Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno

by Malan, Violette

  “What do you think is taking them so long?” she asked, as she closed the box, latched it, and set it to one side.

  Parno folded his arms across his chest. “Think of it this way,” he said. “They’ve had months to go over the documents we left them. I’m certain the Senior Brother’s decision is already made. We may as well relax, since there’s nothing we can do about it now but wait to be told.”

  Dhulyn stared at him, her blood-red brows raised high over her stone-gray eyes. “I’m the Outlander,” she said, the ghost of a smile on her scarred lips. “I’m the one who is popularly supposed to be naturally phlegmatic. What makes you so cool?” The corner of her mouth crimped, and Parno laughed out loud.

  “There,” he said, slapping his thighs. “I knew you weren’t as calm as you looked.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and extended his right hand toward her, waiting until Dhulyn took it in her own before speaking. “What’s the worst that can happen?” he said, lowering his voice.

  This was something they’d tossed back and forth many times during the weeks it had taken them to cross the Long Ocean and return to Lesonika, where they knew this hearing would be waiting for them. Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile and gave the only answer either of them had.

  “They can’t separate us,” she said. “Whatever they decide, that’s beyond them.” Still holding his hand, she leaned back in her chair. Mercenary Brothers Partnered for life, and not even the Brotherhood itself could dissolve the bond once it was formed.

  “Since the worst can’t happen,” Dhulyn continued, “anything else they decide will be tolerable. Exile, for example, either to the lands across the Long Ocean—”

  “Which would be manageable,” Parno cut in.

  “Or to the court of the Great King in the West, which would not.”

  “Caids take it, we’ve done nothing wrong.” Parno exhaled sharply and released Dhulyn’s hand.

  “Then we have nothing to worry about.”

  They rose to their feet as light footsteps sounded in the hall below, and Jay Starfound stuck his head above the landing. Unlike Kari Artagan, Jay was a resident Brother in Lesonika, a dark-haired, oval-faced man with a sharp-pointed beard covering a scar at the corner of his mouth. The colors of the Mercenary badge tattooed on his temples and over his ears flashed a startling green and red in the sunlight.

  “Brothers,” he said, touching his fingertips to his forehead. “You’re wanted.” Nothing, neither his tone, his choice of address, nor his impassive face told them anything they wanted to know. Dhulyn tucked the box of vera tiles under her left arm and gestured to Parno to precede her.

  Dhulyn Wolfshead had expected Jay Starfound to escort them to the ground floor hall, the largest room in the House, unaltered from its previous existence and still used for meals. Instead, he led them only as far down as the second floor, where they entered what had once been a private salon. The tiled floor was a warm golden color, and the walls still bore the murals of a forest scene, faded but rich in detail. A worktable had been set up between the two barred windows, and behind it, in a tall wooden chair with padded arms and back, sat the oldest Mercenary Brother Dhulyn had ever seen. His head had been shaved smooth, and his eyebrows were still dark and wiry, but the hair on his arms and the backs of his hands was gray. Those hands were gnarled, the knuckles swollen, and his face was heavily wrinkled, especially around the place where his right eye was missing.

  Dhulyn blinked when she took in the faded blue and red of his Mercenary badge. She had never seen those colors before. The Senior Brother of Hellik raised his head as they entered and fixed them with his one pale blue eye.

  “I am Gustof Ironhand, called the Boxer.” Gustof’s voice was unexpectedly light and musical. “I was Schooled by Jerzon Horsetooth.” Which explained the old colors of his badge, Dhulyn thought, and why she’d never seen them before. “I have fought at Ishkanbar, at Beliza, and at Tolnek.” As was customary, he cited only his last three battles. “I have come from Pyrusa to review your case, as I am the Senior Brother in Hellik.”

  And so he would be, Dhulyn thought, if he’d been Schooled by Jerzon. Jerzon Horsetooth had been dead for decades, his School dissolved. Gustof Ironhand could very well be the oldest Mercenary still alive. It was his age, Dhulyn imagined, and not his injury, that had led him to settle into a Mercenary House.

  “For the record,” Gustof gestured at Jay Starfound sitting to one side, pen and parchment at the ready. “Would you also formally identify yourselves?”

  “I am Dhulyn Wolfshead.” She was pleased that her voice sounded cool and relaxed. “Called the Scholar. I was Schooled by Dorian of the River, the Black Traveler, and have fought at the sea battle of Sadron, at Arcosa in Imrion, and for the Great King in the West at Bhexyllia. I fight with my Brother, Parno Lionsmane.”

