Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno

by Malan, Violette

  Parno Lionsmane motioned Bekluth closer with a tilt of his head and squatted an arm’s length away from Dhulyn Wolfshead. He tapped his cheek just under his right eye, and Bekluth put on his best look of concentration. What was the man up to?

  As he watched, Lionsmane reached out very slowly with his right hand, moving it closer and closer to the sleeping woman’s shoulder. Closer, slowly, closer—

  Her left hand flashed out and grabbed Lionsmane’s wrist, her right hand pointed a dagger at his throat.

  Bekluth jumped back, genuinely startled this time. She had moved literally in the blink of an eye. One moment asleep, and the next alert and menacing.

  “Do you all wake like that?” he asked, when the other two had finished chuckling at each other.

  “Of course.” Dhulyn Wolfshead was now on her feet, just as if she hadn’t been asleep five breaths ago. “Otherwise, we might not wake up at all.”

  “More of your Common Rule, I suppose,” Bekluth had said, shaking his head ruefully.

  When he had wished them both a good night, and the woman had gone to the lookout place, and the man had rolled himself in their bedding and dropped off immediately to sleep, Bekluth lay in his own bedroll and thought. He’d need more of the drugged brandy, that was certain. No just waiting for either of them to fall asleep. And somehow he’d have to use it on both of them at the same time. He mentally waved this problem away. He’d solve it when the time came—he always did.

  Now, where was his closest supply of brandy?

  Alaria became aware she was dozing only when she came abruptly awake as the bed moved under her. Enough light came through the open door of the bedroom to show her a profile she recognized. “What are you doing?”

  Falcos was sitting on the far edge of the bed, his blue eyes catching the light and his mouth twisted into a sideways grin. “You didn’t expect me to sleep on the floor, did you? I thought you trusted me.”

  Alaria felt her face and neck grow hot—though with any luck her blush couldn’t be seen in the scant light. She could hope so, at least. She cleared her throat.

  “My mother said that men were never to be trusted,” she said in as conversational a tone as she could manage. “Most especially never in any sexual situation. That they control themselves only with great difficulty, if at all.”

  Falcos nodded slowly, shifting until he was sitting with his back against the headboard—a far less elaborate one than the one in his mother’s bedroom. “There’s some truth to that, for certain men and, as you say, in certain situations.” Alaria, blinking, sat up herself, and shoved her combs back into place. “But I’m not one of those men, and in case you hadn’t noticed, this is not a sexual situation.”

  “You are in my bedroom,” Alaria pointed out, keeping her voice as firm as she could. “About to lie down on my bed.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “This is not anyone’s bedroom, and it’s no one in particular’s bed.” His mouth drooped, and Alaria could see again how close to the edge of despair Falcos really was. “Alaria,” he said, “if I do not rest soon, I’ll go mad.”

  Alaria sat up straighter, pulling her feet up to sit cross-legged. At least she’d gone to sleep fully clothed. “Come,” she said. “Stretch out. Shut your eyes.”

  He curled up on his side, facing her, one arm tucked under the pillow. He didn’t look younger, as she’d been told all sleeping people did. And sleep couldn’t make him more beautiful—but only because he was so beautiful to begin with. Even with the smudge of a bruise on his left cheek and dirt under his fingernails. She still found it surprising that Falcos was not the vain and featherheaded fool that his beauty had led her to expect.

  Which was a good thing, all things considered, since she’d thrown in her lot with his. Agreed to stay here, marry him, become the Tarkina of Menoin. And nothing that had happened since she’d sat hand-in-hand with Falcos in the stables, watching the new foal, had given her reason to change her mind. On the contrary. Her breath caught a little in her throat. She would rather be sitting here on the bed with Falcos, their futures uncertain, than on the throne of Menoin if it meant she sat with Epion.

  “I want you to reconsider surrendering to Epion.”

  Alaria jumped; she’d been so sure that Falcos had fallen asleep. How strange that they’d both been thinking along the same lines, even if they hadn’t reached the same conclusions.

