Waves of dust and sand beat against the tent, bleeding in through the fastened flaps and small worn tears along the sides. Reshan shielded himself from the elements and turned to face toward a frail man lying on a small bed of linens. Set before the bed was a small flame whose smoke rose up through the open top of the tent. Reshan churned a cold granite pestle in his hand, holding its matching mortar with the other. Occasionally, he would glance up to the man on the bed who remained motionless except for a steady rhythm of under-breath coughs and shallow chest-falls. Inside the mortar, a small white stone was steadily ground into powder with each turn of the pestle until no large chunks remained. He set it onto a small wooden table shaking steadily from the invasive breeze and reached over to grab a waterskin from the side of the bed.

“I am being healed,” the man on the bed began to say before pausing for multiple attempts at deep breaths, “by a foreigner.”

“Is this an issue?” Reshan asked, not looking up as he poured water from the skin into a pewter cup and mixed in the white powder.

“Only a surprise,” the man said, stifling coughs between syllables. “There are people from all around Vaheren here, but few from beyond the seas of sand. Feran-shal is no stranger to foreign skins, though I have never seen one with as pale as yours. You are paler than the pale knights to the West.”

“Not my choice to come here. My choice to stay. Sit up, you need to drink all of this.”

Reshan placed his hand on the man’s back and helped lift him up before bringing the pewter cup, now filled with murky white liquid, to the man’s lips. The man sputtered but gulped it down and gave a small, wet cough once it had been swallowed.

“Will this cure me, stranger?” the man asked.

“No.”

“Then I am to leave this world for Maknah.”

“It will ease your cough to help you rest. You’re not yet gone from this place. Another day or two of rest and you will return to health.” Reshan moved back over to the table and cleaned his mortar and pestle, wiping away traces of the powder.

“Where is it you come from? I have met men from across the seas in all directions, but yours is an accent my ears have not heard.”

For a moment, the only sound responding to the man’s question was the howl of desert winds and the commotion of strange conversations outside the tent.

“Karthen,” Reshan replied, setting down the mortar and dropping a damp cloth onto the table next to it.

“Northerner, then? I know this only because of a map I saw long ago from a trader. It seems much too far away for a man to see for himself.” The man coughed violently for a moment and eased himself back down. “Your skin remains pale, even beneath our sun.”

“The harshness of the north doesn’t yield to the light of another sun. Lie on your side, it will be easier to breathe,” Reshan said as he rummaged through a small satchel until he pulled out a chunk of a reddish-brown resin and set it inside the mortar.

He lifted the pestle and began to grind once more, breaking the material into a powder. Once it had been crushed finely, he poured water into the mortar and mixed until it was filled with a thick yellow-gold liquid. Reshan pulled out from his satchel an empty phial and one filled with another golden liquid. The empty phial’s cap was removed, and it was then dunked into the mortar until it was nearly a third filled. Reshan then poured the other liquid into the phial, stopping when it reached halfway. He replaced the cap to the phial and gently shook it back and forth until he was satisfied of its mixture.

“Where did you learn how to heal?” the man asked, attempting to take a deep breath.

The man coughed further, curling, and bringing his knees up to his chest.

Reshan then took up a tiered bowl from the table and poured sand from a small bag into it. He pressed his fingers against it until it was neatly packed in around the bottom and sides of the bowl. He moved over past the man and lifted a pair of pincers to remove a square briquette from over the fire, carried it over to the table and set it in the center of the sand-filled bowl.

Once the briquette had been moved into position, he took a pinch of white powder from another bag next to his satchel and sprinkled it over the top. Reshan placed three small pieces of the resin he had not crushed into powder on top of the briquette where they began to smoke and fill part of the tent with a warm and pungent scent. He moved the bowl over and sat it on the ground below the head of the man’s bed, allowing the smoke to rise to his face.

“Take deep breaths. As deep as you can. I taught myself much of this out of need and I learned much from my wife’s people,” Reshan replied as he took the phial he had mixed and walked around the bed and lifted up the back of the man’s shirt before applying some of it to his hands and rubbing it between the man’s shoulders, he moved back around and did the same to his chest.

“Your wife’s people? You are not of the same people?”

“She is Rotakken. Breathe in through your nose, not your mouth.” Reshan turned away from the man and peered outside the tent, watching groups of people returning to the market stalls as the wind died down. “I have not noticed the slave market yet this season.”

The man readjusted himself on the bed and propped his head up with one hand. “They have not come here for at least two seasons. With the pale empire moving closer, they fear their trade will soon be criminal.”

“Only means they hide, not that they stop. Do you know where they sell now?” Reshan asked, turning his head to look back at the man.

“I do not. There is little connection between my wares and human cattle.” The man coughed and placed his head back onto the pillow.

Reshan’s nostrils flared and he turned back away from the bed. He scratched at the side of his beard and spat onto the ground outside the tent before closing the drape. There was a stiff silence, leaving both men to stare at the smoke steadily rising out of the tent. He noticed dry cracks in the skin of his palms and opened his satchel to pull out a phial of thick white liquid. It dropped onto his palm in thick globules which spread out easily as he rubbed his hands together. He stole one last glance at the man on the bed and began placing his phials and instruments back into the satchel before swinging it over his shoulder.

“I will return before dark to collect the bowl. It should not stop burning before then.” He didn’t wait for the man to respond before ducking out of the tent and feeling the stinging warm air on his cheeks.

As far as he could see into the distance there were rough market stalls set in front of large tents. Camels and wagons brought more people and merchandise in from the crude pathway beaten into the desert ground, ending at a large oasis shaded by low trees in the distance. Reshan cracked his neck and moved along the stalls, seeing goods and scams from more places than he could count. Small children chased each other around the stalls and drew images in the sand.

