The Wounded Witness

Rishi saw the wrist before he saw the symbol of Tyr.

A man sat beneath a weathered waystone where the Trade Way bent between low fields. One shoulder rested against the stone. His legs stretched into the dust, and a walking staff lay across his knees.

He held one wrist tight against his ribs.

Too tight.

Rishi slowed. Maeril matched him.

For two days south of Crimmor, the road had given them dust, heavy packs, and meals with no ambition. It had not taken the warmth of the Golden Orchid from them yet.

Maeril looked from the seated stranger to the road ahead. “Still south. Good. I would hate for it to change direction without warning us.”

The man heard them.

He turned a face tightened by pain and weariness. Grey threaded his short beard. Dust lay in the creases of his plain cloak. At his throat, fingers had polished a small metal symbol smooth: scales balanced over a warhammer.

He tried to stand.

The injured wrist shifted. His breath stopped, and every other sign of pain vanished from his face.

“Do not,” Rishi said.

The man stopped because the instruction was correct.

Maeril took position a little behind Rishi’s shoulder. Her gaze counted dusty boots, staff, holy symbol, swollen wrist, and the empty road behind him.

Rishi crouched beyond the reach of the man’s knees. “May I see it?”

The stranger studied his wrapped hands and balanced posture before extending the injured arm.

“Teren Boldmark. Servant of Tyr.”

“Rishishura.”

“Maeril Greenward,” Maeril added.

Teren glanced at her, then toward the dust where he had been sitting.

“I would stand, but I have already made one poor argument with the road today.”

Maeril’s mouth moved at one corner. “Then let us deny it a second victory.”

Rishi took the wrist between both hands.

Heat had gathered beneath the skin. Swelling spread across the joint and into the back of Teren’s hand. No bone had broken through, and nothing bent in the wrong direction, but the flesh had thickened around the injury.

Teren’s fingers trembled once.

“Can you move them?” Rishi asked.

Teren flexed his fingers. The motion stopped halfway. “Some.”

Rishi followed the forearm toward the elbow with careful pressure, avoiding the swollen joint.

“You landed on it.”

“I was pushed.”

Maeril’s attention sharpened on Teren.

Rishi kept his hands where they were. “By whom?”

Teren breathed out through his nose. “A man who preferred not to answer.”

“A large family,” Maeril said.

“Very.”

Rishi looked up.

Teren watched the road instead of either of them. “I asked the wrong man the right question.”

Maeril folded her arms. “Do all servants of Tyr question dangerous men alone, or are you unusually committed to becoming roadside evidence?”

Teren considered her. “Only when the dangerous man lies poorly.”

Her brows rose. “Almost an answer.”

“It is the truthful part.”

Rishi returned to the wrist. “You need rest.”

“That would be inconvenient.”

“Yes.”

Teren frowned at him.

Rishi opened his pack and took out a pot of salve, clean cloth, and a folded scarf. Maeril passed him her knife. He cut the cloth into long strips.

“This will ease the pain.”

“Thank you.”

Bitter leaf and beeswax rose from the open pot, followed by the sharper scent beneath them. Rishi warmed the salve between his fingers before working it around the joint. Whenever Teren’s breath changed, his hands paused.

Teren tried to close his fist.

Rishi lifted his eyes. “Do not test pain. It already believes you.”

The fingers relaxed.

Rishi wrapped the joint firmly enough to keep it still. He folded the scarf into a sling, passed it over Teren’s shoulder, and settled the arm across his chest.

Teren studied the binding.

“You can free the hand if you must,” Rishi said. “Avoid needing to.”

“That sounds like judgment.”

“Pain is an honest judge.”

“Then I accept the ruling.”

This time, Teren’s attention rested on Rishi’s face before moving away.

Maeril put the walking staff into his uninjured hand. “You asked a dangerous man a question. He objected with gravity. Where are you going now?”

“The Battlescarred Bard.”

Her expression flattened. “The same roof as our supper.”

“Fortunate.”

“Wonderful. I feared the road might run out of bad manners.”

Teren planted the staff and rose slowly.

When he straightened, pain crossed his face again. Not the wrist. Lower.

Ribs, Rishi thought. Bruised, at least.

Teren offered no account of it.

“You know the inn?” Rishi asked.

“By reputation, complaints, and three contradictory reports.”

“Promising,” Maeril said.

“It is a place where people pass quickly and remember selectively.”

Teren found his balance over the staff.

“Too much happens between towns. Too many men mistake the lack of witnesses for permission.”

“You make a habit of asking questions where no one else will?” Maeril asked.

“When I can.”

“Exhausting and dangerous. And you continue because the Righteous God enjoys paperwork?”

Amusement touched his eyes. “The Righteous God enjoys judgment. Paperwork is one of civilization’s punishments.”

They began walking.

Teren used the staff in his good hand and kept the other arm secured against his chest. Rishi stayed near enough to catch his weight without reaching for him. Maeril walked on the other side of the road, where she could watch both hedgerows.

The man who had pushed Teren might not consider one fall sufficient.

For a while, only three sets of steps disturbed the dust.

Then Maeril said, “You still have not told us the question.”

“Deliberately.”

“Why?”

“Because I do not know whether it was the right one.”

She looked across the road at him. “You said it was.”

“I said it was right enough to receive a violent answer. That is not the same.”

Rishi frowned.

Teren noticed.

“A man used three names on three toll records. I asked why he already knew which caravans had refused protection before the caravan masters said so publicly.”

Maeril’s tail went still beneath her cloak.

“That is a good question. His answer was your wrist.”

“And my shoulder.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I am withholding several judgments.”

“I appreciate the restraint.”

“You should.”

Rishi looked down the Trade Way. “Protection.”

“That is the word being used,” Teren said.

“Not the truth?”

“Sometimes a lie borrows a useful word.”

Maeril studied him. “You talk like a temple door carved by a tired mason.”

“Thank you.”

“That was not praise.”

“I kept the useful part.”

Her laugh escaped before she could hold it. Rishi joined her. After several steps, Teren did too.

Low fields stretched on either side of the road. A grain wagon passed north, its driver too tired to be curious. Crows rose from a fence and settled behind them. The light lowered toward evening.

After the first mile, Teren’s steps steadied. He did not complain.

Maeril had traveled too long beside Rishi to confuse silence about pain with wisdom. Teren did not pretend the sling was unnecessary, however. That counted in his favor.

After another bend, he looked at the red cord around Rishi’s wrist.

“You are Ilmaterite.”

Rishi inclined his head. “Yes.”

Maeril glanced between them. “Is there a secret exchange of meaningful posture among righteous men, or did you count the cord?”

Teren looked at Rishi’s hands. “The cord helped.”

“The easy answer.”

“No. The hands are what matter.”

Maeril fell quiet.

Rishi said nothing.

Around the next turn, a broad, low inn stood beside the road. Wagons filled its yard. Stable sheds crowded one side, smoke rose from the chimney, and a weathered sign creaked above the door.

Voices carried through the walls.

Teren adjusted his grip on the staff. “The Battlescarred Bard.”

Maeril looked at his sling. “Must I remind you that you have only one sound wrist left to land on?”

“You must. I will choose my next wrong question carefully.”

Maeril winced.

Together, they crossed the yard.