  “Hear me out,” Falcos said when she didn’t answer. He propped himself up on his right elbow. “You could say you have grown afraid of me, that you now think I tricked you in some way.”

  “Falcos, we’ve talked about this. He wouldn’t believe me. Abandoning you won’t make me safe.”

  “I think he’d want to believe you, and I believe you would be safe,” he said. “You must think I’m not a very good judge of character if Epion could fool me for so long, but trust me, knowing the truth about him now just puts all I’ve observed over all these years into the right context, and I assure you, you’d be safe.” He took a deep breath. “You are not the one who is standing between Epion and his throne. On the contrary, since we can change from one Arderon princess to another to answer the demands of the treaty, I should think we can change from one Menoin prince to another. Oh, no.” He shook his head. “You are in no danger from Epion. And besides,” he continued when Alaria opened her mouth to argue, “you have the horses to think about.”

  That made Alaria stop and think. The queens were her responsibility, though perhaps not her first priority.

  “He’ll never believe it,” was all she could think of.

  “I tell you he’ll want to. That’s your strength. You must use it. You cannot go down with me.” His lips pressed tight and Alaria wondered what he’d stopped himself from saying.

  “I don’t want to leave you.” She surprised herself, but only by saying it aloud.

  “And I don’t want you to have to deal with Epion alone.” Falcos reached out and touched her cheek.

  “As if I couldn’t manage one man,” she said.

  But Falcos didn’t return her smile. “That’s the overconfidence that will lead you wrong,” he said. “You have a poor opinion of men and you think that because you can manage the men in Arderon who don’t have any real power, you won’t have any trouble here. But you’re not in Arderon now. Do not underestimate Epion, what he will do, how he will think and act.”

  Alaria was stung, but she bit back her angry retort. Part of her knew that what Falcos had said was true, and just. Her own upbringing might lead her astray, as it almost had with Falcos himself. Part of her simply didn’t want what might be the last words they said to each other to be angry ones. “I’ll think of him as a woman then, shall I? Someone close to the Tarkina and ambitious.”

  “You will be safer if you do.” He was smiling, but his eyes were sad.

  She put her hand gently on his bruised cheek, leaned forward, and kissed him on the lips. Somehow they were warmer than she’d expected.

  “You’ll be careful,” he said. “Promise me.” He was leaning his forehead against hers, his blue eyes shut. Something clutched at Alaria’s heart.

  “Promise me,” he repeated, leaning away from her.

  “I won’t marry Epion.” She held up her hand. “And if you tell me that Menoin needs a Tarkina from Arderon, very well, but Epion won’t survive the marriage night. That I can promise you.”

  His blue eyes suddenly became much warmer. “Menoin will need an heir from the line of Akarion.”

  Alaria smiled.

  “Let me do the talking,” Mar said. She slipped the satchel off her shoulder, letting it rest on the ground at her feet.

  “Why not? I’ve been letting you do pretty well everything else.” Gun’s voice was flat, but Mar smiled nonetheless. The spirit of teasing was there, even if the strength to lift his tone was not.

  Gun had rested fairly well the night before, but his nausea had returned with walking, and Mar had finally covered his eyes again, this time
using the headscarf from his pack. They had been walking the better part of the day, but with the slow pace and frequent rests Gun’s condition required, they had not even reached the crevasse Bekluth Allain had told them about when noise and movement from what they now understood to be the north told them they were no longer alone. It was hard to be sure at first, but eventually Mar could tell there were five Espadryni approaching. Remembering something Parno Lionsmane had once told them, Mar and Gun had immediately put down their burdens and stood with their hands empty facing in the direction of the Horsemen. “Let them see you are no threat,” the Lionsmane had said. “Unless of course you are, in which case you should let them see that.”

  “Stand steady,” Mar said as the Horsemen rode toward them with no apparent intention of stopping. “I’ll speak to them.”

  “You said that already.” Mar glanced at Gun, but his momentary smile was wiped away with another grimace. He swallowed and licked his lips.

