Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno (3 page)

Dhulyn shifted her weight from one foot to the other, but didn’t speak.

“This was followed by a document from the present Queen of Tegrian, withdrawing her mother’s request.” Gustof looked up. “You supplied this document yourselves, I understand?”

“Yes, my Brother,” Dhulyn said. “You see it is written in her own hand and was sealed with the royal seal.”

“Fortunate for you that the present Queen of Tegrian can write.” The Senior Brother’s tone was as dry as a sand lizard. “It appears that the late Queen was ill, and she was misinformed when she accused you,” he continued. When Dhulyn and Parno remained silent, Gustof Ironhand’s lips twitched. “The present Queen also assures us—for the ears of the Brotherhood only—that her brother is well and alive.” Gustof leaned back in his chair, bringing his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. “That is something we would have had to check for ourselves, since, though she claims him to be well and alive, it is she and not her older brother sitting on the throne of Tegrian.

“Fortunately, while you were . . .
diverted
by the Nomads, a small caravan of traveling players arrived in Lesonika and gave further witness, and further proofs, to support the Queen of Tegrian’s assertions.” Now Gustof smiled outright and sat forward again, his elbows on the table. “In other words, the delay in presenting your case has helped to clarify it considerably.”

Dhulyn glanced again at Parno, but his eyes were focused on the faded olive trees painted on the wall above Gustof Ironhand’s head.

The older man spread his hands out on the table and looked at them, turning his head to get them both within the scope of his single eye. “I have reviewed your case,” he said, his tone returning to strict formality, “and I accept the documents I have been given. I rule that there has been no breach of the Common Rule, nor does anyone outside of the Mercenary Brotherhood have legitimate grievance against you.”

Dhulyn let out a sigh as muscles she hadn’t known were tense, relaxed. Parno’s shoulders dropped an almost imperceptible amount as he touched the fingers of his right hand to his forehead. Dhulyn repeated his gesture with her own right hand. Still, the old man had said “no one
outside
the Brotherhood.”

“We thank you for your time and your attention to our dilemma, Gustof Ironhand,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “We are in your debt.”

The old man returned their salute and leaned back once more in his chair, this time signaling them to sit as well. He waited until they had drawn up the backless chairs suited to Lesonika’s warm climate and Jay Starfound had departed with his scrolls before speaking.

“My time and attention are indeed valuable,” Gustof said. “I am gratified to hear you acknowledge as much. I have had to come twice from Pyrusa to attend to what you call your ‘dilemma’—no direct fault of your own, I grant you,” he added, lifting his palm toward them. “Nevertheless, this House and the Mercenary House in Pyrusa have undertaken actions on your behalf, and Brothers other than myself have been called upon as well. There is a manner in which you can repay these . . . favors if you will, to our Houses and to the Mercenary Brotherhood as a whole.”

Long-winded type
, Dhulyn thought. Substitute the word “fine” for “repayment,” and you’d have it just about exactly right. Why not just out with it? As if she or Parno would refuse any request from a Mercenary Brother. This would only be some boring contract no one else wanted—private wall guards, perhaps, or a frontier outpost facing an amiable neighboring kingdom. The type of job, lasting only a few moons, that usually only junior Brothers who had yet to prove themselves in a real battle would take.

“We are Brothers,” she said, as a way to acquiesce as well as a reminder. “And there would also be the matter of the stabling of our horses.”

“You do well to remind me.” Again, the faintest of smiles floated across Gustof’s lips. “As you may have heard, the Princess of Arderon is to wed the Tarkin of Menoin. She has traveled with her own people as far as Lesonika, and as a neutral body we have been asked to provide her an escort by sea to the court of her betrothed. If you will undertake this task for us, we shall consider our expenditure of time repaid and the accounts balanced.”

“Is it a large party?” Dhulyn did her best not to make a face. Menoin was an island, and they would have to travel by boat. After crossing the Long Ocean twice in the last three moons, she had been looking forward to getting back onto a horse.

Gustof shook his head. “The Arderons are notoriously plain in their style of living. The Princess has a kinswoman as her immediate attendant and witness, and two body servants. They take also four mares in foal from the royal stables as a wedding gift.”

Dhulyn smiled back at him, careful not to let her small scar curl her lip back in a snarl. “Plain in their living style” indeed. An understatement if she had ever heard one. The Arderons considered themselves to be descendants of and kin to the Horse Nomads of the Blasonar Plain, and they affected the purity of living and conduct of their kinsfolk. Even the members of their Royal House were expected at the least to be instructed in arms and in the cleaning and care of their own horses.

“They are woman-ruled, are they not?” Dhulyn said. “I’m surprised they are willing to send a daughter away.”

