Alaria felt her knees give way and stiffened them. She would not faint. She would not fall. Now she knew why Epion had left the two guards out in the hall. Certainly Falcos had suspected his uncle, but to hear Epion, so freely and so blithely confess that he was in league with the monster who had killed Cleona, and before her so many others—even the old Tarkin, Epion’s own brother and Falcos’ father. Alaria straightened her spine and gritted her teeth. Epion was still speaking.
“I don’t know what else may be on the far side of the Path,” he was saying. “I don’t know if there are more . . . men like him.” For a moment Alaria saw the man Epion might have been if the gods had not made him heir to the throne of Menoin. A contemplative man, a Scholar perhaps. “Whatever is there, it seems to eat Mercenaries. Perhaps it would eat you as well.”
“Epion.” Alaria cleared her throat. She didn’t know exactly what she meant to say, but she felt she had to do something to distract him.
“Ah, thank you for reminding me, my dear Alaria.” Epion turned back to Falcos. “Here are your options then, Nephew. You will voluntarily leap from out that window onto the rocks below in guilt and horror at having killed your father.”
“I cannot say that I like that option much. What are the others?” Alaria could not believe how calm Falcos still seemed. He sat with his right ankle resting on his left knee, as if he was relaxing after some successfully concluded court business, and not discussing the details of his own murder. His wrinkled and dusty tunic and the tear in the knee of his trousers, along with his unshaven face and uncombed hair, illustrated how he had really spent the last two days. His glance shifted to her, and she could not help smiling. She only hoped that if Epion saw it, he would take it for a sneer.
Alaria gasped as Epion suddenly took her by the nape of the neck, his long fingers wrapped around until they almost met at her throat. She grabbed at his arm, twisting to kick out at him, but Epion shifted away, and squeezed until black spots appeared in front of her eyes. She released his wrist, and he loosened his grip. Falcos was on his feet, and Epion squeezed again. When Alaria held out her hand, Falcos froze, and Epion loosened his grip once again.
“You go willingly,” Epion repeated. “Or Alaria dies, and you will go in any case, unconscious, or awake and screaming if need be. Yet another murder, this time followed by suicide. Or, I will call my guards, having failed to stop you from choking the princess to death, and we will avenge her. You will die in any case; you have merely to choose who goes with you.”
“I don’t think you will do anything of the kind, my dear nephew.”
The whispery cool voice of House Listra made even Falcos jump, though he was facing the door which had swung silently open. Released, Alaria ran to Falcos, turning to look back toward the door. Behind the tiny body of Tahlia, House Listra, was the dark, bearded face of Dav-Ingahm, the Steward of Walls. He had not waited until the supper hour after all.
“If he’s as much as ten spans ahead of us, I would be very much surprised,” Josh-Chevrie said.
Dhulyn agreed, scanning the marks Tel-Banion had found. It seemed that tracking might be young Josh-Chevrie’s strength. “No more rests,” she said, and spurred Bloodbone forward.
They had gained perhaps a half span when the Espadryni all raised their heads. In a moment Dhulyn heard it too.
“Horsemen coming from the east,” one of the Cold Lake boys said.
“Ours,” Moon Watcher said. “Do not slacken, they will reach us.”
In a moment there were five more horses galloping with them. Dhulyn recognized Singer of the Wind, Sun Dog, and Gray Cloud, though the others of the Long Trees People were strangers to her.
“The trader is heading for the Sun’s Door,” Moon Watcher called out to his leader as soon as the other group came near enough. Dhulyn saw the old man’s lips press tightly together. His face seemed thinner, more aged. Ice Hawk’s death had taken its toll.
They crested a gentle roll in the landscape, and suddenly Bekluth Allain was before them. He must have heard them at the same time. He seemed to be standing still, examining the ground, and they saw him turn and look around at them. Dhulyn expected him to immediately bolt—either to the Path of the Sun, since he must know the secret of finding it from this side, or simply in an attempt to get away. About to call out instructions to the others, she was struck dumb when the trader, instead of riding away, got down off his mount and began to walk it forward, head once more lowered, as though he were following some trail or pattern on the ground that could not be seen from where she watched. The wind shifted, bringing to them the smell of old burning.
Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile, signaled to Parno and kneed Bloodbone into a gallop. The thunder of hooves told her she had not moved alone. But though Bekluth Allain must have heard them closing in, this time he did not even look up from his examination of the ground, did not remount his horse, but continued walking it, now in the direction in which he’d started, now to the right, then on a diagonal angle to the left, and even, for a few short paces, toward them.
Dhulyn leaned forward in the saddle and drew her sword.
“Stop!” It was Singer of the Wind. “Dhulyn Wolfshead, you must stop!”
Dhulyn drew back sharply on the reins, simultaneously signaling Bloodbone, and without actually losing momentum the mare hopped sideways, as if to avoid stepping on something unpleasant on the ground. In a very few more sideways paces they had stopped completely, and Dhulyn whirled around to confront the old Espadryni shaman.
“I could have had him by now.”
“No.” The old man was as out of breath as if he had himself been running. “Bekluth has triggered the opening of Mother Sun’s Door—I recognize the pattern he is making. It is the key to opening the Door. He is already walking a closed path, one you cannot see. You cannot enter the pattern from this angle, both you and your horse would be destroyed.”
Dhulyn sheathed her sword and pulled her bow free, feeling in her vest pocket for the bowstring.
“Make the attempt if you must, but I assure you that the arrow can no more penetrate the pattern in this way than you could yourselves. If you would follow the trader, you must follow his path exactly, and you are neither of you shaman.”
“Parno?” Dhulyn asked.
“Haven’t taken my eyes off him. Ready when you are.”
Dhulyn turned back to the Singer, smiling her wolf’s smile. “We’re better than shaman, Grandfather, we’re Mercenary Brothers.”
The old man peered at her, and suddenly Dhulyn
SEES THE LINES FANNING OUT FROM BESIDE HIS EYES AND THE WHITE IN HIS LASHES. HE RAISES A HAND WHOSE FINGERS ARE TWISTED, JOINTS SWOLLEN, AND TRACES A SYMBOL ON HER FOREHEAD.
“Wolfshead!” Mar slipped off Josh-Chevrie’s horse and came running up to them.
Still feeling Singer of the Wind’s cool touch on her forehead, Dhulyn called out, “Stay here, little Dove. Singer of the Wind, I leave my friends in your charge. If we do not return, do what you can to send them home.”
The old man nodded. “It shall be done.
Dhulyn was already turning to follow Parno as she raised her fingers to her forehead.
Mar ran to where Gun was rubbing his elbow. Moon Watcher had dumped him rather hurriedly to the ground. Mar took Gun’s arm and licked her lips, hoping to keep her fear and worry from her voice.
“Are you all right?”
“Sure. I’ve fallen off horses before.” They ran back to where Singer of the Wind sat on his horse. The old man was arguing with the Cold Lake Tribesmen.
“With respect, sir, you are not my Cloud Shaman, nor even a member of our Tribe,” Josh-Chevrie was saying. “If I choose to follow these Mercenaries you cannot stop me.”
“But by your own admission you have not passed through the Door, young man. I would have to answer to your elders if something happened to you.”
“If these Mercenaries can find the pathway, then so can I.” Without saying anything further, the young man
wheeled his horse around and took off after Dhulyn and Parno.
“Do not think to follow your friends,” the old man said, looking down at where Mar and Gun were standing.
“No fear,” Gun said. His hold on Mar’s hand tightened. By this time the Wolfshead and the Lionsmane had apparently reached the spot where Bekluth Allain had first dismounted.
“That is the very spot,” Singer of the Wind said. “How could they know it?”
“It’ll be some part of their Schooling,” Gun said. “Some Shora—like a meditation,” he added at the man’s enquiring glance. “It helps them concentrate.”