  Mar turned back to face the approaching Horsemen and willed herself not to shut her eyes as all five horses came nearer and nearer without slowing down, until, in the last moment, they turned aside and rode in circles around them. The Horsemen passed so closely that her own headscarf fluttered in the breeze of their passage.

  That’s meant to intimidate, she thought. So stay calm and unimpressed. She glanced at each of the riders, looking for the one who would be in charge and wracking her brain for what little she knew about the Espadryni. Dhulyn Wolfshead was the only Red Horseman Mar had ever met—the only one in existence, for all anyone knew to the contrary—and while these five men all had the pale southern skin and the long, blood-red hair she associated with her Mercenary friend, they were armed strangers, and Mar had to treat them as dangerous.

  And there was still, somewhere on this side of the Path, a killer, though Mar thought he was very unlikely to be one of this group. A man would need to be alone, she thought, to do what the killer had done.

  All five men were dressed in leather dyed in a rainbow of colors, with their sleeveless jerkins decorated with patches of cloth and patterns of beading. Three carried spears, and two had short bows already strung and hanging easily to hand across the horns of their saddles. Except for the very long knives that each man had at his waist, Mar could see no swords. She blinked at the dust raised around her and cleared her throat as the men came to a halt. One came nearer and spoke to her, and while the words sounded familiar, they were in a language Mar did not know. Gun looked up and frowned, but when she touched his sleeve. he shook his head.

  “Do you speak the common tongue?” she asked, forming her words slowly. She had hopes they would, since the trader had. “Are you Espadryni of the Cold Lake People?” she added.

  “We are,” the one who was clearly the leader answered. “I am Josh-Chevrie,” he added. “We saw the burning and are come to investigate.” It was plain from his tone that he expected a similar explanation of their presence.

  Mar was suddenly at a loss. How to explain who and what they were, and why they were here, when the fact that they were Scholars would mean nothing to these people? Mar had never before realized how much Scholars could rely on their distinctive blue tunics and their Library connections to give them an introduction and gain them a welcome wherever they went.

  She hesitated only a moment more, pushing the scarf back away from her face and squinting up at the man on horseback. Even without Bekluth’s warning not to mention the Path of the Sun, Mar would have known to proceed carefully. Things left unsaid were not really lies, and she could always explain afterward, if the Espadryni seemed less superstitious than Bekluth had claimed. Better cautious than cursing, as the Wolfshead always said. There would be time to give the whole story, once she found Gun some help.

  “I am Mar-eMar Tenebro and this is my husband, Gundaron of Valdomar,” she said. “We are looking for friends we have been told are in this area, but more immediately we are seeking help for my husband’s sudden illness. The trader Bekluth Allain told us that your shaman may be able to help us.”

  “The trader sent you?” Josh-Chevrie slid down from his horse and came closer. Mar stood her ground. The man’s eyes were the same curious shade of stone gray that the Wolfshead’s were.

  “Is it an injury of the eye?” he asked, reaching out to touch Gun’s bandage.

  “Are you a shaman then? A Mage?” Mar asked. Though with so few Healers in the world, it made sense to send a Mage along with a scouting party.

  “We are all Mages, we of the Espadryni,” Josh-Chevrie said. “If I cannot help your man, there are those more powerful at our camp.”

  “It’s not the eyes exactly,” Mar said. She took Gun by the shoulder to steady him. “It’s nausea and dizziness. Gundaron’s a Finder you see and . . .” Mar’s words dried in her throat. If she hadn’t known Dhulyn Wolfshead so well, seen so often how very little of her moods and feelings showed on her face, Mar might have missed the way Josh-Chevrie’s face froze for just a split instant before it returned to his previous expression.

  She looked around, but the faces on the other riders told her nothing. Somehow, she felt a tension in the air that hadn’t been there a moment before, as if they were all more watchful, though Mar wouldn’t have believed that possible. She tapped out a code against Gun’s shoulder, hoping he was not in so much misery that he missed it.

  Josh-Chevrie let his hands drop and took a step back. “Marked is he?” the young Horseman said. “Are you Marked then yourself, girl?”