  “I am Parno Lionsmane,” her Partner said. His voice was deeper and firmer than that of Gustof Ironhand, but equally musical. “I’m called the Chanter. Schooled by Nerysa Warhammer of Tourin. I have fought with my Brother, Dhulyn Wolfshead, at Arcosa, Bhexyllia, and Limona—if that’s to be judged a proper battle.”

  Gustof Ironhand’s smile did nothing to settle Dhulyn’s stomach. “That will be one of the things we rule on today.”

  Jay looked up. “You should note, my Brothers, that the ship of Dorian the Black Traveler is in harbor at the moment,” he said.

  “I doubt I will need to refer to him,” Gustof said. “I have here the documents of your case. Some I understand you provided yourselves before you were . . . diverted by the Long Ocean Nomads. We had testimony at that time from Captain Huelra of the Catseye, and the Nomads themselves have since provided witness—” here Gustof Ironhand tapped a rolled scroll to his left—“which supports your own explanation for the delay in these proceedings.” He laced his fingers together and laid his clasped hands on the table before continuing. “To deal with the lesser business first, I rule that the delay was unavoidable and that the actions you took to save the lives of the Catseye’s crew were such as maintain the reputation of the Brotherhood.”

  Gustof turned a page over. “I note also that relations have been established with both the Nomad traders and the Mortaxa across the Long Ocean, who have asked that Mercenary Brothers be sent to them, as counselors.” Gustof looked first at Parno, then at Dhulyn. “A return to the old ways, it seems.”

  “Yes, my Brother,” Dhulyn said, as the Senior Brother seemed to be waiting for a response.

  “Their request has been recorded and will be sent to all Mercenary Houses.” Gustof paused, picking out a paper from among the ones laying flat in front of him, while Jay Starfound finished writing.

  “As for the more important matter, we have here the request for outlawry from the then Queen of Tegrian, accusing you of the kidnap and murder of her son and heir, Lord Prince Edmir.”

  Dhulyn shifted her weight from one foot to the other, but didn’t speak.

  “This was followed by a document from the present Queen of Tegrian, withdrawing her mother’s request.” Gustof looked up. “You supplied this document yourselves, I understand?”

  “Yes, my Brother,” Dhulyn said. “You see it is written in her own hand and was sealed with the royal seal.”

  “Fortunate for you that the present Queen of Tegrian can write.” The Senior Brother’s tone was as dry as a sand lizard. “It appears that the late Queen was ill, and she was misinformed when she accused you,” he continued. When Dhulyn and Parno remained silent, Gustof Ironhand’s lips twitched. “The present Queen also assures us—for the ears of the Brotherhood only—that her brother is well and alive.” Gustof leaned back in his chair, bringing his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. “That is something we would have had to check for ourselves, since, though she claims him to be well and alive, it is she and not her older brother sitting on the throne of Tegrian.

  “Fortunately, while you were . . . diverted by the Nomads, a small caravan of traveling players arrived in Lesonika and ga
ve further witness, and further proofs, to support the Queen of Tegrian’s assertions.” Now Gustof smiled outright and sat forward again, his elbows on the table. “In other words, the delay in presenting your case has helped to clarify it considerably.”

  Dhulyn glanced again at Parno, but his eyes were focused on the faded olive trees painted on the wall above Gustof Ironhand’s head.

  The older man spread his hands out on the table and looked at them, turning his head to get them both within the scope of his single eye. “I have reviewed your case,” he said, his tone returning to strict formality, “and I accept the documents I have been given. I rule that there has been no breach of the Common Rule, nor does anyone outside of the Mercenary Brotherhood have legitimate grievance against you.”

  Dhulyn let out a sigh as muscles she hadn’t known were tense, relaxed. Parno’s shoulders dropped an almost imperceptible amount as he touched the fingers of his right hand to his forehead. Dhulyn repeated his gesture with her own right hand. Still, the old man had said “no one outside the Brotherhood.”

  “We thank you for your time and your attention to our dilemma, Gustof Ironhand,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “We are in your debt.”

  The old man returned their salute and leaned back once more in his chair, this time signaling them to sit as well. He waited until they had drawn up the backless chairs suited to Lesonika’s warm climate and Jay Starfound had departed with his scrolls before speaking.

  “My time and attention are indeed valuable,” Gustof said. “I am gratified to hear you acknowledge as much. I have had to come twice from Pyrusa to attend to what you call your ‘dilemma’—no direct fault of your own, I grant you,” he added, lifting his palm toward them. “Nevertheless, this House and the Mercenary House in Pyrusa have undertaken actions on your behalf, and Brothers other than myself have been called upon as well. There is a manner in which you can repay these . . . favors if you will, to our Houses and to the Mercenary Brotherhood as a whole.”

