Traitor's Moon

sight of Seregil’s battered body, but thankfully he let it pass for the moment. “At the Vhadäsoori. Some Bry’khans—”
    â€œBy the Light!” Seregil hissed. The last thing Klia or the negotiationsneeded was another death. “Does anyone know when he went out this morning?”
    â€œI haven’t had time to ask.”
    Seregil tugged on his breeches and boots, hopping awkwardly from one foot to the other in his haste. “Tell whoever found him that he’s not to be moved!”
    â€œToo late for that, I’m afraid. The woman who brought the news says her kinsmen are already on their way with the body. They should be here any time now.”
    â€œBilairy’s Balls!” Seregil threw on his coat and followed.
    The sound of raised voices guided them to the main hall. A middle-aged Bry’khan woman and two youths had just arrived, carrying a cloak-shrouded body on a shutter. The contorted angles beneath the makeshift pall already suggested that Torsin had not died peacefully. Escorted by Sergeant Rhylin and four riders, they set their makeshift litter down in the center of the room. The woman introduced herself as Alia ä Makinia. The young men with her were her sons.
    â€œI found this beside him,” one of the boys said, handing Seregil a bloody handkerchief.
    â€œThank you. Sergeant Rhylin, post a guard at the doors outside and send someone to inform my sisters of what’s happened.” He turned back to the Bry’khans. “The rest of you stay a moment, please.”
    A welcome sense of detachment settled over Seregil as he knelt by the litter, the body already reduced in his mind to a puzzle to be solved.
    Drawing back the cloak, he found Torsin lying on his back, knees drawn up and twisted to the left. His right arm was extended stiffly above his head, the splayed hand white and swollen beneath a thin layer of drying mud. The left hand was clenched tightly against his chest. The robe was the same one Torsin had worn the night before, but soiled and damp now. Bits of dead grass were tangled in the old man’s hair and in the links of his heavy gold chain.
    Someone had tied a cloth around the dead man’s face. Black blood had soaked through it by the mouth. More blood had dried on the front of his coat and the back of the fist clutched awkwardly to his chest.
    â€œBy the Light, his throat’s been cut!” Thero exclaimed.
    Seregil probed beneath the jaw pressed rigidly to the chest. “No, his neck’s sound.”
    He pulled the cloth from the dead man’s face, certainty alreadytaking shape in his mind. The lips, chin, and beard were streaked with dried blood and flecked with bits of dead grass and mud. Death had cruelly transformed the dignified features, and insects had been busy in the open eyes and between the parted lips. The left side of the head had turned a mottled purple and was peppered with small indentations. The rest of the face and neck were a leaden hue.
    Thero caught his breath sharply and made a warding sign.
    â€œThere’s no need for that,” Seregil told him. He’d seen more corpses than he cared to recall and knew the marks of death like an alphabet. He pressed a fingertip into the livid cheek and released it. “This side of his head rested against the ground. It’s the settling of the blood after death that discolors the skin this way. See here, on the undersides of his arms and neck?” He pressed the darkened skin again, noting that it didn’t blanch beneath his fingers. “He’s been dead since last night.”
    He looked up at the Bry’khans again. “When you found him, he was lying on his face at the water’s edge, wasn’t he? With this hand outstretched in the water, the other curled under him?”
    The Bry’khans exchanged startled looks. “Yes,” Alia replied. “We went to the Vhadäsoori for blessing water this morning and found him lying just as you said. How did you know?”
    Preoccupied, Seregil ignored the question. “Where was the Cup?”
    â€œOn the ground beside him. He must have dropped it while drinking.” She made a blessing sign over the dead man. “We treated him with all respect and said the words of passing over him.”
    â€œYou and your kin have my gratitude, Alia ä Makinia, and that of the princess,” Seregil said, wishing they’d left Torsin where he lay.