The Sleeping God

by Violette Malan

  “Is he here now? The Sleeping God?”

  “No, no, why don’t you listen? I tried to tell everyone, but no one listened. I thought he was the God. I thought he was. I’d been collecting relics, you see. I found five, do you see, that’s one more than Arcosa Shrine and the people will come to us, to our shrine, to Monachil. He spoke, and I thought it was the God.” The old man repeated the phrase several times before putting his dirty index finger, with its cracked nail, to his lips, tapping them in the “shhh” sign, all the while his head trembling as if he had the palsy. “But no,” he said finally, the words a mere whisper. “But no.” He caught at Dhulyn again. “I welcomed him. I rejoiced!” He shook his head again, but this time like a man who just can’t believe he could have been that stupid. “But he isn’t the God. He fears the God. He fears the God, do you see?” He collapsed backward. “And then he left me.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “To Lok-iKol. To Lok-iKol. Like this.” And here the old man took Dhulyn’s face tenderly in his hands, and focused his eyes on hers. “Like this. That’s how it’s done.”

  It took all of Dhulyn’s force of will to take the old man’s hands off her face gently, without breaking his wrists.

  “That’s how he does it, is it?” she asked.

  The old man nodded again. “That’s how. But he always came back. Before. He always came back. It’s hard to be alone. Hard now.” His eyes came abruptly into focus. “You be careful, young woman. He looks for a Mercenary. You be very careful.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t let him touch you, my daughter. He looks for a Mercenary. Be careful.”

  The focus faded once again from his eyes and the hand that clutched at Dhulyn’s vest relaxed. She felt for and found a pulse under his jaw, but it was fitful. She glanced up at Parno, found him grim-faced.

  “Can you carry him?” she said. “I don’t think he’ll last long anyway, but we can’t leave him here.”

  “Take my pipes,” Parno said. “Dhulyn,” he added as she straightened to her feet and held out her hands for the instrument. “Do we understand him to mean…?”

  “I think we must,” Dhulyn said, tucking the pipes under her left arm and picking up the lantern. “From what he’s said, I think it means the Tarkin.”

  “Who should we tell?”

  “That’s a good question.” Alkoryn was dead, she thought. And as little as she liked it, that might very well make her Senior Brother in Gotterang.

  They left Beslyn-Tor to be made as comfortable as possible in the guards’ infirmary room before looking for the Tarkina. They were just entering the corridor that led to Zelianora’s room when they heard three people behind them.

  “Dhulyn Wolfshead? Lionsmane?” came a tentative but familiar voice. As she turned, Dhulyn did not trouble to suppress a sigh that was so short as to be almost a snort of annoyance. Mar was part of the Tarkina’s household now; what could she possibly want from Dhulyn?

  She raised her eyebrows as she turned and recognized the youngsters with Mar. One she knew as Rab-iRab, senior lady page to Zelianora Tarkina. Younger than Mar, but tall for her age, and with an air of having very recently learned how serious the world can be. The other was a page of the Tarkin’s whom Dhulyn had now seen several times without learning his name. Dhulyn felt a heavy weight settle into her stomach. What would bring pages from the Tarkin’s household looking for Mercenaries? She was very afraid that she knew.

  “Wolfshead and Lionsmane,” Mar said. Dhulyn knew that look-half fear, half resolution-she’d seen it in Mar’s face in the mountains. “May we speak with you in private?”

  “We’ve business of our own to attend to, Lady Mar,” Parno said. “Can this wait?”

  Mar exchanged looks with the two pages. The young boy spoke up. “It’s about the Tarkin,” he said, eyes glittering.

  “You’re his page, aren’t you?” Dhulyn asked him. “You know our names, what is yours?”

  “I am Telian-Han, son of Debrion-Han of Culebro Holding.” The boy had to clear his throat halfway through, as his voice threatened to crack.

  “You knew the usurper, Lok-iKol Tenebro? You were here?”

  The boy nodded. “We both were.”

  “And you have something to tell us?”

  Again the nod.

  Parno raised his hand to his face, placing the tips of his index and middle fingers on his lips. Dhulyn saw and silently agreed. She wasn’t the only one with a sense of disaster.