The market spread out in all directions, with its design becoming chaotic the further the stalls sat from the main path. He reached the water and kneeled, refilling his waterskin and splashing some on his face. The wind had changed to a gentle breeze granting an occasional reprieve from the cloudless heat. Voices in dozens of tongues and accents bounced around in his ears and the sounds of coins clanking together, their dull metals betraying a faint glimmer from the sun, could be heard from all around.

“Excuse me, sire,” a young voice said, coming from behind Reshan. “Are you a healer?”

Reshan splashed more water on his face, stood and turned, facing a young boy whose bronze eyes bore into him. “Don’t call me sire.” He looked the boy over for a moment and rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t require a healer. Who is it?”

“My brother, he’s ill and cannot run our stall anymore,” the boy’s eyes shone with intensity as though he had two suns in place of eyes.

“Tell him to drink water and stay in the shade. Sun-poisoning is common here.” Reshan began to step away from the water and return to the market pathway when the boy reached out and tugged his robes.

“It’s not sun-poisoning. His blood’s run black.”

“Show me.”

The boy led Reshan away from the main market and through the meandering side paths spreading out like a maze around the oasis. Stalls and tents were cramped together with people blocking movement each time they stopped. They moved along until they had reached a stall covered by a large drape and a small tent behind it. Reshan stepped inside the tent and saw a stack of wooden crates displaying crude gems, resins, and stones. Straight ahead of him was a young man, a few years older than the other, who lay back on a bed of linens. His face was turned away from the entrance and he had a sheet pulled up to his eyes. Reshan moved over to the older boy and crouched down beside him, peeling back the sheet.

“When did this begin?” Reshan said as he helped him roll over onto his back and raised up his shirt.

Along the brother’s skin were dark patches and bruises; the veins running down his arms had darkened, and his lips had turned black. Reshan placed his hand on the young man’s forehead and felt cold skin. He reached to his waist and pulled out a small blade.

“Do not be frightened,” he told the older boy, though Reshan was unsure he was even conscious, and he motioned for the brother to stand by the bedside.

Reshan removed a small bowl from his satchel and placed it beneath the young man’s arm and dragged the blade across his upper forearm until a thick black substance rose from the broken skin and settled. He swiped the back of his blade over the skin and dropped the black ooze into the bowl before wrapping the arm in a linen cloth.

“Will he survive?” the younger boy asked in a steady voice, his eyes wide at what came out of the arm.

Reshan stood, ran his hand through his hair and narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

The black coloring of the brother’s veins continued to spread throughout his arm, leaving more patches of darkened skin flaking off. Reshan sat down on a stool near the bed and pulled back the linen from over the boy. He leaned over and lifted the boy’s arms and legs to search for further discolorations. The younger boy stepped over and stared into Reshan’s eyes, though he could find no expression on the boy’s face.

“Is there a way to stop it?” the boy asked, shifting his glance over to the dark patches on his brother’s arm.

“Give me time. When did this begin?” Reshan forced his own gaze away from the boy’s bronze eyes and back to the flaking skin.

“He has been like this for at least a day now. Since we arrived here from Yarsuth. His arm went limp and he has been lying down since.” The boy stepped away from Reshan and moved over to the other side of the bed and began staring into his brother’s face.

“If his arm is the only area this infection is present, then he may lose it, but keep his life,” Reshan said as he looked over the older boy’s torso and legs. “Help me move him onto his side.”

The boy pulled his brother toward himself as Reshan lifted his side, exposing a series of deep and jagged wounds below the young man’s right shoulder. Black ooze had slowly seeped out onto the linen beneath him and the veins surrounding the wounds were steadily darkening as they moved away. Reshan slumped back down on the stool and sighed.

“Removing his arm cannot save him. In another day it will have reached his heart and no blood will travel in his body.”

The young boy nodded; his bronze eyes unblinking. Reshan sighed and focused on the boy, still unable to read any expression on his face.

“How long has your brother been a trader here?” Reshan asked, looking around the tent.

“A few years.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. I only traveled with him this season because our parents passed.”

Reshan leaned back over the older boy and turned his head before pulling open one of the boy’s eyelids. Beneath, he spotted a sliver of a dark brown pupil rolled up into the socket. He looked back around the tent and saw the small crates, a table, the stool he was seated on, and the bed before him.

“You’re not brothers. Who are you?” he asked, returning his gaze to the boy.

“What right do you have to say this to me?” The boy’s voice ran cold, and his eyes seemed to flare.

“Speak, boy,” Reshan said firmly as he stood and readjusted the satchel over his shoulder. “There is nothing in this tent showing you to have lived here this season. Why have you brought me to this one?”

The boy glared without a word for several moments before narrowing his eyes. “We are interested in his condition. He may not be my brother, but he will soon leave for the cold deserts of Maknah. It would be a waste for it to happen without us understanding why.”

“You are not as you appear to be, are you?” Reshan narrowed his gaze and pointed to the boy’s eyes. “You are one of his? I knew something was wrong with your eyes.”

“Perhaps not all is as it appears,” the child replied with a cold expression. “Can you fix it?”

Reshan glanced down at the young man on the bed and shook his head. “He drifts further away each moment. There is nothing to be done. I know why your master would send you, though, and I won’t help you. There is no knowledge to be gained from this boy.”

Howls from the breeze picked up from outside as the slivers of sunlight between the tent’s flaps began to dim. Reshan breathed in sharply and turned to leave the tent. He looked back over to the bed and saw the boy lying there alone, the bronze-eyed child had gone. Cool evening air struck him as he stepped outside, and he sighed, then turned toward the main market pathway to recover his bowl.

Next Chapter: Chapter Four: Yenna