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If there were ever a time for cool thought under pressure, it would certainly be when a person was staring down an honest to the gods Gynosphinx. It wasn’t that they were outwardly menacing – oh no. The sphinx resembled a Human – in this instance, a woman – with the lower body of a lion, creatures of intellect and cool reason. What a sphinx valued was reason and storytelling.
Tenre of Osirion was a person who had those qualities in abundance. Her dark skin was smooth with youth and beaded with the sweat of the hot day, and the mind that turned under the long braids that crowned her hair was as sharp as the gold-hilted sword that she carried at her side. She could be any sphinx’s equal, especially if what that sphinx wanted was a good tale.
She had tracked a thief and murderer to this lakeside, just a few miles south of Sothis, in order to kill him and reclaim the temple artifact that he had stolen. He had managed to give her tracking the slip among the dozens and dozens of merchants who crowded the shores, and the hundreds of local and traveling people who were crowding their stalls. The place was a nightmare to try to track in, really – something her quarry was counting on.
The sphinx smiled. “Brave little temple hunter, certain of your quarry yet uncertain of where he is. You have passion, dear hunter, but not information. I have information, but lack the passion. Perhaps we can work out a trade,” Shirin said with an amused feline purr rumbling deep in the chest of her lion half.
“What form of… passion do you see as a worthwhile trade for your information, my Lady? And by what name do you wish to be called?” Tenre fidgeted.
“Tell me a tale, young human. So many of your kin make the unkind assumption that beasts who have cause to spend time with humans do so because we find you edible or attractive – and while sometimes this is true, it is hardly a universal fact. So, dear little one. Spin me a tale and I will tell you of what you need. As for my name… Shirin will do, the full form of my name is a bit unwieldy.”
Looking into Shirin’s hooded eyes, Tenre squared her shoulders, held her head high, and began her story. “My name is Tenre, and this is the story of how I arrived here.”
*
The River Sphinx was lovely, the full moon glittering on its cool waters. Yet I had no time to gaze into them. My hunter’s work waited. My dark hair coiled in ropes at my shoulders, and my light clothes whispered with me as I stalked the bank of the river. For two days I had hunted man. He slew those who guard our temple’s secrets, stole what was not rightfully his, and he meant to return with it to a far-off land, to be sold to the highest bidder.
Tracking gives you time for some introspection once you actually have the track – at least, it does when your mark is completely unaware that he’s being followed.
I was in my kitchen that afternoon when the messenger came. I could smell him before I saw him – a hard run through the afternoon sun tended to make anybody a bit ripe. I turned with a pitcher of water in my hand and heard the man’s footsteps breaking through the general susurrus of activity outside. The river, a lazy half-mile of water flowing toward the Inner Sea, was just visible from my kitchen window, the sun glittering on the ripples of its surface. The source of life in Osirion, the River Sphinx made the difference between the desert outside its valley and the fertile land within it.
The young runner rattled through golden grasses, stalks bare from blown-away seeds this late in the season. I let the grass grow tall – despite the questioning looks and frank disdain from my neighbors, it formed an effective warning system that had once saved my life (though more often it simply let me know when I had visitors coming).
I had the grace to try to look surprised when he burst through the door of my brick house. After all, a normal person – even if I am far from that blessed state – does not expect an exhausted runner to burst into her home with news of dire importance.
“Lady Tenre!” he panted, “You are needed… at the temple… at once.”
I nodded to him and drew a white cup from my table, filling it with cool water for the young man. “I will go, but you should stay for a few minutes longer and refresh yourself.” The points of his ears hinted at elven ancestry. His mother had been a half-elf, though no longer was his elven ancestry enough to count by the way the long-lived count their descendants. As he gulped water, I gathered my weapons. A stout, short staff and my trusted long sword found themselves at my side, my truest companions through many years of adventuring. I hurried to the temple, my armor left behind in the heat of the day, fearing the worst.