  “Come with us,” she said to the youngsters.

  Twenty-two

  PARNO LEANED FORWARD in his chair, elbows on his knees, hands lightly clasped. Demons and perverts. He looked from one white-faced page to the other, and fixed a look of confident encouragement on his face. Behind him, Dhulyn leaned against the window frame, arms folded across her chest, ankles crossed, eyes almost closed. They’d taken the youngsters straight to their own quarters where the first thing he’d done was shut the windows-though it was very unlikely that anyone could overhear them, here on the fifth floor. Their three rooms here in Zelianora Tarkina’s tower made up a small suite, with this outer, double-windowed room furnished as a sitting room with a long upholstered settee, a round table covered with a weighted cloth, thick patterned carpets on the dark oak floor, and heavy armchairs made soft with bright cushions.

  Rab-iRab and Telian-Han, though they would ordinarily bear no resemblance to each other, now wore identical pale, wide-eyed looks. Parno and Dhulyn had listened to Telian’s story without commenting, yet somehow, in the repetition of it, both young pages had become aware of the gravity of their suspicions.

  “Lady Mar,” Dhulyn said, her eyes still resting on the face of the young Telian-Han. “Would you be so kind as to find Zelianora Tarkina and bring her here?”

  “Dhulyn,” Parno began.

  “We are still, technically, in her employ.” Dhulyn turned to Mar. “Come straight back to us here, Lady, if you would be so good. I need hardly tell you, speak to no one of this, not even the Tarkina herself, until you are both safely in this room. Until we are sure, any and all of us may be in danger.”

  Or may be the danger, Parno thought.

  “The children?” Rab-iRab said. Parno’s jaw tightened as he exchanged a look with Dhulyn. Just when they were thinking things could not be any worse.

  “They should both be asleep,” Mar said, getting to her feet. She spoke more than half to herself. “Denobea will be with them.” She looked up at Parno, glanced at Dhulyn. “They’ve seen very little of their father these last few days.”

  “Perhaps you could make sure of their whereabouts somehow, my Dove, without alarming the Tarkina.”

  It was a shock to see what a change two small words could bring to a young woman’s face. Suddenly there was a brightness in Mar’s eyes, and she left the room with a light step and more heart for her errand than she had when she’d entered it. Parno shook his head, smiling. Leave it to Dhulyn to know the right thing to say, and the right moment to say it. What a Schooler she would make, if they lived so long.

  As the door closed behind Mar, Parno turned to the two pages, sitting close together on the settee, holding hands.

  “Would you youngsters be so kind as to wait in the inner room while my Partner and I consult?” The two pages exchanged identical worried glances. “You’ll be safest there,” Parno continued, “and no one will be able to ask you any questions you’d rather not answer.”

  This reassured them, and they both stood. “Come, Tel,” Rab-iRab said as they walked toward the door Dhulyn held open for them. “You look as though you could lie down.” Dhulyn gently closed the door behind them.

  “What are we going to tell the Tarkina?” Parno said.

  “I think we’ll rather ask her if she’s seen anything unusual, anything that has given her pause.” Dhulyn rubbed her eyes. “Are we crack-brained? Do we make too much from the maunderings of a half-crazed old man and the nerves of a young page who has seen perhaps too much in the last half mo
on?”

  “A half-crazed old man who knew the Shadow well, and a young page who knew his Tarkin. Add to that the fact that we’ve not spent time in the Tarkin’s presence since the restoration, when he would hardly be parted from us before.” Parno shrugged. “Evidence enough at the least for us to investigate further.”

  Dhulyn tapped the table lightly with the side of her right fist. “Think what we risk if we don’t learn the truth. I’d rather beg pardon if I’m wrong, and take what punishment might be awarded me, than be sorry I never tried to be sure.” Her eyebrows drew down in a frown. “Where’s Gundaron, where’s the Scholar? It’s not like Mar not to go to him first.”

  “Set your mind at ease,” Parno said. “He went off this morning to the Library and hasn’t returned; likely intends to spend the night there. He’s been poring over all the old books he can find, looking for any mention of the Green-eyed Shadow.”