  Long-winded type, Dhulyn thought. Substitute the word “fine” for “repayment,” and you’d have it just about exactly right. Why not just out with it? As if she or Parno would refuse any request from a Mercenary Brother. This would only be some boring contract no one else wanted—private wall guards, perhaps, or a frontier outpost facing an amiable neighboring kingdom. The type of job, lasting only a few moons, that usually only junior Brothers who had yet to prove themselves in a real battle would take.

  “We are Brothers,” she said, as a way to acquiesce as well as a reminder. “And there would also be the matter of the stabling of our horses.”

  “You do well to remind me.” Again, the faintest of smiles floated across Gustof’s lips. “As you may have heard, the Princess of Arderon is to wed the Tarkin of Menoin. She has traveled with her own people as far as Lesonika, and as a neutral body we have been asked to provide her an escort by sea to the court of her betrothed. If you will undertake this task for us, we shall consider our expenditure of time repaid and the accounts balanced.”

  “Is it a large party?” Dhulyn did her best not to make a face. Menoin was an island, and they would have to travel by boat. After crossing the Long Ocean twice in the last three moons, she had been looking forward to getting back onto a horse.

  Gustof shook his head. “The Arderons are notoriously plain in their style of living. The Princess has a kinswoman as her immediate attendant and witness, and two body servants. They take also four mares in foal from the royal stables as a wedding gift.”

  Dhulyn smiled back at him, careful not to let her small scar curl her lip back in a snarl. “Plain in their living style” indeed. An understatement if she had ever heard one. The Arderons considered themselves to be descendants of and kin to the Horse Nomads of the Blasonar Plain, and they affected the purity of living and conduct of their kinsfolk. Even the members of their Royal House were expected at the least to be instructed in arms and in the cleaning and care of their own horses.

  “They are woman-ruled, are they not?” Dhulyn said. “I’m surprised they are willing to send a daughter away.”

  “This is a cousin of the present Tarkina, who has four female children of her own. There is little chance that Princess Cleona could inherit.” The three Mercenary Brothers exchanged identical smiles; they all knew how easily a small chance became a certainty.

  “Surely there are royal ladies of more note closer to Menoin than Arderon?” Parno asked. Though he rarely spoke of it, he had come from a High Noble House himself, and such speculation was in his blood.

  “Certainly,” Gustof said. “But there are ancient ties between the two, ties that the Tarkinate of Menoin seems most interested in reestablishing.” He leaned forward. “There is something more regarding the lady of Arderon. Rumor has it that some years ago an application was made on her behalf, and later withdrawn, to Dorian the Black Traveler.”

  Parno cleared his throat. “The Princess wanted to become a Mercenary Brother and then changed her mind?”

  “According to what Dorian tells me, she was turned away.” Gustof looked aside, the fingers of his left hand tapping the arm of his chair. Dhulyn glanced at Parno, but he only lifted one shoulder.

  What the older man said was likely. The histories told that at one time the Brotherhood was more numerous than it was now, but it took a particular kind of person to become a Mercenary Brother, and more than half of the applicants to the three existing Mercenary Schools were turned down. And since fewer than half of those who were accepted survived their Schooling, the numbers of the Brotherhood remained small. She studied Gustof’s lined face. Was he old enough to have seen the numbers dwindling, even in his own lifetime?

  As if he felt her speculative gaze on him, Gustof drew in a deep breath and sat straighter.

  “A small party,” he repeated. “And as the Black Traveler is in port, and it does not matter to Dorian what route he takes while he is Schooling, we have decided to allow the Arderons to use his ship for the Princess’ journey to Menoin.”

  “And Dorian has agreed?” The words were out before Dhulyn could stop them, her tone of frank disbelief bordering on discourtesy.

  Evidently Gustof Ironhand thought so as well, for he only smiled again—his thin, old man’s smile. “Perhaps you would do better to ask him yourself.” His tone was so unmistakable that Dhulyn found herself on her feet, with Parno already turning toward the door.

  “One question, Senior Brother, if I may,” Dhulyn said.

  “Certainly.”

  “The players, did they perform The Soldier King?” Dhulyn asked.

  “They did indeed. In Battle, my Brothers,” the old man said.

  “Or in Death,” they replied.

  The Mercenary House was not large enough to have its own stable, but Dhulyn found that the public stable nearby had taken good care of their horses while they were on the other side of the Long Ocean.

  “How old do you think Gustof Ironhand is?” Parno asked as he threw his saddle across Warhammer’s back. The big gray gelding had pretended not to know him when they had first arrived, but a pretense it had clearly been, and the horse now nudged him companionably, snorting into his face.

