This young girl had died horribly. She'd been violated enough in that alley. And now he'd unwittingly authorized this butchery.
"Without an internal assessment," the physician said coldly, "I cannot provide any dependable conclusions."
Rodian took three weak breaths, trying to regain his calm.
He was dealing with a Suman—like il'Sänke—who saw no connection between the body and the sentient spirit. Humans of all races, and dwarves and elves, were the highest of living beings in the eyes of Toiler, Maker, and Dreamer. Even the body—the vessel—was sacred. This Suman could never begin to comprehend such truth.
Rodian would have to go to temple and pray for this mistake of oversight.
"What have you learned?" he demanded. "How did she die?"
The physician wiped the girl's gore from his hands with dampened burlap. He stepped to the table's head, scowling down at Miriam's tormented face. About to speak, he stopped and leaned lower, as if inspecting some overlooked detail. Then he shook his head and began again in his thick accent.
"Upon initial examination, I felt certain the cause was poison. You must have noted the grayed flesh and lack of injury?"
Rodian didn't respond. He could only stare at Miriam's split flesh.
"I searched for methods of introduction," the Suman went on, "hoping to lift traces of any substance used. There are quick-acting compounds that can be introduced by breath, contact with the skin, or even through orifices other than the mouth."
"You found something?" Rodian asked, his anxiety building. "You must have."
Some gain had to be achieved for this atrocity.
"No," the physician answered.
Rodian forced his eyes to follow as the man pointed inside the girl's opened torso.
"Her lungs are whole and healthy," the Suman continued, "as is the lining of her throat. There are no signs of chemical or particulate damage to her internal organs. I found nothing in the nostrils or ears or anywhere upon her skin. Anything introduced to the eyes might have thinned in tears but would also have left traces for such a quick death."
The physician shook his head, huffing through his long beak of a nose, and his frown deepened.
"Then what?" Garrogh demanded, the journal and a shaft of writing charcoal in his hand.
"I do not know what killed her and caused such discoloration and discomfort. She simply died suddenly."
Rodian felt his throat closing up.
The girl had been mutilated for nothing, and the sound of Garrogh scribbling notes didn't resume. Rodian whirled for the stairs, hurrying to get out of this cold, dim space.
"Sir," Garrogh called. "Where are you going?"
"The guild. Please see our
He nearly ran up the stairs, out through the scullery and kitchen, not caring if the staff saw his state. He didn't slow until he reached the courtyard and the stables along the south wall. Breathing fresh air as fast and deep as he could, he strode past the stable warden and saddled Snowbird himself. He patted her when she tried to nuzzle him, but then quickly swung up on her back.
Rodian tried to wipe the image of the cold cellar from his thoughts as he urged Snowbird into a canter down the second castle's gatehouse tunnel. He couldn't get the sight of Miriam out of his head, but he felt equally tangled in the strands of some web. It held him in place, forcing him to do little but watch, like a bound and useless spectator.
How could Duchess Reine, or the rest of the royal family, send him that Suman butcher?
The Numan Lands had seen no war in Rodian's lifetime, but he had seen battle in his younger days. One tour of duty had placed him near, and even beyond, Malourné's far eastern border. Even farther out were the Broken Lands—wild terrain with little to no civilization, stretching nearly to the eastern coast. Sometimes straggling bands of hulkish little beasts on two legs wandered into the farthest farmlands and forest communities.
He had seen soldiers bashed and torn apart, for those things ate nearly anything digestible. Hence their name—goblins… the little "gobblers."
They weren't so little. Ranging up to two-thirds the height of man, they hunted in packs, like wild dogs, and could tear apart a man, hauling his pieces away for their food.
But it wasn't the same as that girl cut open in the cold cellar.
He'd never thought how different these southlanders, the Sumans, were from his people. How could anyone in Calm Seatt expect such foreigners to exhibit decent moral reasoning, let alone ethical behavior?
Rodian tried to call up an image of the Trinity set in white stone upon the temple's dais.
"Forgive me," he kept whispering, "for my ignorance and failing of foresight."
As Snowbird's hooves clopped on cobblestone, Rodian was barely aware enough to steer her course. He tried to clear his thoughts with what few facts he possessed.
