The Sleeping God

by Violette Malan

  Voices. Gundaron straightened his tunic with a tug, tucked the scroll under his left arm, and walked casually toward the main passage. Caids, he cursed under his breath. There were three women coming toward him, not one. The two in front, bodices laced fashionably tight, sleeves uselessly long, were the Tenebroso’s youngest great-nieces, Nor-eNor and her sister Kyn-oKyn. Even here in the House they followed the latest fashion of carrying dainty handkerchiefs in the Tenebro colors, rather than showing those colors in their clothing. He’d known someone would be coming with Lady Mar, but he’d assumed it would be one of the lady pages, not these two giggling fools.

  He inclined his head, as courtesy required, his lips parted, ready to return their greeting-then felt his ears blaze hot as they passed him with identical curled lips and heads turned away. Until yesterday they had at least acknowledged him, so that snub was not so much for his benefit as it was for the newest member of the House walking slowly behind her distant cousins-but not so far behind that she’d missed the little scene, worst luck. Mar-eMar wore a good gown made of fine wool, but even Gundaron could see that the sleeves were last year’s length. Instead of a laced bodice, Mar-eMar wore a tunic like an elderly woman would. A teal-and-black tunic with a thin red stripe on its half-sleeves, no dainty handkerchief for her. He wondered if she realized the clothing the gigglers had picked out for her was hopelessly out of date.

  From the whiteness of her face, and the sharpness of the two dots of color on her cheeks, Gundaron suspected that she knew. He swallowed, all doubts suddenly gone.

  “Uh, hello, Lady Mar,” he said, stepping forward. As he’d hoped, she stopped, hesitant, her eyes flicking forward to the backs of the two sisters who were leaving her behind. When she turned to look at him, however, Mar-eMar’s gaze was steady. Her hair was the exact shade of the rich brown velvety moss that grew in the Tenebroso’s rock garden, and her eyes were so deep a blue as to be almost black.

  “Yes?”

  Gundaron blinked. He cleared his throat again. “I am, ah, I’m Gundaron the Scholar. Gundaron of Valdomar.”

  “Mar-eMar Tenebro,” she said inclining her head in a short nod. Gundaron thought she might have relaxed just a little.

  “I was wondering-I thought-that is, can you read?”

  Instantly, the red spots on her cheeks stood out like paint, and a muscle jerked in the side of her jaw as she clenched her teeth.

  “Yes,” she hissed, barely moving her lips.

  “Oh,” he said, in sudden understanding. “No. That’s not what I meant at all. I only meant to ask if you’d like something to read.” He held out the scroll he’d had under his left arm. “It’s a play, Bartyn’s Maid of the Forest.” When she didn’t move he said. “I have others, if you don’t like Bartyn.”

  “A play? To read?” Suddenly her eyes seemed even darker, and she lowered them, looking away from him.

  Gundaron swallowed, his throat suddenly thick, and held out the scroll. She took it without looking up again. “Thank you.” If he hadn’t been watching her lips so closely, he would never have known she’d spoken.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. He held out his hand, indicating the direction of the great hall. “Shall we…?”

  He’d get up early tomorrow and clean up his room, he thought, as she fell into step next to him. He would. Or if not tomorrow, the next day, for certain.

  Mar began to think that the meal was never going to end. She’d been seated between her two girl cousins, undoubtedly by someone who thought she’d welcome companions of her own age-and who didn’t know Nor and Kyn very well. They’d come to her room, speaking to her with every evidence of courtesy which, thanks to Parno Lionsmane’s tutoring, she was able to return in kind. As soon as they’d dismissed the lady page who’d been waiting when Mar arrived in her room, however, and seen how few and how poor Mar’s possessions were, their remarks had taken on a different, sharper tone, and Mar began to realize that they were laughing at her. Mar wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of either crying or losing her temper, however. She thought about how little Jarla, the youngest of the Weavers’ daughters in Navra, would have acted if she were in this room, and pasted a smile on her face, made her eyes as wide as possible and cooed over everything the sisters said.