  “Send Corin Wintermoon to fetch him,” Dhulyn said. “All things considered, whatever he’s found so far, I’d like to have him here while we discuss this.”

  “And sending Corin has the added advantage that it will stop her flirting with the guards before she hurts one of them.”

  Zella turned over on her couch and blinked herself awake. What was that sound? Sitting up at night with Tek had left her exhausted, and she must have dozed off without realizing it.

  There it was again, a low thumping, as if-Zella shot to her feet, almost falling as she tripped on the shawl Denobea must have tucked around her legs. The sound was coming from her own bedroom, where Tek was yet again lying down. Pushing open the door, she ran into the room and found her husband by the side of the bed on his hands and knees, crawling toward the door. He shrank back as she entered, blinking at her in the dim light that followed her through the doorway.

  “Zella?”

  “Tek, what’s happened?” She ran forward to help him to his feet. He hunched his shoulders, cowering from her and narrowing his eyes to a squint.

  “Zella?” His voice stronger now, but there was a note of query in it that made her pause, her hands still outstretched, ready to raise him to his feet. Before she could help him, he clutched at her forearm with such force that her sleeve tore.

  “Tek-” she gasped. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Zella,” he shook her. “Where’s Dhulyn Wolfshead? Bring her, get her now.” The fierce focus died out of his face, the painful grip on her arm relaxed as he collapsed onto the floor.

  Gundaron pushed his chair back from the table and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Here since daybreak, he thought, and all I have to show for it is headache and eyestrain. He’d found the first scroll he was looking for-an early history of the Marked in the last days of the Caids-but not the equally important commentary written by the Scholar Holderon. Without it, all he could do was try his best to duplicate the other man’s work. And somehow he felt he didn’t have that much time.

  The Index of Materials told him this Library did indeed have a copy of Holderon’s Commentaries, but no one could find it on the shelves. Yet Gun was certain he’d seen the scroll himself.

  The history covered a period about which there were more legends known than facts, the early rise of the Marked, before they had formed into Guilds, and, interesting but not so significant for his present purpose, it had a section on the Sleeping God as well. But it was Holderon’s interpretation of this piece of ancient learning-if Gun remembered what he’d read correctly-that the Mercenary Brotherhood, the Jaldean Priesthood, the Marked, and even the Scholars themselves all appeared at the same time-just after the fall of the civilization that was now called the Caids. If Holderon was right, Gun thought, if there was a connection of some kind between the disparate groups, surely that could be a starting point, a guide for them to-

  The sound of footsteps made him look up, and the sight of Karlyn-Tan heading toward him brought him to his feet. He found his mouth dry and tried to swallow, brushing down his tunic with trembling hands, conscious of being once more in Scholar’s dress. Logic told him he had no reason to fear the former Steward of Walls, but he found he still wasn’t really comfortable with anyone but Mar.

  “Karlyn-Tan,” he said. “I didn’t think to see you still outside Tenebro House.”

  The older man smiled and shrugged one shoulder into the air as he propped his hip on the edge of the next carrel. “Nothing’s made permanent, Gundaron. The Lord Dal-eDal is giving me time to think. I’m not altogether sure that I want my old post back. I was Walls for fifteen years, never thinking to come out.”

  “But now that you are out…”

  Karlyn nodded. “Exactly. Now that I am out-I may be more useful outside the Walls, and, well, it’s rare a Steward has a chance to rethink such a choice, and I’m using the opportunity.”

  His own heart being well awake now, the significance of certain looks and gestures suddenly dawned on Gun. “It wouldn’t be Dhulyn Wolfshead who’s making you rethink your choices?” Gun asked, made bold by Karlyn-Tan’s friendly tone.

  Karlyn-Tan laughed. “It might, though perhaps not in the way you’re thinking.”

  Gun sat down again. “What brings you here?”

  “Dal needed a message sent, and I felt like a walk. When they told me you were in here, it seemed like a gift from the Caids. There’s a deal of scrolls and books left in your room at Tenebro House, Gundaron of Valdomar, and-what have I said?”

  Gun stopped striking his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I was looking for a scroll and wondering why I couldn’t find it and all the time it’s probably sitting in my study at Tenebro.”

