Singer of the Wind pulled a knife from his belt and thrust it into the ground in front of him. After some fidgeting from a man to Parno’s right, the Horsemen fell silent.
“As I have said, Dhulyn Wolfshead, it has been long since warriors or kings have come through Mother Sun’s Door. There are tales of others. Mages who have come to test themselves against the path, as our young men do, or criminals, set the path as task or punishment. Though, as I say, it has been long since we have seen, or even been given warning, of any such. Before my own birth moon, or the birth moon of any of my acquaintance. You say you have come seeking a killer. Are you the arm of justice, then, in your own land, that you would brave the ordeal of Mother Sun’s Door?”
Dhulyn shot him a quick look, her lips parted. This would be the first time, Parno thought, that they had ever had to explain to anyone what the Mercenary Brotherhood was. Even the Mortaxa, on the other side of the Long Ocean, knew of the Brotherhood.
“We are a warrior brotherhood,” she said finally. “As our name implies. But we follow very strictly our Common Rule, and all in our land know the Brotherhood and know that we cannot be paid to go against our training, or our words, or our Rule. This same Rule bids us, for example, never to leave abandoned any of our Brothers who may be in peril or need of rescue, and it seems that, as I have said, two of our Brothers have walked this Path before us. We would brave more than the Path of the Sun to find them, and to avenge them if it is needed.” She paused, licking her lips, and looked to Parno, clearly unsure how to continue. It was typical of her to speak at this juncture of their missing Brothers and forget to mention the killer they were also looking for. Parno took up the explanation.
“It’s not uncommon,” he said, “in places where the rule of law is scarce or distant, for a Mercenary Brother to be asked to sit in judgment or to enforce the law of the land. We’ve done it, more than once, in our time. But this case,” he shook his head. “This is a little more complicated. Though we come with the knowledge and approval of the law of Menoin—” he broke off, as there was a muttering among the seated Horsemen. Singer of the Wind gestured the men silent once again, and Parno continued. “So we’ve come with their approval,” he repeated. “But primarily because the last victim of this killer had until recently been in our charge, and we feel, well, we felt . . .”
“We felt the killing had been done in despite of us,” Dhulyn said. “And that we cannot allow. It is this killer we look for. The one whose tracks we followed into the Path of the Sun was in our land three nights ago—”
“The full moon,” one of the Horsemen raised his hand. Well that simplifies things, Parno thought. Even if the sun moved in the wrong direction here, at least the moon went though its phases at the same time. The weather here seemed to agree that it was late summer. Perhaps there would other similarities.
The man who spoke was Sun Dog, the one who rode the spotted horse. Not a shaman, Parno thought, but perhaps someone in line to be chief. The young man had that kind of assurance. Singer of the Wind frowned at him, and the younger man merely dipped his head, as if in apology for the interruption. The shaman turned his attention back to Dhulyn, signaling her to continue.
“As for the killer.” Dhulyn swallowed and took a breath. Parno wished he were sitting close enough to her to touch her. “As for the killer,” she repeated and stopped again. “Tell me, Singer of the Wind, have you seen anything of this kind, here?”
Dhulyn began to describe the mutilated corpse they had seen in Menoin. At first her voice was calm, detached, as though she were doing no more than giving a routine report to a Senior Brother. As she continued, however, even though she gave only the necessary, telling details that would trigger recognition or memory among those listening, her voice thickened, her words slowed, and she began to falter and hesitate. Finally Parno signaled her with a wave of his index finger and finished the description for her, giving the last details of the untouched hands and feet.
When he stopped talking, several of the men were looking away. The young boy, Ice Hawk, had his hands over his mouth, and stared straight ahead. The long silence was broken only by that same man, who shifted again in his seat. Parno was beginning to think the man was sitting on an anthill and that some protocol prevented him from changing his place.