  Strangely, watching them snub the Scholar Gundaron had made them less intimidating, not more. There was obviously nothing personal in their attitude toward her; they were snobs pure and simple, and working in the household of the best Weaver in Navra had taught Mar how to deal with those.

  Under the guise of moving her goblet of watered wine, Mar managed to look down the table to where the Scholar sat, holding his fork very gracefully in his strong fingers. He was very fair, even his eyebrows showing almost white on his square face, and his eyes were a warm light brown. And obviously he hadn’t let the sisters’ treatment turn him into a snob and bully in his turn. Mar touched the scroll in the wide pocket of her gown. Perhaps, once she had read it, the Scholar would like to hear about her experiences with Dhulyn Wolfshead, who was also a Scholar, in her way.

  There were others in the House besides Gundaron of Valdomar who were not of the same mind as Nor and Kyn. When she’d first come into the hall, Mar had looked around the table and found other intelligent and friendly faces. A young man whose golden hair reminded her of Parno Lionsmane had come to her before he sat down and introduced himself as Dal-eDal. But both he and the lady seated next to him, an older woman named Lan-eLan, were too far away for conversation. Gundaron was seated closer, and seemed to be looking at her every time she glanced his way, but he only smiled, blushed, and lowered his eyes. Eventually, he was taken up with the Kir, Lok-iKol, and didn’t glance her way anymore.

  Mar forced herself to eat, taking small bites as the Lionsmane had instructed her, not that she could actually taste anything. The last time she’d felt this out of place she’d been six years old, her first meal at the Weavers after her Holding had disintegrated following the fire and the sickness, after the three months she’d spent at the Jaldean Shrine while they found her a foster family.

  Where were you people then? Mar thought with a shock that made her put down her fork. Surely the Jaldean priests would have sent word to her House? They’d known who she was; it was one of the reasons it had been easy to foster her. But why hadn’t her House sent for her then?

  “Sweetest, you don’t use a fork for this dessert.” Kyn-oKyn’s tinkly voice broke into Mar’s thoughts. “You use this special spoon.”

  “Pardon me?” Mar turned to her left, making sure the edge of her napkin caught the plate of custard and cream that had just been put down in front of her, and tipped it neatly into Kyn’s lap.

  “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry,” Mar said, as Kyn squealed and pages ran up with cloths. “How clumsy of me.”

  Gundaron looked up with dismay when the commotion at Mar-eMar’s end of the table drew the attention of everyone seated, even the Tenebroso herself. Worse, from Gun’s point of view, Lok-iKol was now looking at the Lady Mar as well. Gun had been hoping that the Kir had forgotten all about this little cousin, now that they had the far more important Mercenary woman in their hands.

  “She has the bowl,” Lok-iKol said, when the servants had finished serving the dessert, his eye still fixed on Mar-eMar. “So the pages tell me.”

  “Oh, the bowl in itself proves nothing,” Gun said as casually as he could. He and the Kir had had many conversations like this one-Caids, how many? he thought with a sudden and unexpected twist of nausea in his guts as he pushed the thought away-and he hoped he sounded just as objective and disinterested this time. Most of the Marked that he’d located for Lok-iKol over the past eighteen moons or so had been older, some much older than the Lady Mar. But they probably had families, too. Gundaron let his eyes fall again to his plate, pretending interest in the dessert as his stomach churned. That thought felt familiar, as if he’d had it often, but… he couldn’t remember thinking it before.

  “There’s no
doubt she’s the right girl,” Lok-iKol was saying, stroking his eye patch with his fingertips. Gundaron came to with a start, realizing with some shock that Lok-iKol was standing. He rose with as little fuss as he could manage. Fortunately, he was on the man’s blind side, and with any luck his lapse of attention would go unnoticed.

  “She’s the very image of her grandmother,” Lok-iKol continued. “I remember the wedding very well. The Tenebroso had us all attend, even though she was only marrying…”

  Gundaron waited a moment for the man to finish before he finally gathered his nerve and looked Lok-iKol in the face. What he saw almost made him look away again, but his scholarly habit of investigation was stronger than his fear. The Kir’s lower lip had fallen slack, and all the muscles of his face drooped. Only the scarred skin around his left eye was still stiff.