I ran through a mental catalogue of my allies. There were half a dozen wizards of my acquaintance, two of whom lived nearby. Three warriors, a second-story woman, a pair of priests. I would be in good company if assistance were required.
My fears had painted me a picture splashed in blood to be displayed upon my arrival, and my fears had not disappointed me. The remains of two guards splashed the ground of the temple. Their bodies were artlessly left where they had fallen by whomever had done this – and of course, the scarab was missing. I expected that, as well. Few people who break into a temple with weapons do so because they simply want to get into the place.
I made myself look at the bodies. Kartas and Oloran. At least they’d given a fight. I would miss Kartas’ tusked smile. We trained together, and he had always had a kind word for me. Oloran I didn’t know as well – he was trained long after I had entered the service of the temple – but he was an honorable man and deserved better than this. They were cut down by the stroke of a very sharp blade: one that was more for stabbing than slicing, too, by the look of it. A rapier, then. The cuts weren’t that deep, but the puncture wounds, those were clean and deep. The pools of blood underneath the men were not as wide as they could have been. They fought before they died, and the trail of blood leading from the temple suggested that their killer had not gotten away wholly unscathed.
My hand clenched in impotent rage while my professionalism choked back the urge to scream before the sound was anything more than a desire. I had no power to bring these two men back from the dead – but I could avenge them, and would. I returned home to begin my preparations, for presently, I would hunt.
No armor heavier than my favorite breastplate would do. The boiled leather beaten about its edges and face would hide me from view and hearing, muffling the clatter that metal made when it struck itself. I muffled myself in a fine linen cloak, and left my home behind me. The servants of the temple would care for it in my absence.
For two days I followed the footprints of my quarry, never quite making sight of him. I saw his banners, however, and from them saw that he was a member of the Pathfinder Society. I finally caught sight of my quarry near a popular pool in the river, where time and tide had eaten the bank into a broad, slowly-flowing area that worked as a functional lake.
There were surprisingly regular stone spires thrusting from the surface of the water in that pool. Legend had it that during what the North calls Thassilonian times, our ancient pharaohs built a tremendous dam to contain and channel the waters of our great river, to use its power to fuel arcane industries of which we only have the faintest memories.
Our land was once steeped in magic, and if you believe the tales, every street was lit by magical lights.
But it was here that I lost sight of the train of my quarry. He was cagy enough to lose me in the bustle of tents and traders.
I ran into a woman while searching for my quarry. She towered over me and I was already a tall woman. My eyes went up to meet her face, then down to her feet. Her furred feet, attached to the body of a lioness bearing the wings of a hawk. In the lion’s chest, a soft deep rumble sounded. She was a gynosphinx, one of the riddling mistresses of the desert.
*
“I believe, Tenre, that this is where I entered the story.” Amused, Shirin looked down at her human companion as they wandered through the settlement. Tenre lapsed into surprised silence, realizing that her tale had come up to the point of the beginning of its own telling.
She took a breath, “So now you know my story. I seek vengeance against the killer of my friends and against the thief of the artifact they protected. There are lives still at stake.”
Shirin looked to Tenre and nodded. “Climb on,” she said, “I have seen your enemies, and they will be easier to track from the air.”
The riparian night drew like a cloak about Tenre. Barely twenty miles from where she stood, the temperature free-fell toward freezing, the desert lacking the moisture of the river to trap heat overnight. She moved like a shadow through the warm night, armor making only the softest sounds as stiffened leather clunked against itself. Her sword was drawn, the half-staff remaining in its soft leather sheath.
Tenre’s quarry slept in a tent near the river, a sensible precaution. A small cluster of tents, six in all, contained his entourage, with a handful of guards sitting around a banked fire, not watching the perimeter. Out in the darkness, her breath just began to steam as it curled about her head. She narrowed her eyes. She had to work fast, clouds of vapor around a person would give away her presence. The desert would have hidden her quarry’s traces, but near the river the stones may as well have shouted his presence.
