Chapter Text
A letter addressed to Blameless Marad, written in cypher and carefully sealed:
Illustrious Mentor,
Know that a thorough accounting of the disastrous embassy will follow, but that herein I provide the most pressing news.
The Tenakth fight among themselves. Machine riders slew many Tenakth and the entire Carja contingent, including Vuadis and Nozar. It was only the Savior of Meridian's defeat of their hulking champion that sent these rebels running.
Among the supposed dead was General Fashav. Garbed, painted, and inked as a Tenakth, he fought alongside the Carja soldiers and fell to a ghastly wound. Even the soldiers sent to retrieve the bodies assumed him dead, but not so! Upon closer inspection I detected a glimmer of life still in him and discreetly put my trusted people into action.
He is stable, but only time will tell if he survives. I do not want to get anyone's hopes up. Nor am I ready to declare that this man is who we assume. It could all be a trick. Though there is perhaps something in his countenance of the Radiant Line, he is ashen from blood loss and marred by barbarian ink.
I have sworn the healers to secrecy, and told them that the man they are treating is a covert Tenakth diplomat meant to parley with the Sun-King. I’ve concealed his fate even from the Savior’s injured Nora accomplice and the Vanguard’s captain. Seeing that this is a matter of diplomacy, and of the Radiant Line, I hope that you will approve of my caution.
Walk in the Sun,
Capable Namir
Fashav raged in impotent silence.
He had been injured, he knew. He remembered the Embassy, the surge of adrenaline, the plink of arrows on armor, the pounding of Bristleback hooves, and finally the burn of a blade in his side. After that? Mostly darkness, broken by foggy spells of half consciousness, sips of water and broth, and more pain as his injury was probed and prodded.
His abdomen had been swathed in bandages from ribs to hips, and positively reeked of some herbaceous poultice, but the moment he had first tried to weakly lift his arm, he had found a strap of leather preventing further motion. His mind and tongue were slowed as if he were drunk, but the taste of more herbs in his mouth told him he’d been dosed with something medicinal. Someone had gone to all the trouble of treating his injuries, so why were his arms bound to the sides of the bedframe? Who had treated him? Had that same person dared bind him? Where was he? What had become of the other Marshals?
These questions had proved too much at first, but now his mind was clearing, thank the Sun and the Ten both.
Hopefully his body would prove as sound. He tested the bindings, found they prevented him from rolling over, but were slack enough that he should be able to sit up. Drained as he felt, he was still determined to try. He braced his hands on the mattress and pulled his lower body under him. Pain lanced down his left side, and he slumped back against the headboard, but he had succeeded. He was sitting up.
Even from his new vantage, there was little of interest in the room. The stone walls bore no windows, but there was a fat, lit candle in the sconce by the door. The wood and iron bedframe and matching bedside table were only just better than shabby. The bedsheets were soft linen, though. Not exactly Carja silk, but far finer than the utilitarian roughspun the Tenakth used.
Perhaps he had made it to the Carja side of the border, after all.
The scrape of a heavy iron key in its lock had Fashav turning his head towards the door.
A man slipped inside, turning to lock the door behind him before looking Fashav over with a clinical disinterest. His Carja robes were deceptively unassuming, drab and cut in a peasants’ style, but made of finer, more comfortable fabric. The man himself had a sort of pinched, shrewd look about him. Fashav disliked him immediately.
“Ah, you’re coming around, just as the healers said,” the man remarked.
“Why…” Fashav struggled to get just that word out, his tongue thick and his mouth dry.
“Why are you here, at Barren Light?” the man attempted to finish for him. “Well, I…”
“No,” Fashav cut the man off, feeling his original measure of the man was likely well-placed. It seemed he was a pushy know-it-all, at best. Fashav swallowed and rallied to try again. “Why am I bound?”
The stranger narrowed his eyes. “So you don’t hurt yourself, of course. The healers can take them off later, since you seem to have your wits.”
It seemed this man was unwilling to do Fashav the kindness himself, another strike against him.
“And you are?” Fashav asked. The words were still clumsy, but coming more easily.
The man bowed, short and sharp. “I am Capable Namir. Who are you?”
