Idle thoughts and sharp images came and went in Reshan’s mind. He found it difficult to leave behind the visual of black ooze seeping out of the boy’s arm. For hours he had poured over everything he remembered seeing in his time working as a healer, but nothing could explain or be compared to what he had seen those days ago. If it was a new illness, then it must not be easily spread as he had not heard of any other cases within Feran-shal, no matter how much he kept his ears open. It was time to move on, he knew, but the next stop in his travels was uncertain and he had hoped it wouldn’t be.

The young boy with the bronze eyes continued to pierce his mind. Reshan shook himself awake and sat on the edge of his bed. He reached down and grabbed the waterskin from his satchel from beneath and took a drink. Around him were other healers, stacked up on cots and beds inside the large tent. He had grown used to the lack of privacy, though he would have preferred that healers be permitted to use their own tents rather than remain together. Outside, he could see the thin beams of light breaking through the tent folds steadily rising with the sun. Sounds of chatter and trade made their way down the path as a new day at the trading post began.

Reshan stood from the bed and stretched. He could not remember when he last woke without stiffness and pain, though he knew the damage of age was inevitable. His left shoulder gave a familiar pop when he bent down to grab his satchel and hoisted it up. Inside the tent, most of the healers had gone with the rest preparing to leave, and little light was present besides the few streams coming in from the outside. With a sigh, he pulled on his boots and combed back his receding hair with wetted palms. A flash of sunlight came from the tent’s entrance and he glanced over to see a young man enter wearing worn and sand-stained clothes.

The young man looked around at the empty beds of the tent and spotted Reshan before approaching him.

“Morning, friend,” the young man said, pulling down his hood and staring intently at Reshan’s pale skin. “Do you know if a healer named Reshan Sarikol is still working here?”

“Here I am. What has brought you here?” Reshan asked as he fiddled with his satchel.

“You are called Reshan? You are pale, from beyond the mountains.” The young man’s face contorted, and his head cocked to the side as he eyed Reshan up and down.

Reshan sighed and nodded. “Yes, I am aware. What have you for me?”

The young man took a moment and shook himself out of his gaze before reaching into his own satchel and pulling out a piece of folded parchment.

“I have one to send out,” Reshan said as he took the letter from the young man. He searched through his satchel and pulled out a bent and crudely folded letter before handing it over. “This needs to travel north, to Holunes. An old woman, named Nanai Vorota will be expecting it.”

Reshan laid a small handful of silver coins in the messenger’s hand. The young man nodded his thanks and stashed the letter into his pack before making his way back out of the tent. Reshan was left alone. He peered at the small red seal holding the letter bound depicting three mountains and a river below, then tore at it and unfolded the parchment.

Reshan, my love,

I hope this letter finds you at Feran-shal before you learn the next step of your journey. I am set to travel north for Rahnati in a few days and will be leaving our guest to heal on her own. She has told me of troubles in the south around Yerisim and that in the villages a great misfortune is falling upon any who have the gift as she does, as you do. I do not know if it will help you in your present travels, but the shul of our people, Yalsifar, may have knowledge that can. You met him once many years ago. There have also been reports of a strange disease along the River Jiyan. I hope you are staying safe.

May the winds bless your footsteps,

Yenna

Reshan skimmed through the letter a second time and refolded it before placing it into his satchel. It had been many weeks since he had last seen her, and the sight of her handwriting brought pangs to his chest. He glanced back over to the bed, ensuring that he had left nothing behind, and moved to leave the tent and reenter the beaten sand pathways. Outside, the healer’s tent overlooked the long central path of the main market. Merchants and traders called out to passersby with fresh energy, holding out jars of honey, bolts of linens, newly forged daggers, jewels, and hundreds of other goods. The desert breeze from the oasis picked up from time to time, ruffling Reshan’s hair and beard as he walked down the central path.

Nearing to the end, alongside the oasis shore, he stopped at a large purple tent with gold trim running along its edges. Two guards with spears and bronze shields stood with their backs as straight as their weapons on either side of the tent’s open flaps. They looked to Reshan as he approached and one of them jutted out his jaw before speaking.

“Do you have business with the Tajir, pale skin?” his voice was raspy and slow, each sound made with deliberation.

“I am a healer from Gashans. The Tajir will be expecting me before my departure,” Reshan said as he looked between the two guards before stealing a glance inside the tent to see a hefty man in blue robes hunched over a table.

The guard returned no words but jerked his head to the side and returned his attention to the air in front of him. Reshan nodded and stepped inside the tent, his hands clasped together in front on himself. He approached the table with the large blue man and cleared his throat.