Tenre snorted softly. She could have slain his assistants out of revenge. The images of her lost comrades danced spitefully in her mind, however, but little desire was felt to kill hirelings for symmetry. Most of them were locals, after all. They worked for coin as guides to feed their families.
The Temple Scarab of Khepri was one of the sacred artifacts of the Temple of Rametep IV. It was a half-pound of gold crusted with rubies and emeralds, it had seen its share of thieves. The scarab was also, implicitly, a weapon.
Tenre’s mind raced. She and her order tried to be quiet about it, but there were creatures in the world that posed a distinct danger to people. They had the right to exist, however, so long as they attacked no one else – but they frightened humans, elves, and dwarves. As a result, adventuring parties of those three races often went to do battle with them, and the Order of the Sand Scarab often found itself stuck in the middle. Temple scarabs were one of those lines between living and undead – they protected most of humanity from those who lived still despite the cessation of their breath and heart.
“The balance,” whispered Tenre, “must always be upheld. The living and the dead both getting their due.”
She was the Temple Tracker of Rametep. She vowed softly to return the scarab to its rightful place.
Tenre stole silently to the man’s tent, damp grass parting beneath her soft-soled shoes. It was very late, the moon high in the sky. The tent was dark and quiet. She strained to hear the faint susurrus of her quarry’s sleeping breath.
Tenre stayed away from any line where her body might have fallen between the moon and the tent. She gladly traded the menace of a looming silhouette on her foe’s tent side for the advantage of surprise.
Her bow in hand, she drew to her cheek, sighting down the arrow’s shaft. Her aim point was above the bundle in the cot; an attack to draw the Pathfinder and his entourage out of the tent and away from their camp. At the same time, teach him an expensive lesson by ruining his tent…
A voice, rich with the rolling vowels of a Chelish accent, sounded behind Tenre, “I wouldn’t. Tent canvas is a difficult patch job.”
A point of steel was at the back of her neck, and Tenre straightened, slackening her bow. “I gather that’s the sword with which you dispatched those guards.”
“Good guess. I’d wager you’ve seen its wounds before, so you know what it can do, and you know that I have little compunction against using it. Please walk with me.”
Tenre straightened and turned, holding her hands in the air.
“Also, please relinquish your sword and bow to me, madam. I prefer not to take such chances.”
“Call me Tenre,” she said. With exaggerated reluctance she unbuckled her sword belt, handing it over with blade inside. She handed over her bow as well, keeping attention away from the half-staff at her other side. Few people, she knew, noticed or asked about walking sticks.
“And my name is Aren Grail. Pathfinder.”
“The reputation of your Society is that of explorers and knowledge-seekers, not plunderers.”
Aren Grail was a handsome young man, after the Northern way. His skin and eyes were pale as the cirrus clouds that drift across the desert sky. His head was shaved. Tenre could see a shadow of a full head of hair and wondered why he chose to affect a style typical of balding middle-aged men wishing for lost youth. He wore black from head to toe and bore the air of a dandy. Apart from their heights, which were similar, he was opposite her in every respect. His sword rested at his cot, hers next to it.
Tenre was tied firmly, wrists and body, to a chair.
Grail smiled the barely-contained smile of the easily excitable, “Why are you here?” Grail’s tent was simple canvas.
“I would ask that of you, temple robber, if you were not in possession of that which I intend to recover.”
He toyed with the scarab and Tenre swallowed her frustration. This man had not been the first to taunt a Temple Tracker with their ill-gotten gains. “My Venture-Captain wants a token of my travels into the Osirion back country,” he said by way of explanation.
“So you chose to steal from an active temple? What do you think those guards were there for? Constant guard is an expensive thing.” Tenre quietly strained against her bonds, testing their every knot.
“I thought those were someone’s mercenaries,” Grail said defensively.
“And that makes it better,” Tenre replied, “Mercenaries have loved ones, too.”
He sighed and seemed to deflate, “How was I supposed to know what temples are active and what aren’t? They were only orcs and I can’t go back empty-handed.”