“This is a cousin of the present Tarkina, who has four female children of her own. There is little chance that Princess Cleona could inherit.” The three Mercenary Brothers exchanged identical smiles; they all knew how easily a small chance became a certainty.

“Surely there are royal ladies of more note closer to Menoin than Arderon?” Parno asked. Though he rarely spoke of it, he had come from a High Noble House himself, and such speculation was in his blood.

“Certainly,” Gustof said. “But there are ancient ties between the two, ties that the Tarkinate of Menoin seems most interested in reestablishing.” He leaned forward. “There is something more regarding the lady of Arderon. Rumor has it that some years ago an application was made on her behalf, and later withdrawn, to Dorian the Black Traveler.”

Parno cleared his throat. “The Princess wanted to become a Mercenary Brother and then changed her mind?”

“According to what Dorian tells me, she was turned away.” Gustof looked aside, the fingers of his left hand tapping the arm of his chair. Dhulyn glanced at Parno, but he only lifted one shoulder.

What the older man said was likely. The histories told that at one time the Brotherhood was more numerous than it was now, but it took a particular kind of person to become a Mercenary Brother, and more than half of the applicants to the three existing Mercenary Schools were turned down. And since fewer than half of those who were accepted survived their Schooling, the numbers of the Brotherhood remained small. She studied Gustof’s lined face. Was he old enough to have seen the numbers dwindling, even in his own lifetime?

As if he felt her speculative gaze on him, Gustof drew in a deep breath and sat straighter.

“A small party,” he repeated. “And as the
Black Traveler
is in port, and it does not matter to Dorian what route he takes while he is Schooling, we have decided to allow the Arderons to use his ship for the Princess’ journey to Menoin.”

“And Dorian has agreed?” The words were out before Dhulyn could stop them, her tone of frank disbelief bordering on discourtesy.

Evidently Gustof Ironhand thought so as well, for he only smiled again—his thin, old man’s smile. “Perhaps you would do better to ask him yourself.”
His
tone was so unmistakable that Dhulyn found herself on her feet, with Parno already turning toward the door.

“One question, Senior Brother, if I may,” Dhulyn said.

“Certainly.”

“The players, did they perform
The Soldier King
?” Dhulyn asked.

“They did indeed. In Battle, my Brothers,” the old man said.

“Or in Death,” they replied.

 

The Mercenary House was not large enough to have its own stable, but Dhulyn found that the public stable nearby had taken good care of their horses while they were on the other side of the Long Ocean.

“How old do you think Gustof Ironhand is?” Parno asked as he threw his saddle across Warhammer’s back. The big gray gelding had pretended not to know him when they had first arrived, but a pretense it had clearly been, and the horse now nudged him companionably, snorting into his face.

“Sun and Moon only know,” Dhulyn said. “I’d wager my second-best sword he’s been a Mercenary Brother longer even than
you’ve
been alive.” She tested Bloodbone’s girth and turned to her saddlebags. “In fact, I’d wager he’s been Senior Brother here in Hellik longer than that.”

“Think he could still hold his own?”

Dhulyn stopped what she was doing and considered Parno’s question seriously. “His hands moved well, though his knuckles are so swollen. He’s had years to learn to compensate for the single eye. As for strength,” she shrugged. “Technique beats strength almost every time. If his enemy was close enough, I’d say Gustof could still kill.”

DHULYN IS STANDING BEFORE A GRANITE WALL, THE BLOCKS FITTED SO CLOSELY THAT SHE HAS TO TOUCH THEM TO FEEL THE SEAMS. THE STONE IS SMOOTH AND COLD, CREATED BY THE HAND OF SOME MASTER CRAFTSMAN OF THECAIDS. HER FINGERTIPS PASS OVER SOME IRREGULARITY, AND DHULYN STANDS TO ONE SIDE, ALLOWING SHADOWS TO FALL WHERE HER FINGERS HAVE BEEN. A FACE STARES BACK AT HER FROM THE WALL, WIDE-BROWED, POINTED OF CHIN, THE NOSE VERY LONG AND STRAIGHT, THE LIPS FULL CURVES. THE EYES HAVE BEEN FINISHED WITH TINY CHIPS OF BLACK STONE, SO THAT THE FACE DOES INDEED APPEAR TO BE STARING. . .