The man looked up from his parchment and smiled a broken smile. “Reshan, you look uglier than I remember you. How is it your skin has not yet burned off in this heat?”

“I suppose it is not as fragile as it appears.”

“Perhaps not,” the man said and pondered a moment before waving his hand toward a cushioned seat across from him. “How may this humble merchant help you, old friend?”

Reshan sat and shifted to find comfort. “I have heard talk from the traders here that Feran-shal no longer sees the slavers conduct their business here. Do you know where they have gone?”

“Nasty business, you know I never enjoyed working with them, but their coin is just as good,” the man said to cynical expressions from Reshan. “Of course, given your past, I understand the holding of such grievances, even after so long.”

Reshan leaned forward in the chair and rested his elbows on his knees. “You do not need to justify your dealings with me, and I have no interest in hearing it, Razid.”

“Of course, of course,” Razid said, backtracking in his mind. “Ah, yes, I do recall hearing that they had begun trading in Yarsuth. The Shul there is a greedy man, even by my own standards, and he would be more than willing to accommodate such trades.”

“Yarsuth is further upriver. They would no longer be able to sell to the Hazorans. Why would they make that sacrifice rather than moving to the coast?” Reshan scratched at his beard and furrowed his brow.

“In my experience, trade on the coast is much more lucrative, but also more controlled.” Razid sat back in his seat and laced his fingers together on his popped-out belly. “Mirzen Vagh has destroyed many of the smuggling rings present along the Badel Coast, perhaps they wished to avoid such attentions should their trade become illegal.”

“Half your trade here is illegal, Razid. No one in Ganeti cares about this so long as they get their coin from it. Why would they move?”

Razid’s eyes narrowed and Reshan could read annoyance in them. “Perhaps the Shul of Yarsuth is willing to take a smaller portion of their profits. As I said, I never enjoyed working with them, so I charged them heavily for their presence here. There are many passages to Hazor, even in Lesser Rotakk, they need not come through Feran-shal.”

“Yes, you are a paragon among people, Razid. I must leave here now. Do you have a caravan moving west, towards Ulun?” Reshan’s voice was clouded by his thoughts, and his brow did not unfurrow.

Razid stood and moved around the table. He placed his arm around Reshan’s shoulders and led him out of the tent. “I may not be perfect, friend, but Iahal is a god of wealth. I am his priest, and this is my temple,” he said motioning out across the markets and shops. “There is one caravan leaving this evening for Maival Tor, you may find that some of them are traveling westward after that. Good luck to you.”

“Thank you, Razid.” Reshan nodded and left the tent, reentering the heat of the sun.

Over the years, he had grown used to eyes fixating on him. Inevitably, they were drawn to the ones who stood out from the crowds, and Reshan understood that. He had not met many others from beyond the deserts who made their homes among the sands. Even after so many years, his presence was still that of an outsider. The Atakratians had not, he knew, endeared the peoples of the sands to the outside world, nor had they garnered any devotion from the peoples on the far side of the world.

The once-crowded markets and stalls faded into emptiness as the day grew dimmer and the warmth of the sun was replaced by the cold of the moon. Reshan saw groups of women burning oils and chanting prayers along the deserted pathways, beckoning the attention of Anhestas of the Moon. He stood, leaning against a tall wooden post on the edge of the market, and watched as caravanners loaded goods and supplies onto their wagons and prepared their horses and camels for the journey. The man calling orders was a broad with rusted scales decorating his chest in armor. He sat atop a powerful golden-brown courser, and kept his eyes moving as if suspecting calamity to befall at any moment.

Reshan observed the movements of the workers for several moments longer before breaking away from the post and walking over toward the man atop the courser. Next to the courser was a black destrier mounted by a lanky man with a well-groomed beard.

“You have the satchel of a healer,” the groomed man said as Reshan approached.

Reshan stopped several paces short of the two horses and nodded his head. “I have grown weary of this place and seek to move on. I would seek passage with your caravan as you head north.”

The broad man leaned over to the groomed and man and whispered to him for a moment before returning to his former position. The groomed man stroked his beard idly. “Of course. Healers are welcome company. Do you possess your own horse?”

“I do not,” Reshan said, shaking his head. “My feet will do their duty just fine.”

The groomed man gave a toothless smile and narrowed his eyes. “And what may we call you as we share the road?”

“I am called Reshan.”

“This,” the groomed man said as he gestured toward the broad one, “is Arnil, my master-at-arms. I am Hiram. Ensure you have all that you need, Reshan the Pale. We depart soon.”

Next Chapter: Chapter Six: Maxak