Singer of the Wind patted Dhulyn on her knee. “My child, take heart,” he said. “We must all see things in our lives that we would wish not to have seen.” He looked around him, gathering the attention of all the men. “But we have seen something here and can now bear witness to it. You can all of you swear of your own experience to what I know by the force of my powers. This woman is whole, her spirit intact, and she feels as anyone would feel.” He turned back to Dhulyn and patted her again. “Some might have said you have learned to act a part, my child, that anyone can study the correct words to use and the manner of using them. To make the voice sound heavy with sorrow or warm with interest. But no one can change the color of their skin at will. No one can turn pale, as you have done, without genuinely feeling the weight of what they say.”
Sun Dog, sitting on Dhulyn’s other side, also reached out and patted her on the knee. There were smiles on several faces.
Dhulyn’s face was impassive, but Parno could tell she was thinking furiously. Clearly what the old man was saying had great importance, but why? What was the meaning of all this talk of feelings and safety and wholeness? If they were in their own land, Parno thought, Dhulyn would not hesitate to simply ask, but here, she obviously felt she must be more circumspect. She had somehow gained the Espadryni’s trust, and she needed to keep it.
“Thank you, Grandfather,” she said. “Do I think correctly? You have not seen here a killing such as my Partner and I have described?”
There were general head shakes—but one man frowned, his eyes narrowing as he looked inward.
“Sky Tree, do you know something of this?” the Cloud shaman said.
“No! Grandfather, no! Not in that way, at least.” The man turned so white his eyebrows looked like stains on his face.
“Then tell us.”
“It was not I but Jorn-Thornis, of the Cold Lake People, who told me of it at the last Gathering of the Tribes. A hunting band reported having found the spoor of a demon.” The man swallowed. “What he told me sounded much like what we have heard today.”
“How did they know the spoor was left by demons?” Parno said.
“What else but a demon would do such a thing?”
Clearly Dhulyn was not inclined to argue. Nevertheless she spoke. “Our demon left footprints, and rode horses,” she said.
“Perhaps a man in your world and a demon in ours,” Sky Tree said.
“Certainly there has been nothing of such moment here.” Singer of the Wind glanced behind him at where Ice Hawk stood and waited until the young man shook his head before turning back into the circle of seated Horsemen. “There cannot be many such tales, or we would have heard more. Perhaps among the men of the fields and towns—and why can you not sit still, Gray Cloud?”
The old man’s words snapped out, and everyone turned to look at the man who had been fidgeting and shifting since they began talking.
“If I am not mistaken, he has dislocated his shoulder,” Dhulyn said.
“Possibly the wing bone is broken,” Parno added. “Do you have a Healer among your Tribe, or is there one nearby?”
“A Healer? What do you mean, my child? Are there Healers also in your land?”
“And Menders and Finders,” Dhulyn said.
“Whole? Safe?” This was Sun Dog.
Dhulyn looked at Parno, the question in her eyes. He nodded. “You’ve used that phrase many times,” she said. “I confess I do not know what you mean by it.”
“My child, here all the Marked are broken and dangerous, not like other people. They are put to death as soon as they are discovered.”
“This is why we Espadryni became nomads,” Sun Dog added. “Our women are Marked, and
broken in the way of all Marked. But without them we would have no magic, the Tribes would be broken, and we would cease to be. Who then would guard Mother’s Sun’s Door?”
“In the old days, when we saw what the men of field and town would do, we withdrew, we became nomads,” Singer of the Wind said. “To keep our women, to keep the Seers safe.”
“Demons and perverts,” Parno said.
Nine
“THERE, that takes care of most of it.” Gundaron looked around the rooms they’d been given near the Princess Alaria’s apartments and sighed. “How could we have accumulated so much baggage? We haven’t even been here a year.”
Mar understood Gun well enough to know that it wasn’t accumulated baggage that was bothering him. They were both Scholars, Library-trained, though technically she had still to pass her final examinations. And though she was, again, technically, part of a High Noble House in Imrion, she had been brought up as a foster child in a family of weavers, and Gun’s family had been farmers. Which was to say, neither of them found the frugal, simple life of Scholarship to be much of a challenge.