The old man was nodding, his eyes narrowed as he watched the Mercenary Brothers copy exactly the pattern of movements they had just seen the trader perform. “It is meditation and long concentration that enables one to see and follow the entry pattern. Some are never able. The old tales say that the true Tarkins of Menoin can be shown the pattern, but it has never happened in my lifetime.”
A sudden flash of light made Mar gasp and shield her eyes. For a moment afterward an image of a hedged maze superimposed over the plain before them, clear but translucent, like the curtains of light that were common in the night skies of the far south. Wolfshead and Lionsmane were clearly walking this maze and were about to reach a stone archway. The image did not fade so much as it winked out between one instant and the next.
One of the riders to their right cried out, pointing. The plain was empty except for the two Mercenaries. Josh-Chevrie was nowhere to be seen.
At that moment the flash of light occurred again, the maze with its stone archway reappeared, and Mar watched, holding her breath, as their friends passed through it and the image faded once more.
The old man, Singer of the Wind, turned to them. “Your friends have entered the Door of the Sun. May the Mother watch over them.”
“You young people are much mistaken.” House Listra had commandeered the largest chair in the suite and, with Alaria standing beside her, had both Falcos and Epion lined up on their feet before her like delinquent apprentices. Alaria felt calm for the first time in days until she realized it was merely because there was a woman in charge, something that felt normal to her.
“You, Epion, are particularly mistaken if you believe that the decisions you have made and the actions you have undertaken in the last few days have permanence without the agreement of the Council of Houses. The Tarkinate has been in the Akarion line for many years, but not without our support.”
“My dear aunt—” Epion began.
“I am not here as your aunt but as House Listra, chief among the Noble Houses, and let me remind you, Nephew, with almost as much Akarion blood in my veins as you have yourself, though mine is older.” She looked both men over, her thin and wrinkled lips twisted to one side. “Each of you has presented your tale of events, and neither of you has more than your own words to give as proof—if I do not take into account the word of paid employees or friends of the heart.” Here the old woman patted Alaria on the arm. “However, in the absence of true proof, which only the Mercenary Brothers can bring us, we must decide which of you is lying.”
Epion again opened his mouth but subsided when House Listra raised her hand. He’s not going to learn any time soon, Alaria thought. She could only hope Listra’s solution was a good one.
“Fortunately, neither I nor the council need to decide which one of you we believe. There is an infallible test for such things. The Path of the Sun.”
“But House Listra,” Falcos said. Trust him not to make the same mistake of undervaluing the old woman that his uncle had, Alaria thought. “We do not have the key for the Path.”
“That is what makes the test infallible.” Listra struck the floor with her cane. “I told your father, Falcos, that he should walk the Path, and he did not. At the time, the Council of Houses voted with him.” She pursed her lips. “We have seen what that decision has brought us. Well, the Council of Houses votes with me now.” There was clear satisfaction in the old woman’s voice.
“Will they both walk the Path?” Alaria asked.
“No, my dear. The Path tests only the Tarkin. And don’t you look so smug, Epion. If Falcos does not return and you wish to be Tarkin after him, it will then be your turn. No more half measures. We return to the old ways completely. So say all the Nobles Houses.” Listra turned and took Alaria’s wrist in her cold hand. “You, my dear, can wait for the outcome. If neither Falcos nor Epion is chosen by the gods, there are still others, not so close but still of the blood, who can be tested.”
Like me, Alaria thought. Not so close, but still of the blood. She had said she would not marry Epion. She had sworn it, if only to herself. Would she wait for the Path of the Sun to choose someone for her? She looked at Falcos. Perhaps someone else? She took a deep breath. No. She would make the choice herself.
“I will make my own choice,” she said. “And trust in the horse gods and the Path of the Sun to prove me right. I will go with Falcos. I will walk the Path of the Sun with him. And when we return, we will give Menoin a new beginning.”