Who was he? For a know-it-all, this Namir was pitifully uninformed.
“I am Unyielding Fashav, once of the Carja High Command, last of the Army of the Setting Sun,” he replied, pleased he was able to get it all out with a clear voice.
Namir seemed unimpressed. “So your brush with death has not changed your tune. Well, we’ll see. I’ll send the healer shortly.” He turned for the door, but Fashav called out.
“Wait, you owe me far more explanation than that.”
Namir turned around, his features pulled into a smirk. “Hardly. Rather, you owe me your life.”
“I don’t remember seeing you on the battlefield,” Fashav replied, a little snippy. He tried to hold himself back, remind himself that it wasn’t worth letting this Capable Namir see his ire so easily.
“Ah, I have the sense to avoid such places, so you wouldn't have. However, had I not intervened, your still-living body would have been stacked atop the soldiers' corpses,” Namir preened.
That gave Fashav pause. Had he truly been so close to death?
Namir chuckled lightly. “Soldiers aren’t known for their extraneous thinking. Give one of those helmet-heads orders to retrieve corpses and they don’t check anywhere near carefully enough to see if any of them are still breathing. You’re lucky, you know. I wanted to see this long lost General Fashav for myself. At least when I alerted the healers, they proved competent.”
Fashav thought back to the Embassy, the wound that had felled him, the way everything had gone dark even as he lay beneath the blazing sun. He met Namir’s eyes and inclined his head. “For that I thank you, truly.”
“Well, you’re very welcome, Unyielding Fashav,” Namir replied, his tone far less gracious than his words. It was the way Namir said his name, almost mocking, like there was some grand joke that Fashav wasn’t privy to. “I must admit, as surprised as I was to hear the blood-drinkers had kept you alive, I am far more surprised to find you so comfortable among them.”
There it was. Namir doubted his loyalty, if not his identity outright.
“How fortunate, then, that your opinion of me matters so little,” Fashav replied, keeping his tone cool and even.
Namir scoffed. “My opinion matters far more than you think. I serve as the eyes and ears of powerful interests, even this far from Meridian.”
One of Marad’s men, then, if the old crow still lived.
“If I perceive you to be a danger to those interests… Well, then I guess how unfortunate that Unyielding Fashav died just short of his homecoming,” Namir sneered.
Fashav willed himself not to react. “And if I am vindicated, proven to be who I say that I am?”
An insincere smile spread across Namir’s face. “Then surely you’ll appreciate the lengths I took to protect His Radiance, your own dear cousin.”
“Surely,” Fashav sourly agreed.
“Then I trust you won’t mind keeping your mouth shut until we’re properly back in the Sundom where someone can actually vouch for you,” Namir continued, one eyebrow raised.
Fashav rolled his eyes. “What? Nozar wasn’t willing to vouch for me? That’s low, even for a cranky bastard like him.”
“Nozar is dead.”
The memory flashed through Fashav’s mind, Nozar falling, a rebel’s arrow in his gut.
“He might have survived most of his wounds, but the healers said the blow he took being trampled by one of those machines was instantly fatal,” Namir explained.
“Sun light his passing…” Fashav muttered, the phrase both automatic and alien on his tongue. “The casualties… Did any others…?”
“To a man, the Carja that left these walls were slain,” Namir confirmed.
It struck Fashav how poorly that response actually answered what he wanted to know. What did he care for the pompous Sun Priest or the surly Commander? Little. What about the soldiers? A handful of strangers in matching armor. They weren’t his soldiers… those men had died a long time ago. Still, they were Carja, serving honestly under a peaceful king. He should care...
“And the Tenakth?” Fashav couldn’t stop himself from asking.
Namir huffed. “The Savior took care of most of the green-painted interlopers, save for the leader atop the hill and her guards, it seemed. Curious that no one came back for their bodies, but what can you expect from savages?”
Oh, Sun take this irritating man. The rebels could rot for all Fashav cared, but the insult to the Tenakth as a whole grated.
“Even the Savior couldn’t save any of the Tenakth that had been waiting at the border for the Embassy, the ones painted in white,” Namir explained, voice as flat and dull as if he’d been rattling off the contents of an Oseram ore shipment.