“I know we didn’t bring much with us,” she said now. “But most of that was clothing wrong for this weather.” Of course, they’d known it was hotter in Menoin than they were used to, since Imrion was farther south. They just hadn’t realized how much hotter. “Our heavier clothing doesn’t pack very small,” she pointed out. “And it’s not as though we can afford to get rid of it. When we go home, we’ll need it again.”
She refrained from pointing out how much of the “accumulation” was made up of the books they’d borrowed from local Scholars and the Tarkin’s Library. Those alone had necessitated the use of a middle-sized cart, complete with donkey, to move their things to the palace.
Mar sank down into one of the cushioned chairs with a sigh and looked around the room. Most of their gear had been shoved in loosely organized heaps in the second bedchamber, and their clothes had been thrust hastily into chests and presses in the first. The only truly neat spots in their three rooms were the two worktables in the sitting room, with their tidy rows of books and scrolls, pens, inks, and blank parchments. At least the discoveries Mar and Gundaron had made in the Caids’ ruins, painstakingly uncovered and cataloged, had already been sent here to the Tarkin’s palace for storage.
Gundaron fidgeted around his worktable, picking up and putting down the parchment on which he’d been making notes at the dig on the day they’d learned of Dhulyn Wolfshead’s and Parno Lionsmane’s arrival. They’d been following standard practice, dividing the area of the ruins into sections and squares and examining each one carefully before moving on. When he put the parchment down for the third time, Mar spoke up.
“Can’t concentrate?” She shoved a chair toward him with her foot.
He rubbed at his upper lip and sat down. “I know I should settle to some work, but there are just so many more urgent things to think about. After all, any artifacts in those ruins have been there since the days of the Caids. They can easily wait a few more days.”
“Or weeks for that matter.”
“Exactly.” Gun stopped himself just in time from leaning back. Like much of the furniture in these warmer countries, the chairs were backless, little more than wide stools with arms. “Whatever’s happening to Wolfshead and Lionsmane, that’s happening right now.”
“And we’ve got to be ready for when they return with news of the killer,” Mar said. What would Alaria need from them, she thought.
“Or when they don’t return.” Gun swallowed, rubbing again at his upper lip with the fingers of his left hand.
Mar gritted her teeth. She’d been avoiding saying the words aloud—but just the same, she’d been thinking them, too. What would Alaria of Arderon do if the Mercenaries did not return? What would any of them do?
“We should be finding a way to help them,” she said.
“They don’t need our help.” Gun’s lips formed a shallow smile, and Mar grinned back at him. It was hard to imagine that either Lionsmane or Wolfshead would ever need anyone’s help. But still . . .
“We have helped them before. You know we have. Surely there must be some way to help them now.”
“If I could only Find the blooded key to the Path of the Sun. It’s got to exist! A map, a drawing of the labyrinth—something.”
Mar thought she understood the source of Gun’s frustration. For years he’d hidden the fact that he was a Finder, thinking he wouldn’t be allowed to become a Scholar if it was known he was Marked. Now his Mark was out in the open, and he’d even spent three months in a Guild House learning from other Finders, and he still couldn’t Find something he knew had to exist.
“It’s like a logic puzzle,” Mar said. She got up and fetched them each a plum from the bowl of fruit on the table. “The Tarkins must have had a key at one point. How else could they able to walk the Path themselves and return? Therefore, there must be a key.”
“That’s not logic,” Gun said, with just a hint of irritation in his voice. “That’s just arguing in circles.”
Mar looked away so Gun couldn’t see her grin. He was well on his way to getting over his frustration if he had the energy to quibble over her wording.
“I’ve looked for a map and Found nothing,” he said. “And before you say anything else, there are no drawings, paintings, or patterns in brick, tile, or stonework that provide a key.”
Mar sucked plum juice off her fingers. “What other things have patterns?” she asked. “Weaving? Music? Songs? Poetry?”
