Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno

by Malan, Violette

  “Lady of Arderon,” he said, taking one of her hands in his own. His blue eyes were narrowed. “Thank the Caids you are safe.” He looked at the Healer. “She is well?”

  “Anxious, but otherwise bearing up soundly after her ordeal,” the Healer said, a touch dryly Alaria thought.

  “I’m so sorry,” Alaria interrupted. She was horrified to find she was shaking, but hoped it made her more believable. “I believed him, that’s what makes me so ashamed. He swore he was innocent, he . . .” Her voice drained away as her throat dried. What should she say Falcos had said or done? Why had they not planned this more carefully? She could not say that he’d admitted to the killing—Epion of all people knew that was not true and that Falcos would never say it was. Epion would suspect her immediately if she said such a thing.

  “I thought he was so brave,” she said finally. “To stand up for his rights, to fight. A hero out of the old tales.” She screwed up her face. “But when I was worried about the horses, he raised his voice to me, he told me not to be so silly. He’s nothing but a coward, a bully, and he . . . he was crying. Like a child. Crying.” She shook her head and wrinkled up her nose, hoping she had not overdone it.

  Epion patted the hand he still held. Apparently she’d given a convincing performance of a girl silly enough to endanger herself out of storybook illusions. “There, there, my dear.” Epion’s voice was smooth and warm, his eyes rounded now in concern. “We have all made mistakes with Falcos—all been tricked by him into seeing something that is not there. Are you feeling better now?”

  Alaria accepted a linen handkerchief from the Healer and used it to wipe her eyes and nose. “I just feel so foolish. My cousin would not be proud of my behavior. But I am better,” she said, smiling what she hoped was a brave smile.

  Epion made a gesture toward the door, and Berena Attin, the Steward of Keys, stepped into the room. The woman looked tired, Alaria thought, as if she had not been sleeping very well.

  “Have you a suite ready for the Lady of Arderon?” He turned back to Alaria. “You may imagine that the Tarkina’s rooms are not safe enough for you, my dear.”

  “The blue suite has been prepared, Lord Epion,” the Steward of Keys said. She held her hand out toward the door, indicating that Alaria should precede her.

  Alaria turned to Epion. “May I have a guard with me? Please?” she said, ignoring the guards who had already started to move to the door. “I know it is very foolish of me, but I fear to be left alone.” There, that should help him believe her sincere. Since she was going to have guards anyway, she might as well make some use of it.

  “You will not wish to go far? Not riding?”

  Alaria put her hands to her mouth. “Moon and Stars, no. At least not until . . . but I will wish to go to the stables. To see that the queens are well. And ready for the marriage.”

  Did she imagine it, or did Epion just relax?

  “Of course you may go to the stables, my dear. So long as you are safe.” He kissed her hand and led her to the door. At the last moment, as she turned away, he gave her a look she could only think was one of admiration.

  It was possible, Alaria thought as she allowed the Steward of Keys to lead her away, that she was not fooling Epion any more than he was fooling her. It was possible that Epion believed she merely wanted to be Tarkina and had calculated that Falcos was no longer her best chance.

  It was possible that last look meant he was applauding what he saw as a valuable performance, one that supported his own.

  Alaria shivered, remembering that Falcos had warned her not to be too confident. She would have to be even more careful than she’d thought.

  It was after midnight when Bekluth Allain reached his cache in the Caid ruins. He led the wheezing and stumbling horse as far from where he camped as it was possible to go and yet still be inside the perimeters of the forbidden area. He’d Healed it twice to enable it to reach his camp, but it was useless now, too far gone to recover by itself. It had got him here in record time, and that was the important thing. Unfortunately, he couldn’t just let the thing drop—at least not before getting the saddle and bridle off it and taking it far enough away from his campsite that its rotting corpse wouldn’t attract the wrong kind of attention. Fortunately there was an old cellar hole—so deep that its bottom was dark even when the sun was directly overhead—not more than a couple of spans away that he’d used for this purpose before. There was a spot near one edge where it was easy to push a horse over, a horse that was barely able to stand, that is. Whistling, he retraced his steps to his own campsite and proceeded to unburden and hobble the packhorses. They hadn’t been carrying as much weight as the horse he’d been riding himself. He’d give them until daylight to rest, judge then which of them had recovered enough to be useful. Still here, grazing on the plentiful grass, was the second horse he’d brought from the other side of the Door, but caution told Bekluth he should be saving that one . . .