“None?”
“None,” Namir said, and the word struck Fashav like a blow.
None of the Marshals, none of his brothers and sisters…
“Others showed up and carted the bodies away,” Namir continued, ignorant or uncaring of Fashav’s pain. “Then the Savior dashed off across the border astride one of her machines. That was some three weeks ago, now.”
At least it sounded like the delegates from each Clan had been able to bag and tag the fallen Marshals. They’d be on their way back to the Grove, where runners had certainly already been sent ahead. The funeral pyres would be ready and waiting for them, that they may finally fly with the Ten. All of them…
“Wait,” Fashav choked out, surfacing from his thoughts. “Three weeks? Three weeks?”
Namir crossed his arms and scowled. “That is what catches your attention? Yes, three weeks. You required extensive treatment for your injuries and the healers have kept you sedated. They tell me you’re well enough for transport, now. We leave for Meridian in two days, at dawn.”
With that, Capable Namir slipped from the room and locked the door, leaving Fashav alone with far too many ghosts.
The ghost of who his uncle used to be, one that had dissolved and left a twisted monster in its place.
The ghosts of all his men, soldiers, brothers-in-arms, the greenest among them had almost felt young enough to be his sons.
The ghost of his cousin Kadaman, the righteous, shining heir of the Sun, extinguished like a doused campfire.
And now the ghosts of his fellow Marshals, those whose hard-won respect he had so valued, brothers and sisters all.
So many ghosts, all born of an unjust war that wouldn’t die.
Fashav was tired of war. Just… tired.
When Fashav next woke, he found his hands freed, his mind clear, but his body aching. He wondered how he could feel so drained if he’d only just woken up from weeks of sleep, but decided there was nothing to be done about it. Dragging himself up to sitting again, he groaned softly as his entire body seemed to protest.
“Oh my, are you sure you want to do that?”
Fashav’s attention snapped to the other side of the room, to a woman with one hand on her hip, watching him with sympathy in her eyes. She bustled over to him, fussing with the pillows so that he could ease himself back against the headboard.
“Thank you,” he said, studying her. She was nearly old enough to be his mother, grey streaking her dark hair here and there. Her clothes were grey too, lightweight enough for the climate, and plain save for decorative crimson stitched at the hems. Behind her, Fashav could see a small cart, piled with bandages, vials, a kettle, a washbasin, and a brightly lit lantern. “I take it you’re the healer.”
“His assistant,” she corrected him, smiling. “Insightful Juraih is a master of stitching wounds, but his bedside manner leaves much to be desired. Only he can take credit for putting you back together, but I aim to keep you that way.”
“Well, I do appreciate your care,” Fashav said. “I’ve come to understand I came quite close to my last sunrise.”
Her smile dropped just a bit, and Fashav could only assume she had seen the truth of his statement firsthand. She quickly collected herself, smile back in place. “Is there pain?”
“It’s manageable,” Fashav insisted.
“That’s not what I asked,” she huffed, “but I suppose I have my answer.” She turned to the cart, shaking a bit of dark powder out of one of the vials and into a teacup. She added hot water and walked the cup over to him.
“Drink.”
Fashav was hesitant, not wanting to fall back to sleep or find his mind muddled.
The healer sighed. “It’s only dried skybrush berries,” she insisted. “The tea won’t cut the pain entirely, but it will keep it tolerable. I assume Namir told you that we’re leaving soon, yes? It won’t do to keep you asleep any longer. From here on, I have the berries and a light sleeping draught if you have trouble at night, but that’s it.”
With a wordless nod, Fashav took the cup and drank. It was bitter, but it felt so good to have something to rinse his dry mouth.
“Any chance I can get out of this bed?” he asked between sips.
“Finish the tea,” the woman said.
Fashav nodded and took another drink. “Forgive me, I didn’t actually ask your name.”
“Sevana,” she replied. “And don’t fret. I’m the one that dove straight into business.”
With one more long swallow Fashav drained the cup, handing it back to Sevana. “You’re not going to ask my name?”