  Karlyn-Tan looked at Gun with such sympathy that Gun lowered his eyes. “You’d rather not think about Tenebro House, wouldn’t you?” the man said. “Put it all behind you, as it were?”

  It was Gun’s turn to shrug.

  “Your pardon, Scholar Gundaron.” It was one of the youngster Scholars that Gun didn’t know. “There’s a Mercenary Brother at the gate. You’re to come to the Dome.”

  Gun glanced at Karlyn-Tan.

  The older man nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

  Running footsteps in the outer room warned them as the door was flung open, and Zelianora Tarkina, a white-faced Mar behind her, swept into the room. The sleeve of the Tarkina’s dress was pulled loose from the shoulder seam, and her dark hair was escaping from her court veil.

  “The Tarkina was on her way here,” Mar said.

  “Mar has told you, then?” Parno said, rising to his feet as Mar entered behind the older woman and shut the door. The young woman was shaking her head even as Zelianora spoke.

  “Told me? Told me what? No.” She looked wildly around the room before focusing her eyes on Dhulyn. “Dhulyn Wolfshead,” Zelianora said, reaching out her hands, “Please come, Tek asks for you.”

  Dhulyn stood slowly. “What are you not saying?” Four days ago this request would not have brought the Tarkina herself. Four days ago Zelianora would have sent a servant.

  The Tarkina hesitated, lips parted, before turning to glance at Mar. As she turned back, she faltered, as if her knees were failing her. Parno stepped forward and took the Tarkina’s arm to steady her and led her to a chair, but let it go immediately as Zella gasped in pain. Dhulyn sprang up with a snort of disgust and pulled back the woman’s sleeve, to reveal bruises darkening on her forearm.

  “Zelianora,” Dhulyn said, her voice sharp enough to shock the Tarkina to attention. “The Tarkin did this.”

  “No! Yes, but hear me out.” The Tarkina waved Dhulyn away with impatient hands. “This is not important.”

  “We are listening, Zelianora Tarkina,” Parno said.

  “I don’t know that I can make you understand.” She raised her hands to her head as if she would cover her ears. “He is terrified. I have never seen anyone so afraid.” She looked directly at Dhulyn. “And yet…”

  Dhulyn took Zelianora’s hands and led her to a seat. “And yet?”

  “He is h
imself in a way he has not been these past few days. Since the blow to his head, he’s been like a man suffering from an illness. Now it is as though a fever has broken and-he is himself again. He is Tek. Do you understand?”

  “Before this,” Dhulyn said, indicating the bruised arm. “Did he stare into your eyes? Touch you in any way that made you feel dizzy? Ill? Are there gaps in your memories?”

  “No, indeed,” Zelianora said. “Nothing like that. Since his illness Tek… he has not touched me,” she said, as if realizing it for the first time. “But he’s been ill, I thought nothing of it.”

  “If I might interrupt,” Parno’s voice was vibrant with urgency. “I rejoice that Zelianora Tarkina is well, but she tells us that the Tarkin is more like himself than he’s seemed in days. In the light of what we were discussing, perhaps we should go and see for ourselves.”

  “Don’t let him touch you,” Parno said, as he helped Dhulyn lift her sword belts over her head.

  “If you’d rather do it yourself…” Dhulyn pulled her multicolored vest back into place. She needed no help to remove harness or weapons-she could have done it by herself, in the dark, and one-handed-but Parno had needed the reassurance that helping her disarm, that touching her, would bring. And he’s not the only one.

  “We’ve been through that,” he reminded her. “Do you want me to say it again?”

  Dhulyn smiled, patting him on the shoulder. Once they had explained their fears to a white-faced but resolute Tarkina, Parno had made everyone see that they had to send someone in to speak to Tek-aKet. And once they’d persuaded Zelianora Tarkina that it should not be her, he’d insisted that Dhulyn was the only logical choice. “There’s no one faster,” he’d said. Out loud, too, where everyone could hear it, even if he didn’t want to repeat it now for her ears only. “If it becomes necessary to disable the Tarkin without permanent harm,” he’d said. “Dhulyn is the only one who can do it.”