  Bekluth set about making camp, taking his usual care that the fire wouldn’t be seen. The Mercenaries weren’t the only ones who knew how to be careful. Still, he might as well make himself comfortable. He wouldn’t be able to fetch out his cache of drugs until the sun came up.

  “Tracks here,” Parno said. “And Horsemen ahead.”

  “You astonish me.” Dhulyn ducked just in time to avoid the blow Parno half-heartedly aimed at her head.

  “You’re the one who’s always telling me not to argue ahead of my facts,” he pointed out. “That could be a copse of trees ahead, and not Horsemen at all.”

  “Then why are you riding faster?” Dhulyn angled Bloodbone over until she was riding knee to knee with her Partner.

  “I have a bad feeling,” he said, all traces of humor gone from his voice.

  As she rode, Dhulyn mentally reviewed what weapons she had to hand before pulling her short bow loose from the loops of hide that held it under her left knee and freeing the bowstring from the hidden pouch sewn into her quilted and beaded vest. She fitted the loop at the end of the bowstring onto one end of the bow and, bending the flexible yew around her shoulders, forced the other end of the bow into the corresponding loop. She immediately let go of the weapon and let it hang, perfectly positioned for quick use, across her back from shoulder to hip, leaving her right arm free for the sword if it was needed.

  From the number of mounts, there were five Horsemen in the group they were approaching, and it was clear at what moment the group became aware of them, as three of the Horsemen swung up into their saddles and began to ride toward them. Dhulyn could now see that there were two people on the ground, sitting or kneeling, along with the two remaining Espadryni. Though she could not make out whether their tunics were blue, Dhulyn did not doubt they were Mar and Gundaron.

  Parno drew off to the left, giving Dhulyn maneuvering room, without even troubling to signal to her. His simple action was enough to show her the plan as clearly as if they had discussed it for hours. He would take the three mounted men, she would go for the captives. The three advancing Horsemen spread out slightly, but they didn’t seem inclined to split up completely. Dhulyn took aim between the two to her own right and drove Bloodbone between them. When they saw what they thought was her trajectory, the two drew a little closer together, as if to concentrate on her and leave Parno for their fellow.

  Dhulyn looped her reins loosely around the pommel of her saddle and signaled Bloodbone with her knees. She drew her sword but didn’t raise it, leaning forward along Bloodbone’s neck. In the last possible moment, when the other two riders, their own short blades raised high overhead, were close enough that Dhulyn could see the ghost eyes on their foreheads, Bloodbone suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, hopped stiff-legged six paces to the right, and bolted. Dhulyn, laughing and crying out encouragement, sheathed her sword as she clung to the mare’s mane.

  She was close enough now to see that one of the two remaining Horsemen was holding the smaller, dark-haired Mar in his arms, while the other—a blade in
his hand—held the kneeling Gun by the hair. Dhulyn swung her bow off her back, pulled two arrows free from the quiver tied to her saddle. The man holding the blade reached down with it, bringing it closer to Gun’s throat. Mar struggled in the arms of her captor, almost succeeding in pulling herself free.

  Dhulyn raised herself slightly until she was standing in the stirrups, legs flexed to minimize the effect of Bloodbone’s gallop, and took aim. This shot was easier than clearing the rings on Dorian’s ship, she reminded herself. Here, she was the only thing moving. She let out her breath, held, and shot. And shot again.

  The first arrow passed through the forearm of the hand that held the knife, pinning it to the man’s upper thigh. The second went into the man’s left arm, just below the shoulder. He released Gun, and staggered back. By this time Dhulyn was in the camp, her sword pointed at the man who held a still struggling Mar in his arms.

  “I think you should let go of her, don’t you?”

  The man holding Mar kept his hands on her and his eyes on Dhulyn’s face long enough that Dhulyn thought he might hold to his pride and honor rather than admit defeat. She was just wondering if she could manage without actually killing him—or whether that in itself might be considered the greater insult—when he snatched his hands off Mar as though she were burning and stepped back two paces. As soon as the girl was free, she ran directly to Gun and began pulling off the nooses that encircled him.