Tenre’s estimation of the man changed again - this man was a lazy, plundering child, not an explorer. And like a boy, his shorn head was an attempt to look more like a man. She swallowed her anger again, and explained as if to a child, “One of those orcs, I trained with as a child. He was a dear friend to me. For that alone I should end your life.”
Grail slid the scarab into his pack. Despite having Tenre tied to a chair, he edged away along a wall.
“You’ll regret coming to Osirion at all,” Tenre said, “Your superiors will be hearing of your disgrace.” She tested the knots binding her once more, but they held with only slight strain.
Grail turned to his desk, strewn with potions and papers. “I’ve already had enough run-ins with them to know that more problems will mean a desk job for the rest of my days. My mother depends on me. That can’t be happening now.”
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you came here with theft on your mind.”
The chair she was tied to was of sturdy construction, but it was also wobbly. Grail was between her and the tent opening, but his attention was elsewhere.
“Perhaps we can reach an arrangement? This doesn’t have to end badly for both of us… or even either of us.” He rattled a pair of glowing phials aside and the clink of gold coins being slid from a pouch set Tenre’s teeth on edge. Trying to buy her off? After this much death?
He began to turn back, “Two hundred gold pieces, payable in…”
Tenre leapt forward, slamming into him and bringing both of them down in an ungainly pile of limbs. A distinct wooden crack sounded through the clear, cool night – one of the legs of the chair was nearly broken off.
Improvising, she rolled and sat on Grail, chair first – it broke into pieces, setting her arms free. She beat him twice with the now-liberated chair back. He gave a forceful grunt of pain as he rolled to his feet. “We were negotiating! Foul play!”
“Foul play, child, is you attempting to buy my loyalty and vows with mere coin!”
That, thought Tenre, will summon his servants. Her bonds dangled loosely and she wrapped a cord around his throat – not quite quickly enough, and he tore it away before she could set it in.
“Foul play, tracker,” he cried again.
Tenre barked a laugh of disbelief at his words, “I find myself in good company then, robber!”
She reached for her sword. Long and slightly curved, a slicing sword, and Grail went for his as well. Grail’s rapier was wickedly sharp – no mere dueling blade, but the weapon of someone who knew how to fight.
“I find myself wondering how someone as skilled with a rapier as you could be so childish where other things are concerned.”
He lunged and she parried, using the greater weight of her blade to force his sword and arm. The tip dug into her skin and she winced – only a flesh wound, but flesh wounds still hurt! Tenre’s sword came down in an arc and Grail casually deflected it into the dirt. She was inside his arm for a moment.
The dagger in Tenre’s left hand squelched into his gut with the ugly sound of a mortal wound, and his battle cry turned high and uneven as he recoiled. If she could only outlast him, but he stabbed her in the side and she too bled freely. Another slash to his side and something seemed to break inside Grail… and Tenre herself suddenly felt as though a lead weight were hanging on her every limb.
Grail slumped to the ground, laughing brokenly as Tenre propped herself on her sword, head swimming dangerously.
“You’ve killed me, and I’ve killed you. There is no prize for either of us in the end, is there? It’s a shame… Mother,” Grail’s features took on a sudden frightened intensity, “I…”
He expired before Tenre could think of a proper reply. She settled for limping to his desk and throwing open a drawer. Her fingers closed around one of the glowing phials, labeled in tiny script, Cure Light Wounds. She drank it, feeling a gratifying rush as her side knit closed and vitality returned to her.
Tenre slid the scarab and his papers into her pack. She painfully limped from the tent just before the man’s servants rushed in to find his corpse. There were shouts behind her and she commanded her body to ignore its aches until she could flee. Her body, accustomed to being pushed sharply, obeyed.
Grail’s servants abandoned the search in less than an hour. A dead man couldn’t pay them, and Tenre doubted the Pathfinder Society would pay off the servants of a dead Pathfinder caught thieving from an active temple.