  “Sun and Moon only know,” Dhulyn said. “I’d wager my second-best sword he’s been a Mercenary Brother longer even than you’ve been alive.” She tested Bloodbone’s girth and turned to her saddlebags. “In fact, I’d wager he’s been Senior Brother here in Hellik longer than that.”

  “Think he could still hold his own?”

  Dhulyn stopped what she was doing and considered Parno’s question seriously. “His hands moved well, though his knuckles are so swollen. He’s had years to learn to compensate for the single eye. As for strength,” she shrugged. “Technique beats strength almost every time. If his enemy was close enough, I’d say Gustof could still kill.”

  DHULYN IS STANDING BEFORE A GRANITE WALL, THE BLOCKS FITTED SO CLOSELY THAT SHE HAS TO TOUCH THEM TO FEEL THE SEAMS. THE STONE IS SMOOTH AND COL
D, CREATED BY THE HAND OF SOME MASTER CRAFTSMAN OF THECAIDS. HER FINGERTIPS PASS OVER SOME IRREGULARITY, AND DHULYN STANDS TO ONE SIDE, ALLOWING SHADOWS TO FALL WHERE HER FINGERS HAVE BEEN. A FACE STARES BACK AT HER FROM THE WALL, WIDE-BROWED, POINTED OF CHIN, THE NOSE VERY LONG AND STRAIGHT, THE LIPS FULL CURVES. THE EYES HAVE BEEN FINISHED WITH TINY CHIPS OF BLACK STONE, SO THAT THE FACE DOES INDEED APPEAR TO BE STARING. . .

  A THIN MAN WEARING A GOLD RING IN EACH EAR IS BENT OVER A CIRCLE OF STONES, USING A SPARKER TO SET DRIED GRASS AND TWIGS ALIGHT. A PILE OF BROKEN BRANCHES SITS TO ONE SIDE READY TO BE PLACED IN THE FIRE. HIS LARGE HANDS HAVE LONG FLAT FINGERS. HIS STRAW-COLORED HAIR IS COARSE AND THICK, CROPPED SHORT. DHULYN’S SHADOW FALLS ACROSS HIM, AND HE LOOKS UP. “HERE,” HE SAYS, STRAIGHTENING TO HIS FEET AND REACHING TOWARD HER. “LET ME HELP YOU WITH THAT. . . ”

  A SHORT YOUNG WOMAN , ROUNDED AND WELL-DRESSED, LOCKS OF DARK, CURLY HAIR ESCAPING FROM A SEVERE HEADDRESS, HANDS DEMURELY CLASPED AT HER WAIST, LOOKS AROUND THE KITCHEN OF WHAT LOOKS LIKE A MINOR HOUSE. THE WORKPLACE IS WELL-APPOINTED, WITH BOTH OPEN HEARTH AND TILED OVENS, POTS, CROCKS, AND A WORKTABLE LARGE ENOUGH TO ACCOMMODATE FOUR PEOPLE.

  THE YOUNG WOMAN WALKS THROUGH THE ROOM, TOUCHING, ALMOST CARESSING OBJECTS AS SHE PASSES THEM. SHE MAY BE SEEING THIS FOR THE LAST TIME, DHULYN THINKS, OR ELSE SHE’S BUT NEWLY COME HERE ANDIS MARKING HER NEWLY ACQUIRED TERRITORY WITH THE TOUCH OF HER HANDS. BUT THENDHULYN SEES THAT THE BOWL THE WOMAN TOUCHES IS CRACKED NOW, THE WOODEN LADLE SPLIT, THE CROCKS BREAKING AND LEAKING THEIR CONTENTS ONTO THE FLOOR. FINALLY THE YOUNG WOMAN COMES TO THE TABLE AND, SMILING, STANDS READY TO LOWER HER HANDS TO ITS SURFACE. . .

  A TALL, THIN MAN WITH CLOSE-CROPPED HAIR THE COLOR OF WHEAT STRAW, EYES THE BLUE OF OLD ICE, DEEP ICE, SITS READING A BOUND BOOK LARGER THAN ANY SHE HAS EVER SEEN. HIS CHEEKBONES SEEM CHISELED FROM GRANITE, YET THERE IS HUMOR IN THE SET OF HIS LIPS AND LAUGHTER IN THE FAINT LINES AROUNDHIS EYES. DHULYN KNOWS SHE WOULD LIKE THE MAN IF SHE MET HIM AND THAT THIS IS A VISION OF THE PAST, BOTH HER PAST AND HIS, AND SHE WONDERS WHY SHESEES IT AGAIN NOW.