“Poetry.” Gun had been leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. Now he straightened up so quickly that Mar was surprised his spine didn’t crackle. “I’m an idiot.”
“Only sometimes.” Mar smiled.
“I wasn’t looking for the key,” he said, looking up at her. “I mean, not a key in general. I was looking for a map, or a drawing. I’ve been warned about making my searches too specific. What if it isn’t a map but a description? A set of instructions? What if I was being too specific to Find?”
Mar ran into their bedroom, tossing clothing aside until she found the pack that held her scryer’s bowl.
Gun meanwhile had cleared a space on the sitting room table and fetched the pitcher of water that stood with its net cover on the sideboard.
“I don’t have a piece of clean silk to pour the water through,” she said.
“Doesn’t matter.” Gun placed the bowl near the edge of the table and poured in the water. “I’ve never thought that part of the ritual was so important.”
Without bothering to move a chair closer, Gundaron placed his fingertips along the edge of the bowl and took several deep breaths to calm himself. The light coming in the window slanted across the surface of the water, flashing little highlights as the liquid settled. A bit like letters meticulously copied onto a page of parchment or paper, as if he were hypnotizing himself by staring at the ink and page. The water—
It’s not water. It’s a bright page of paper, and suddenly he’s in a library. Not one that really exists—at least he’s never tried to Find it anywhere but here—but one he knows all the same. Here he should be able to find the text he’s looking for. He glances around, lip between his teeth, looking for the marker, the clue, that will lead him through the acres of bookshelves to the place he needs.
There’s a shaft of sunlight on the floor, though there isn’t any window to let it in.
Of course. He’s being thick again. He’s looking for the Path of the Sun, what else should show him the place but sunlight? He walks quickly now, down the main aisle, shelves and scroll holders branching out to left and right. He follows the sunbeam until, for a moment, the shelving seems to shimmer, and then Gundaron is walking between high stone walls, splotched with moss and stained with smoke, which abruptly become grass, damp with dew, and tall enough to brush against his thighs as he walks through it. The sunbeam still leads forward, however, and as Gun follows it the grass disappears once more, and, sup
erimposed on the shelving and books of his mental library there is a wide, tree-lined avenue. The ghosts of people, dressed in every style and in many colors, walk around him, talking, though he hears nothing. The sunbeam leads him toward a broad flight of marble stairs, each step inlaid with a pattern of moons and stars in contrasting stone. And then he is in a library again, this time a small room whose windowless walls are completely covered with books. There are many colors in the spines of the books, but only one seems to have a gold spine. He pulls the book off the shelf; it has a sunburst on the cover.
Gun stepped back away from the table and blinked. Mar was smiling at him.
“I know where it is,” he said. “I know exactly where it is.”
Alaria leaned on her folded arms and looked over the side of the stall. Delos Egoyin had sent his head page for her just as the sun was rising, saying that one of her queens looked to be starting to foal. Alaria had come as quickly as she could, making her guard trot to keep up with her. As she’d thought, it was Star Blaze who was foaling. All the mares had foaled before, and there was very little for either her or Delos to do but stand ready to assist if assistance was needed.
Now Alaria entered the stall and took hold of Star Blaze by a handful of mane, stroking the mare’s nose with a practiced hand.
“Look now, Sister,” she said to the horse. “You’ve given us a little stallion, the first of our new herd.” As she spoke, the tiny animal staggered to its feet, its legs thin and wobbling beneath it.
Alaria freed Star Blaze’s head as the mare turned to nose at her foal, licking at it so fiercely she almost knocked the tiny thing from its feet. Alaria stood up, pushing her hands into her lower back and stretching out muscles stiff with tension. “There,” she said. “That’s the first. Goddess grant the others go as smoothly.”
“It’s easy to see you’re a practiced hand at this, Lady of Arderon,” Delos Egoyin said. The man seemed to be grinning all over as he beamed down at the little white horse with its black mane and tail.
Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno Page 16