Twenty-four
BEKLUTH ALLAIN YANKED on the reins, but that only made the stupid animal more stubborn, not less. For the hundredth time since he’d seen the riders silhouetted on the low ridge to the north of the Sun’s Door, he thought about simply abandoning the stubborn beast. But he’d need the thing later, no matter how foolish and ill-behaved it was. Too bad it didn’t have a broken leg—that he could have fixed; he could do nothing about a bad attitude. He finally climbed into the saddle despite the animal’s dancing around to unbalance him. Once he was in the saddle, at least, the beast settled down and seemed likely to obey instructions.
A shimmer in the air warned him that someone else had entered the Sun’s Door behind him. Bekluth almost turned around to look before better sense prevailed, and he touched his heels to the horse’s side.
It had to be the Mercenaries, more specifically Dhulyn Wolfshead.
“I knew it,” he said aloud. “I knew it.” He’d known there was something special about her; no one could be so clear and open and not have other talents as well. What a pair they would make if he could only free her from her companion. Perhaps it wasn’t too late.
He turned left, then right, into a section of the labyrinth where the footing was pressed earth and the walls solid rock, rugged yet smooth, like cliff faces after eons of being pounded by seawater. Here he should keep to the long path that stretched out in front of him, but they would see him as soon as they turned into the area themselves and catch up with him.
Instead Bekluth turned down the first archway on the left and dismounted. There was a crossbow hanging from his saddle. He cocked it, placed the bolt, and waited.
And waited.
Finally even he ran out of patience and, pressing himself flat against the stone, he peered around the edge.
The pathway beyond was empty. They had obviously turned down the wrong way. His luck was with him after all. Too bad, in a way. He was sorry to have missed his chance with the Mercenary woman. Such an opportunity.
Whistling, Bekluth put away the arrows, unstrung the bow, and got back on the horse.
“Don’t stop, his scent goes this way.” Dhulyn had first let Bloodbone fall into a trot and then a walk. Clearly, she did not want to lose the only trace they had of the trader, but she likewise did not want to fall into the type of obstacle they’d encountered on their way along the Path the first time.
“Did you see that?” Parno edged up beside her. “Through that last opening, between those cedar hedges?”
“What was it?”
“It looked like the hem and trailing sleeve of a court dress.”
“What color?”
Despite their predicament—were Gun and Mar safe with the Espadryni?—Parno grinned. Typical of Dhulyn that she believed him utterly, even when he said something that made no sense. “Pink,” he said.
“I didn’t see her,” Dhulyn said, “but I smelled
vanilla oil.” She shot him a glance, the whisper of a smile on her lips. “Not our trader’s choice of perfume, I thought.”
The path in front of them angled to the right, but as they turned the corner, they noted that tiny shift in their senses of direction that they had experienced before, this time without any of the disorientation.
“It appears that even here, practice makes perfect,” Parno said.
“Perhaps, but I don’t remember seeing this pathway before, do you?”
The ground stretching out in front of them resembled hard clay, like a road that had been pressed smooth and then baked in the sun. The walls to either side were solid rock, rugged yet smooth.
“Limestone?” Dhulyn suggested, and Parno thought she was right. Except that they were here, and not at the seaside, the rock surfaces resembled nothing more than cliff faces after untold years of being pounded by water.
#Joy# #Welcome# #Greeting# #Joy#
“Dhulyn!” Parno reined in, making Warhammer spin on his hind legs. The horse snorted his poor opinion of this kind of nonsense.
Now a pace or two ahead of him, Dhulyn stopped and looked over her shoulder, her pale face a mixture of concern and irritation. “I tell you we will lose the scent,” she said.
“The Crayx, I heard them.” Parno closed his eyes and concentrated, letting his Pod sense rise to the surface of his mind in the way he’d been taught. He shook his head. “They’re gone.”
Dhulyn licked her lips, uncertainty in her eyes, but once again she did not ask him if he was sure, once again she took him at his word. “Do you want to continuing trying?” she asked. “Or should we carry on?”
Parno hesitated for only a moment. “Carry on,” he said. “It was only a touch; there’s nothing there now.”
Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno Page 43