  “No. That is, well, no.” Mar looked from one man to another. They all had the same wary hardness in their faces now, which told her this was not the time to explain that she had been Marked, in a way, once upon a time. Gun’s grip on her elbow warned her further.

  “Step away from the Marked one, girl,” Josh said, holding his hand out to her.

  “What? No. I don’t understand,” Mar said. Her grip on Gun tightened as one of the riders set an arrow to his bowstring. The Red Horsemen couldn’t possibly be prejudiced against the Marked, not when all their women were Seers. Unless that was not true here—in which case, why would Bekluth Allain make such a point of their telling the Espadryni Gun was a Finder?

  Unless all were against the Marked here, which the trader would have known very well. An icy ball formed in Mar’s stomach.

  “You are safe now, come away,” Josh said, beckoning her forward. “He cannot hurt you any more. Release her at once, Marked one, you cannot escape.”

  Go, Gun was signaling her, his fingers tapping rapidly on the back of the hand she had on his forearm. Go, he signaled again. “One of us must be free,” he muttered under his breath. Mar took a scant step away.

  “I don’t want to escape,” Gun said, louder, but in the gentle, reasonable tone he would use to the youngest apprentices in the Library, those who still thought of their homes with longing. “I’m ill, I’m no danger to anyone. As you can see, I can barely stand up.”

  For answer a rope came snaking out of nowhere, the loop falling over Gun’s head and immediately tightening around his upper arms. Another, from a different rider, flicked out and settled around his throat. The bowman, Mar now saw, had raised his weapon only to cover the movement of the men with ropes. Mar tried to lift the loop of braided leather free from Gun’s neck, but she was seized, firmly but gently, from behind and pulled away from Gun. He swayed only a little, the noose around his shoulders actually helping him to stay upright.

  “All is well now, my girl,” Josh said, his arm around her shoulders. “See, we have caught him, and you are safe.”

  She wrenched herself out of his grasp and ran to Gun. The noose around his throat had tightened, and his breathing was slow and painful.

  “What are you doing,” she said. She tried to get at the knot of the noose with fingers that wouldn’t stop trembling. Finally she pulled the knife from her belt, only to find her wrist caught in a grip of steel.

  “You do not wish to be free of him?” Josh’s voice was a
s hard as his grip.

  “Mar.” Gun’s voice was a rasp, but firm.

  “I . . .” Mar looked from Gun’s set face to the that of the Red Horseman. “Why are you doing this? Is it against the law to be Marked?”

  One of the other riders gave a harsh laugh, and Josh-Chevrie himself moved his lips in a way that held no humor. His knife was suddenly in his hand, and he took Mar by the hair, bent her head back and held it to her throat.

  “The Marked are broken, unsafe for all they come near, and are to be killed, as you must very well know,” he said. “And those who would help them are no better than they. Did you think that because you are so far from your streets and fields that we would not know this? Did you think us ignorant of the laws of the world?”

  “She’s not Marked, don’t hurt her.” Gun’s voice was tight. “Mar, tell them.”

  “But—” Mar coughed. It was almost impossible to get her throat to work when her head was being held at this angle. “We’re from the Path of the Sun,” she managed to croak. “The other side.”

  “Of course you would say so now,” Josh-Chevrie said, signaling to his comrades. “But the Marked lie as easily as the rain falls.” The hand holding her hair shook her and Mar winced at the sharp pain. “I ask you again, do you wish to be free of him.”

  “Yes, yes, she does.” A tug on the rope brought Gun to his knees.

  One of them had to stay free. One of them had to find the Wolfshead and the Lionsmane. But she knew full well that neither one of the Mercenaries would save themselves at the other’s expense. Never? A small voice inside her spoke up. Not even to save others, many others? Not even to fulfill their mission. If she gave Josh-Chevrie the answer that would keep her free, would it really be because Gun wanted her to?

  Mar tasted cowardice in the back of her throat. “Yes,” she said. “Free me.” She almost staggered as the hand in her hair loosened, but the young Horseman caught her, holding her up with an arm around her waist.