The healer chuckled lightly. “I was under the impression you weren’t allowed to give it.” She took the cup back to her cart and began fussing with a strange, folded wooden frame. “See, Namir wants to keep everything just on the edge of shadow with you. He insists you’re one of the Tenakth, come as an ambassador, but now I hear you speak like a Meridian scholar. It’s not how I’d imagine a blood-drinking savage would comport himself.”
Fashav sighed. As much as he hated the secrecy, Namir probably had the right of things. “I’d love to tell you more about myself,” he explained, “but Namir has advised me to keep a low profile. The rebels that attacked the Embassy still want my head for daring to pursue peace, after all. The core of my mission is true, but if Namir thinks it best to hide my name, you can call me Ambassador and leave it at that.” He had no desire to come up with a false identity just to soothe Namir’s paranoia.
“Though, you should know that the Tenakth are more than they seem,” Fahsav added. “I’ve known several whose eloquence I envy.”
Sevana pulled the wooden frame up to his bedside. “I’ll have to take your word for it, I suppose,” she replied distantly as she locked a latch into place on the frame. “I’ll have to recommend you put the West out of your mind for a time while work on rebuilding your strength. Let’s start with standing, hm? Just grasp the handle of this frame here and see if you can’t slide yourself out of the bed.”
Fashav eyed the contraption. “Surely, after three weeks healing already, I don’t need…”
“Oh yes, you do,” Sevana insisted, clicking her tongue in dismay. “Sun above, you solider types. See here, do I look like I can catch you if you fall?”
Given that he was both taller and broader than her, Fashav supposed not. Still, he had been terribly wounded when he was marched halfway across the Clanlands, and then fought in the kulrut on top of that.
“The wound you took damaged a lot of the muscles on your left side,” she explained more gently. “It will take time to heal, and even then your strength won’t be the same. Juraih seemed certain that, with good care, you should recover enough to walk under your own power, but it will be a process.”
Fashav was a bit stunned by that. If walking unaided was truly the best he could hope for, what limitations awaited him? In Meridian, little. Among the Tenakth? No challenges in the arena, no bouts in the pit, no rubbing the faces of stupid scabs into the dirt. That didn’t even touch on the kind of martial prowess expected of a Marshal. The thought that his injuries might make life in the Clanlands difficult stung.
Sevana set her hand on his arm. “Try now, worry later. Come on. We have two days to get you at least somewhat on your feet. You’ll have a cart back to Meridian, but Namir and I weren’t planning on carrying you to it.”
Sevana turned out to be a brutal task master. She had him out of bed and dragging himself around the room off and on for hours. Dragging was hardly an exaggeration, either. The muscles all down his lower left side had limited range of motion, as if they had been knit back together too tightly. Pain he could fight, pain he could overcome, but the stiffness and weakness seemed immune to his will.
The wound was still healing, too. Even after three weeks, he was dismayed to see the stitches looked only days old.
“Is something keeping me from healing properly?” Fashav asked Sevana as she changed the bandages that covered the gash on his side.
She frowned at him. “Not at all. You’re actually healing remarkably well. I was worried about your nutrition while you were sedated, but you drank the fortified broth readily enough, and now that you’re awake, your appetite seems just fine.” She titled her head towards the empty bowl of stew on the bedside table.
“And the wound is still so open?” Fashav wondered.
Sevana tied off the bandage and stepped back. “Oh, your wound was far too deep and extensive to just stitch up the skin and be done.” She waved a hand over the bandages. “This is actually only a few days old. Juraih had to mend the muscle, first, and keep the skin open to let the fluid drain...”
Fashav frowned, finding himself less curious by the moment. “Ah, thank you, that’s good to know.”
“Sorry you asked?” Sevana teased. “I thought soldiers didn’t get squeamish.”
Fashav lifted his chin in mock offense. “That’s the second time you’ve assumed I am a soldier. My good lady, I am an Ambassador.”
That earned him a little huff of laughter, but didn’t stop her from ordering him around the room again. “Come, Ambassador. We need you in shape for the journey.”
The journey, indeed. The long road to Meridian, where Fashav hoped to be reunited with both his cousin and his mission of peace.