  “Lord Kir?” Gundaron put up a hesitant hand; Lok-iKol much preferred not to be touched uninvited. Gun let his hand fall back to his side; he could see that, for all the slackness of the face and mouth, the Kir’s eye was sharp and clear.

  And focused on Mar.

  What does he see? Gundaron thought, that makes him look like this?

  As if Lok-iKol could hear his thoughts, the man turned, oh so slowly, to focus his attention on Gundaron himself. In the slackness of his face Lok-iKol’s right eye was unnaturally bright, almost as though the man had a fever, and Gundaron could swear that instead of a clear blue, the eye glowed a brilliant jade green. Gundaron parted dry lips, about to call for a page, certain the Kir was having a brain storm. Then the green tint passed, the muscles in Lok-iKol’s face returned to normal, and his eye restored to its natural icy blue.

  “You were saying?”

  Gundaron cleared his throat, throwing a glance around the room. No one else seemed to have noticed anything; everyone’s attention was still at the other end of the table, where Nor-eNor had suddenly burst into tears. “I think it unlikely the Lady Mar will give us any interesting information,” he said, using the euphemism that allowed them to discuss their work in public. “Situated as she was, she would have had great difficulties in hiding it.”

  “Nor, in Navra, would she have had reason to, I agree,” Lok-iKol said. “In any case, we need be in no hurry where Mar-eMar is concerned. We can examine her at our leisure.”

  Gundaron nodded slowly, unable to explain, even to himself, his reluctance to let Mar-eMar be questioned by Lok-iKol and the Jaldean Beslyn-Tor the way other suspected Marked had been questioned. He looked down the table again and saw her bow to her cousins and walk up the other side of the long table to pay her respects to the Tenebroso before leaving the room. He’d have to think of something. Gun stepped back to allow the Lord Dal-eDal to pass between him and the table.

  Of course the interrogation of the Mercenary woman would take some time, Gun considered, as he and Lok-iKol followed Lord Dal from the room. And the longer it took, the more time Gun would have to come up with a plan to help Mar-eMar.

  When she awoke, Dhulyn Wolfshead found herself sitting in a heavy carved chair, its knobby, uneven surface tight against her spine. There was a strap around her forehead-though it didn’t seem attached to anything-and someone had tied her arms down at elbows and wrists, her legs at knees and ankles. Not entirely amateurs, then.

  Ignoring the throbbing in the back of her head, she tensed first the muscles of her forearms and wrists, then her calves and ankles, without receiving any encouragement. Her bonds were loose enough to let her blood flow, but tight enough to restrict her movements. For certain, not amateurs.

  She could tell from the sounds of breathing that there was only one person in the room with her, and that it was not Parno Lionsmane. She let her eyes open the merest fraction.

  Standing with his hand on a table a span in front of her was a fair-haired young man in a mixture of Scholar’s and nobleman’s dress, a short dark blue tunic over black hose instead of brown leggings, heeled shoes instead of leather half boots, and a bright enameled brooch where his Library crest should be. Dhulyn let her eyes open another fraction. The hand she could see looked soft and dirty, his tunic was too tight over his middle, and there was an incipient puffiness to his face. There were Shora for Scholars, too, Dhulyn knew, slow motion versions of the Mercenary Shora, designed for use by Scholars as exercise. From the look of him, the young man in front of her hadn’t practiced any for some time.

  The sound of the door latch was followed by booted footsteps moving from wood to carpet, but Dhulyn couldn’t see who had entered the room without turning her head.

  “My lord Kir, I found her like this.”

  “As well you did not release her, the order was mine.” It was indeed the silky voice she remembered from the Tenebroso’s room. She should have known; only the Kir of the House could order two Mercenaries detained.