Even after the healing potion, Tenre’s side and arm still hurt. Shirin, though, was waiting right where she said she would be.
“You look as though you have been in better shape in your life, Tenre.”
“My quarry might have been arrogant and smug, but he was good with a blade. Fortunately, my blade was sharper and my aim truer – though it was only by the narrowest of margins.”
“I would gladly return you to your superiors in your temple, in exchange for knowing how the story ends. You are one of the more amusing two-legs I’ve met in quite some time.”
Tenre smiled, “I’ll take that as a compliment, then.”
Shirin nodded, crouching down, “I am at the service of your temple, then.”
The miles on sphinx back to the temple flew under her wings, cool wind sliding against Tenre’s skin, the weight of the scarab secure in the pouch on her hip. The soreness of her knitting side bit into her, a reminder of her fight even after the blood had stopped flowing – she’d need a new linen shift to line the inside of her armor when this one stiffened and the blood dried. If he had been travelling light, Grail could have been to the coast before she had even met Shirin. Not that Tenre was complaining about his oversight – the track and the kill had been difficult enough.
Safe, Tenre read the letter that Grail had been composing.
Sheila Heidmarch
c/o Pathfinder Society
313 Avenue of the Gryphon
Magnimar, Varisia
My dear Venture-Captain,
Tomorrow I depart from Osirion, the Scarab in hand. This land is fascinating, the contrast between desert and fertile bottom lands. I hope to see this fascinating artifact soon enshrined in the Blackros Museum for all to see.
I have been pursued for some three days by a woman in leather overlaid armor. She may have been a hireling of the orcs I dispatched in the temple, or she may be an independent operator of some sort, seeking my treasure for her own purposes. Regardless, you have my assurances that this scarab is genuine and of the highest quality. I look forward to seeing it in a place where all can admire it.
Enclosed are my complete monograph and notes on the subject of my visit to the Land of the Pharaohs, along with several more artifacts. I hope to see your notes and responses to the draft upon my desk by my return to Magnimar. I plan to spend a brief holiday in Cheliax and Andoran and visit my mother in Sandpoint before returning home.
I rmn yr &c. &c.,
A. Lorephilius Grail
She folded the letter and put it back in the stolen pack. She thought briefly of posting it anyway to Magnimar as a gesture of defiance. She had heard from other guardians that this Sheila Heidmarch was not an unfair or unwise woman, and that she could be reasoned with, so perhaps a less defiant approach would be preferable.
Flapping flight gave way to a slow descending glide as the familiar sight of the temple grew before Tenre. She had seldom seen it from above, and never from this high up – it looked almost like a toy, not a place where death had happened to people she cared for.
“Thank you for everything, Shirin. I might not have found my quarry if not for your help. Thank you especially for the return ride to my temple.”
“It is my pleasure to assist, young tracker. The people of the desert have always been among my especial favorites.”
The sky had lightened at the horizon as Shirin touched down in the soft green grass at the front of the temple, padding forward even as Tenre dismounted.
As dawn turned the sky to the color of salmon, Tenre approached her King.
The dust-dry voice of Pharaoh Rametep IV echoed off the stone walls as Tenre knelt before him, clutching the scarab. Centuries in the tomb had made him into leather stretched taut over bone; his funerary wrappings tarred to his body by the ceremonial unguents. His scent was that of an ancient book with the faint hint of dried spice. “You have done well, my tracker.” Rametep IV, King under Osiris was one of the last to rule in the name of the old gods before Chelaxians brought their religion to our country.
“Sekhmet’s justice will be brought to outsiders who seek what is not theirs, my Lord,” she replied. In genuflect, her forehead touched the smooth, clean floor.
“Rise, my servant, and regale me with your journey.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Tenre called for a carafe of wine. It tasted of pear and berry, with citrus bite on the finish.
Her tale began as the sun rose.
“The River Sphinx was lovely, the full moon glittering on its cool waters. Yet I had no time to gaze into them…”