  Seeing her friends were taking care of themselves, Dhulyn drew sword and dagger, threw her leg over Bloodbone’s shoulders and slipped to the ground. “Do I have your parole?” she said to the boy who had been holding Mar.

  “You have,” he said, backing away a further pace and looking around him. Both his horse and that of the other young man had stood their ground, well-trained beasts that they were, but he made no further move toward them, and Dhulyn turned her attention to the wounded man.

  He looked away as she squatted next to him.

  “What do you think now, Tel-Banion? Does she seem so whole and unbroken to you?”

  “Hold still, you young fool. No need to make simple flesh wounds worse by squirming.” Dhulyn looked at the other boy. “Tel-Banion, is it? Come here and help hold him.”

  “She’s going to kill me, don’t help her, Tel.”

  “If I were going to kill you, you’d be dead,” Dhulyn observed. The wounds seemed as straightforward as she’d intended. “Will you give me your parole as well, or should I leave you skewered?” By the normal rules of her world, Dhulyn wasn’t bound to help him unless he surrendered, and it seemed from the young man’s hesitation that those rules might be different here. “By my oaths as a Mercenary Brother, if you surrender to me, I cannot hold you as slave or hostage, nor can I sell you for ransom. On the other hand, if you don’t surrender, I am permitted to either kill you or leave you to die.”

  Still, it seemed that this young man also considered refusing her. “If you give me your parole now,” he said, clearly serious, “I will stop my Tribesmen from killing you when they have dealt with your friend.”

  “Three against one are considered easy odds for Mercenary Brothers. We don’t get worried until there’s at least, oh, seven or eight against one of us. But I don’t mind waiting.”

  “Josh!” Tel-Banion’s voice held a warning. Dhulyn looked from one to the other. Their expressions were very much alike.

  Finally Josh licked his lips. “You have my parole,” he said.

  “Here, brace his arm first,” Dhulyn instructed Tel-Banion. As soon as the boy had wrapped his hands around the wounded boy’s elbow, Dhulyn snapped off the fletching of the arrow and pulled the now clean shaft through the wound. This was the fleshy part of the upper arm, and there was very little bleeding. The wounded boy, she noted with approval, hadn’t even flinched, though it must have been quite painful.

  “Mar, the wound cloths are in my left saddle pack.”

  “I remember,” the girl said, and with a last touch on Gun’s hair went to Bloodbone. Both of her friends looked pale—understandable, Dhulyn thought—but there wasn’t time yet to find out why they were here.

  “This other arrow—hold still, I said—will be trickier,” she said to Tel-Banion. “Hold his arm tight to his thigh while I break off the fletching. Then you’ll hold his leg and the arrow shaft while I pull his forearm free. Mar, stand ready to wrap a cloth around his forearm should there be any spray of blood, though, to be honest, I don’t believe I hit an artery. Are we ready?” Both Mar and the boy nodded. “Now.”

  The fletching broken off, Dhulyn pulled Josh’s forearm free, and as she suspected, there was very little bleeding. She was examining the wound to the thigh when the sound of hoofbeats made the two Espadryni boys look away. The light that was dawning in their eyes soon faded, however, and Dhulyn was careful not to smile at their disappointment.

  “Took you long enough,” she said to Parno, without looking around at him. A good show of confidence right now would make the young Espadryni easier to handle.

  “If you were in a hurry, you should have let me kill them.”

  At that Dhulyn did look around. Parno was leading the three horses, saddles empty, while their riders walked behind.

  “Did you get their parole?” Dhulyn asked.

  Parno made an elaborate show of looking around him. “Is your grandmother here? Is she in need of lessons?”

  Dhulyn grinned. “Have a look at Gun while I finish here.” She estimated she had just time enough to finish removing the arrow from Josh’s thigh before his fellow Tribesmen arrived.

  “I will have to cut around the head of the arrow to free it,” she told the boy. “It will hurt, but it is most important that you don’t move. The artery is here,” she indicated a line along his inner thigh. “But it’s best to take no chances.”

  He swallowed, licked his lips, and nodded.