  “I don’t understand…”

  “Did you think that a Mercenary Brother would simply answer our questions because we asked them? Ah, your face tells me that you did. Very well. If you find that, after all, this worries you too greatly, you may leave.” Even her limited view showed Dhulyn the boy’s negative response. “I thought not. Shall we begin?”

  The Scholar moved directly in front of her, leaning forward and peering into her face. Dhulyn opened her eyes. Behind him, the Kir Lok-iKol was sitting with one hip braced on the wooden table; from the look of its heavily carved legs it must be the match of her own chair. She smiled her wolf’s smile and the boy edged away from her. He licked his lips and lowered his eyelids.

  “The One-eye’s name I know,” she said to him, “but not yours.”

  The young man’s mouth twisted. He shot a glance at the Kir, but the older man had picked up a goblet from the dark wooden table and was drinking from it. His single eye regarded them over the silver rim of the cup. The Scholar looked back at Dhulyn. His mouth opened and the tip of his tongue sneaked out to poke at his upper lip.

  “I am Gundaron,” he almost whispered. “From the Scholars’ Library of Valdomar.”

  “I greet you, Scholar Gundaron,” she whispered back. “You are very soft and very puffy and the whites of your eyes are dull,” Dhulyn said with the greatest innocence and truth. “Are you sure you are of the House of Scholars?”

  She grinned when the boy straightened quickly to attention and tightened his lips. He opened his mouth and shut it again. His tongue licked again at his parted lips.

  “Best you let me go,” she said in her steadiest voice. “Are you certain what you want from me is worth the risk you take?”

  The young Scholar shot a quick glance at the Kir. “Are you one of the Espadryn?” he asked her. “Can you see the future?”

  Dhulyn drew back her head and knitted her brows, giving him her best confused look to cover the cold sinking of her stomach. It wasn’t all that difficult.

  “My name is Dhulyn Wolfshead,” she said. “I’m called the Scholar.

  I was schooled by Dorian of the River, the Black Traveler. I have fought with my Brothers at the battles of Sadron, of Arcosa, and Bhexyllia. Parno Lionsmane is my Partner-and where is he by the way?”

  Again, the boy glanced over his shoulder at the Kir.

  “For the moment safe,” the One-eye said, “though if you do not answer our questions, I may be forced to injure him. Or worse.”

  Dhulyn didn’t bother to stifle her snort of laughter.

  “We’re Mercenaries, you blooded fool. We already know we’re going to die. Kill us, don’t kill us.” She shrugged as well as she could with her arms bound to the chair. “Save your threats for someone you can frighten. Here’s a threat for you.” She paused to give the word weight. “Pasillon.”

  One-eye didn’t react, but the young Scholar paled even more, and his lips trembled. “Get book boy here to explain it to you.”

  The Scholar turned to face the one-eyed man.

  “My lord Kir,” he said. But One-eye didn’t even blink. In fact, Dhulyn thought he might have smiled, just for an instant.r />
  “Pasillon is an empty threat, Scholar. The world has changed and no one will come for her, any more than they came for the others.”

  Others? Dhulyn pressed her lips tight. He had done this to other Brothers? Or just other captives? One-eye directed his words to the young Scholar, but his gaze never left Dhulyn’s face. “This one and her companion were seen leaving Gotterang by the north gate. Their Brothers will think that, having been paid for the delivery of the Lady Mar-eMar, they have gone vagabonding.”

  Dhulyn kept her face impassive. One man, at least, would know exactly where they were, would not be fooled by any stories of the North gate, no matter how well witnessed. But was Alkoryn Pantherclaw likely to knock at the House Door and ask the Steward of Walls for his missing Brothers in time to do them any good? And if they were asking about her Mark, it wasn’t just their lives at stake here, and these people might, in fact, be able to do much worse than merely kill her.

  “If she will not answer the easy way, then we must try the hard.” Lok-iKol stood and revealed a tray of small bottles with waxed stoppers and an apparatus in the shape of a glass funnel with a long, curving spout.

  The Scholar’s eyes widened. “My lord, you can’t-”

  “I have said you may leave, Scholar. Though I understood that this time, at least, you had questions of your own.”