hospitallers? I think even the gripers against us will hold their tongues, so described, Chancellor.”
“The Hospitallers are bound by duty,” Eursett said, her eyes on Vesânth, “to render aid and healing wherever our hand can reach. Whether the senate agrees or not. We’d go without escort if need be.”
Beyaugus sighed as his eyes were fixed on the tent and the body behind it like he was looking at a sandstorm on the horizon. “It will have to do. We can pray it is bandits and the worst we suffer is the worry extorted by this caravan’s misfortune.” His face creased in a thoughtful pause. “Ten for the party, no more. Six Azakan, two Hospitallers, an emissary, and perhaps a runner. I’ll leave that otherwise to General Kionmus.”
“I concur,” Vesânth said crisply. “Urchon Windwhipper?”
Beyaugus nodded. “If she would. I’ll ask her myself. And I’ll inform the hall. I can trust you to finish any matters here?”
“With ease and excellence, Chancellor.”
Beyaugus’s eyes then turned to Deros for the first time. “What say you, son?”
Deros froze, stunned by the sudden focus. “About what?”
“The entire situation, of course.” His father waited expectantly, an eyebrow raised.
“I…” His eyes shifted over them all as he fought down the panic of having no clue what to say. He decided to stick his eyes on the tent and collect his thoughts. He had to say something. “... think… we had best proceed with all haste, while we still have daylight. Preparation for this party will take a fair portion.”
His father didn’t seem terribly impressed with his ‘insight’, chin and lower lip rising in what could only be described as an indifferent shrug. “True enough. Lecto, shall we ride up?”
Great job, he told himself as he watched Lecto walk off and whistle for his aloga, while his father talked of needing Lecto to ‘confer’ with General Kionmus. Deros took a deep breath, seeing their backs and suddenly materializing a certainty that he was going to get into that emissary party. No doubt such an endeavor was useful for his training, and clearly everyone still quite believed he had much to live up to. He had to earn a new name someday. He couldn’t be ‘Son of Beyaugus’ forever. As his friend Daexo With Eyes Closed had said, ‘Make the news, be there for it, instead of hearing the tale at the ciderhouse.’