  “Do you want bite down on this?” She held up a clean piece of arrow shaft.

  “I won’t need it.”

  Dhulyn shrugged. “Fine, they’re your teeth. Brace his leg, Tel-Banion, and, Mar, make a pad of that wound cloth, and as soon as I have the arrow head out, press down on the wound as firmly as you can.”

  Luckily these were not war arrows, with their barbed heads, but razor-sharp hunting arrows. Dhulyn prodded delicately at the wound. The head had gone cleanly through Josh’s forearm and imbedded itself perhaps two fingerwidths into the meat of the young man’s thigh. Dhulyn found she had to enlarge the wound only very slightly to allow room enough to withdraw the arrow head. However, she had to be very careful that the head, as sharp as it was, would not slip deeper into the thigh, causing more bleeding and endangering the artery.

  She looked first at the young Espadryni, Tel-Banion, then at Mar. When she had their nods, she began to cut. Her dagger was as sharp as the arrow head itself and made the cut cleanly, though blood immediately welled up into the space she had created. The leg trembled under her hands. “Steady,” she said, and the trembling stopped. She spread the cut wide with the hard edges of her fingertips and, gripping the arrow shaft with her left hand, yanked it free. Mar was already there with the pad of wound cloth, handing Dhulyn another piece with her free hand as she applied pressure.

  “Lift the leg—keep the pressure on!” Dhulyn unrolled the wound cloth Mar had handed her and with a few deft turns had the wound wrapped and tied off.

  Dhulyn stepped back, straightened to her feet, and found her arms full of Mar. She kissed the little Dove on the top of her head and moved her gently away, indicating Gun with a flick of her eyes. Dhulyn then looked around her, taking in the group of young men. The wounded Josh and the one who had helped her, Tel-Banion, looked to be the oldest in the group. Dhulyn frowned. Whether a scouting or hunting party, it was unusual to have so many young men without a seasoned oldster with them.

  “Now, then, who is the leader of this band?” All eyes looked at the wounded boy. “And who wants to explain to us why you were trying to kill our friend
s?”

  Twenty-one

  “SO HERE ALL the Marked are—are murderers?” Gun still looked pale, Parno thought, but he seemed to have regained his appetite.

  “Keep in mind that we have only met the women of the Espadryni, but so, in a manner of speaking, we have been told.” Dhulyn spoke with the natural caution of the Brotherhood but in terms that the Scholar Gundaron would equally understand. In both their professions, facts weren’t facts until they’d been tested and proved. As the Common Rule said, “It’s neither sugar nor salt ’til it’s tasted.”

  “And in your place, on the other side of Mother Sun’s Door, the Marked are as normal people are?” This was the group’s second-in-command, the young man called Tel-Banion. One of the others had used a magic of healing on Josh-Chevrie, who now slept to one side, rolled and padded with several blankets and horse pads. A fire had been built, water warmed, and tea made. Dhulyn had demonstrated once more her skill at shooting from horseback, and two prairie squirrels and a rabbit were roasting on the coals, next to a handful of flat cakes Mar had made from the flour and salt in Parno’s pack.

  “Aside from the Mark itself, yes,” Dhulyn said. “They have the normal range of human emotions, love, hate, anger, pity, envy—”

  “Stubbornness, vanity, conceit,” Parno added with the most innocent look he could manage.

  “And let’s not forget patience, forbearance, tolerance, indulgence—” Dhulyn riposted sweetly.

  “All of which mean the same thing,” Parno pointed out, “which is why Dhulyn Wolfshead is called ‘the Scholar.’ ”

  “Rather because I need them in such a great supply.”

  The young Espadryni men looked sideways at each other until Parno and Mar started laughing, and even Dhulyn smiled. Then the Horsemen relaxed, several of them also smiling—which was the whole point of the banter, Parno thought, out of character as it was for Dhulyn to put on a show for people. Anything to underscore and remind these young men that both she and Gun were, by the definitions of the Espadryni, whole and sound. Dhulyn looked to be feeling pleased with herself in any case, her face and smile as relaxed as he’d ever seen them. But just as he had that thought, she caught his eye and, still smiling warmly, flicked her glance to where Gun lay with his head in Mar’s lap.