A THIN MAN WEARING A GOLD RING IN EACH EAR IS BENT OVER A CIRCLE OF STONES, USING A SPARKER TO SET DRIED GRASS AND TWIGS ALIGHT. A PILE OF BROKEN BRANCHES SITS TO ONE SIDE READY TO BE PLACED IN THE FIRE. HIS LARGE HANDS HAVE LONG FLAT FINGERS. HIS STRAW-COLORED HAIR IS COARSE AND THICK, CROPPED SHORT. DHULYN’S SHADOW FALLS ACROSS HIM, AND HE LOOKS UP. “HERE,” HE SAYS, STRAIGHTENING TO HIS FEET AND REACHING TOWARD HER. “LET ME HELP YOU WITH THAT. . . ”

A SHORT YOUNG WOMAN , ROUNDED AND WELL-DRESSED, LOCKS OF DARK, CURLY HAIR ESCAPING FROM A SEVERE HEADDRESS, HANDS DEMURELY CLASPED AT HER WAIST, LOOKS AROUND THE KITCHEN OF WHAT LOOKS LIKE A MINOR HOUSE. THE WORKPLACE IS WELL-APPOINTED, WITH BOTH OPEN HEARTH AND TILED OVENS, POTS, CROCKS, AND A WORKTABLE LARGE ENOUGH TO ACCOMMODATE FOUR PEOPLE.

THE YOUNG WOMAN WALKS THROUGH THE ROOM, TOUCHING, ALMOST CARESSING OBJECTS AS SHE PASSES THEM. SHE MAY BE SEEING THIS FOR THE LAST TIME, DHULYN THINKS, OR ELSE SHE’S BUT NEWLY COME HERE ANDIS MARKING HER NEWLY ACQUIRED TERRITORY WITH THE TOUCH OF HER HANDS. BUT THENDHULYN SEES THAT THE BOWL THE WOMAN TOUCHES IS CRACKED NOW, THE WOODEN LADLE SPLIT, THE CROCKS BREAKING AND LEAKING THEIR CONTENTS ONTO THE FLOOR. FINALLY THE YOUNG WOMAN COMES TO THE TABLE AND, SMILING, STANDS READY TO LOWER HER HANDS TO ITS SURFACE. . .

A TALL, THIN MAN WITH CLOSE-CROPPED HAIR THE COLOR OF WHEAT STRAW, EYES THE BLUE OF OLD ICE, DEEP ICE, SITS READING A BOUND BOOK LARGER THAN ANY SHE HAS EVER SEEN. HIS CHEEKBONES SEEM CHISELED FROM GRANITE, YET THERE IS HUMOR IN THE SET OF HIS LIPS AND LAUGHTER IN THE FAINT LINES AROUNDHIS EYES. DHULYN KNOWS SHE WOULD LIKE THE MAN IF SHE MET HIM AND THAT THIS IS A VISION OF THE PAST, BOTH HER PAST AND HIS, AND SHE WONDERS WHY SHESEES IT AGAIN NOW.

THE MAN TRACES A LINE ON THE PAGE WITH THIS FINGER, HIS LIPS MOVING AS HE CONFIRMS THE WORDS. HE NODS AND, STANDING, TAKES UP A HIGHLY POLISHED TWO-HANDED SWORD. DHULYN OWNS ONE LIKE IT, THOUGH SHE DOES NOT USE IT OFTEN. IT IS NOT THE SWORD OF A HORSEMAN. SHE CAN SEE NOW THAT HIS CLOTHES ARE BRIGHTLY COLORED AND FIT HIM CLOSELY EXCEPT FOR THE SLEEVES, WHICH FALL FROM HIS SHOULDERS LIKE INVERTED LILIES.

HE TURNS TOWARD A CIRCULAR MIRROR, AS TALL AS HE IS HIMSELF; IT DOES NOT REFLECT THE ROOM BUT SHOWS A NIGHT SKY FULL OF STARS. HIS LIPS MOVE, ANDDHULYN KNOWS HE IS SAYING THE WORDS FROM THE BOOK. HE MAKES A MOVE LIKE ONE OF THE CRANE
SHORA
AND SLASHES DOWNWARD THROUGH THE MIRROR, AS IF SPLITTING IT IN HALF. BUT IT IS A WINDOW, NOT A MIRROR, AND IT IS THE SKY ITSELF AND NOT A REFLECTION THAT THE MAN SPLITS WITH HIS CHARMED SWORD; AND THROUGH THE OPENING COMES SPILLING LIKE FOG A GREEN-TINTED SHADOW, SHIVERING AND JERKY, AS THOUGH IT IS AFRAID. . .

ANOTHER FAIR-HAIRED MAN, THIS ONE YOUNGER, SHORTER, AND SQUARER THROUGH THE BODY. GUNDARON OFVALDOMAR SITS WHEREDHULYN HAS OFTEN SEEN HIM BEFORE, AT A TABLE, LOOKING DOWN INTO A FINDER’S BOWL. DHULYN KNOWS SHE’S SMILING NOW, HOPES THAT THIS IS NOT ALSO A VISION OF THE PAST. SHE WOULD LIKE TO SEE THE SCHOLAR AGAIN .