Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno (4 page)

Parno watched Dhulyn out of the corner of his eye as they sat at breakfast on the aft deck the next morning. She’d experienced Visions during the night, but apart from one involving the Green Shadow, which they knew came from the past, not the future, there was nothing that required prompt sharing or action. Her Sight was more regular now, and if she could not always control what Vision came, and though they still came unbidden, they were not quite the unpredictable and useless things they had once been.

In fact, just lately, they had occasionally been greatly helpful, something neither he nor his Partner had ever hoped to see.

Dhulyn caught him looking at her and moved her head ever so slightly from side to side, though she smiled the faintest of smiles while she did it. With a nod just as minute, Parno did his best to put thoughts of Visions from his mind. They’d little enough time for speculation this morning. Their assignment had begun when the Arderon nobles came aboard the evening before, and now they were only waiting for the rowing tugs to come and pull the
Black Traveler
out of harbor. With the Princess of Arderon paying passage, Dorian of the River, Mercenary Schooler and called, like his ship, the Black Traveler, had no need to wait for the tide.

They both sat at the captain’s table, Parno across from Dorian and Dhulyn on his right. Parno turned sideways in his seat with his back toward his Partner. His job was to keep his eye on the Princess Cleona, sitting three paces away with her cousin, being served breakfast by the two attendants they’d brought with them. Princess Cleona had declared her preference that her guards not stand over her while she ate, and since this was, after all, Dorian’s ship, and there was no one on board that the Mercenary Schooler did not vouch for, Dhulyn had decided to let the Princess have her own way. This time.

Still, throughout the meal, as he was handed bread, cheese, figs, and cups of ganje, Parno kept one hand always free and close to a weapon, while his eyes were constantly shifting, checking the area immediately around the princess for anything that shouldn’t be there—the wrong attendant, one of Dorian’s sailors, even a seabird flying oddly. Dhulyn, he knew, was studying the larger field of danger, watching who was coming up the ladder from the main deck, who—if anyone—was in the rigging over their heads, and how close their duties brought them to the Princesses. Even here, where Dhulyn herself had been Schooled, they would take few chances.

The Princess of Arderon and her young cousin were dressed in a combination of traveling leathers and quilted silks, densely embroidered, and their short half boots were thick with beading. They both wore trousers, as befitted their Horse Nomad heritage. Their blouses had high collars and narrow sleeves, and their vests, worn open in the morning sun, would fasten with large buttons carved from oyster shell, a luxury and mark of wealth on the inland plains. Princess Cleona was the older and shorter of the two women, but both had the same golden hair and creamy skin, and their strong features marked them as close kin.

They were neither of them beautiful, Parno thought, but it would be hard to mistake them for anyone else, or to forget them, once seen.

“So why
did
you turn down the princess’ application? She looks fierce enough to me.” Parno kept his voice politely low. Without turning, he accepted with his right hand the refilled cup of ganje Dorian the Black gave him, and he leaned his elbow on the table.

Dorian laughed, handing a matching cup to Dhulyn. The Mercenary Schooler was a tall man, well over Parno’s height, with skin so dark it seemed to have blue highlights. Though he had already been a Schooler for some years when he had rescued and begun training the eleven-year-old Dhulyn, Dorian seemed ageless, his face unlined and his straight black hair thick and showing no signs of gray. “Ferocity has very little to do with it, as you well know, my Lion. Nor was it, as some have suggested, her royal status. We have had many successful applicants from among Royal Houses over the years. No.” His eyes grew more serious, though his mouth maintained its grin. “Cleona wished to join the Brotherhood because she was unhappy with her life, and that is insufficient reason to be accepted among us. We know that there are those who have a need to flee from their lives, but they must also be, in some fashion, running toward ours.”

“Surely that old connection can’t be all that lies behind this willingness to offer her escort to Menoin? With us to guard her, she could have taken any ship in port,” Dhulyn said, her voice like rough silk.

“Ah, but the captain of any ship in port could not tell you what Gustof Ironhand, Senior Mercenary Brother of Hellik, needs you to know.”

“Something he could not tell us himself, evidently.”

“Something no one else knows—yet. Something that we hope no one else will ever need to know.” They had all been speaking quietly out of courtesy for the nearness of the noble passengers, but Dorian now fell into the nightwatch voice, so quiet that very likely even the apprentices serving them would not hear a word.

Parno resisted the urge to turn and look at Dorian again. He would have given much to see the expression in the older man’s eyes.

“Can you tell us now?” Dhulyn said. “We’ll have to take turns sleeping during the day, if we’re both to be on watch tonight.”

Dorian took the last swig from his own cup and signaled to the apprentice hovering nearby, eyes round as coins. It was rare for youngsters like these to see, let alone to serve, seasoned Brothers like the Wolfshead and the Lionsmane. The youngster nodded and touched his forehead in response to Dorian’s signal before scooping up the now empty jug of ganje and turning to go down the ladder to the main deck. Dorian leaned in.

“A little over a year ago the old Tarkin of Menoin sent to the Mercenary House in Pyrusa for two bodyguards.”

Dhulyn Wolfshead leaned forward, putting her cup carefully down on the table. Parno sat up straighter, though he still did not take his eyes from the Arderon Princess. It was not unusual for a ruler, or even a High Noble House, to use Mercenary Brothers as personal guards if they could afford it. There were some who even preferred it, since the question of trust would never arise. Still, it seemed an ominous way for Dorian to begin.

“You say ‘the old Tarkin,’ ” was all Dhulyn said aloud.

Dorian nodded. “The one who originally contracted for the marriage to our Princess.”

“She seems a little older than the usual wife-to-be.” Dhulyn glanced at her Partner.

Dorian smiled. “Indeed. But she is the Tarkina of Arderon’s closest female kin—other than her own daughters—unmarried and of child-bearing years. The two countries, Menoin and Arderon, were once most closely related, and this alliance is vital—some tricky point of political tradition depends upon it. Of course the alliance is still possible, still desirable, perhaps even more so, now that the old Tarkin is dead.”

“Dead?” Dhulyn had no need to say anything more than that one word. Both her Partner and her Schooler understood what she was really asking. How did the old Tarkin die, when he had two Mercenary Brothers as bodyguards?

Dorian nodded, accepting a jug refilled with steaming hot ganje before motioning the youngster away. “A sudden illness—though definitely not poison. A Healer was sent for, but one could not arrive in time.”

Again, nothing unusual there. Of all the Marked, Menders were most common, then Finders, and only Seers were rarer than Healers. Many Healers still followed the old custom of traveling a route prescribed by their Guild in order to provide the most service, though there were always rumors of Healers in Royal Houses, and Dhulyn knew from her own experience that the Great King in the West had one of his own.

“Word was sent to us that on being released from their contract by the death of the Tarkin, our Brothers had left Menoin, had in fact taken ship for Ishkanbar.” Dorian poured fresh ganje into all their cups before continuing. “I know what you are thinking. Though I’d wager the two of you rarely send word to the nearest Mercenary House of your comings and goings.”

“Not as often as we did when we were newly badged,” Dhulyn said. “If we’re near one of our own Houses, we’ll stop, of course, even go a half day’s ride or so out of our way. But send word? No, not usually. Still, as you suggest, it is not uncommon in newly badged Brothers.”

“As one at least of these was.” Dorian took a swallow of hot ganje and grimaced. “Kesman Firehawk, Schooled by Yoruk Silverheels, way to the west. But the other you may know, Delvik Bloodeye, called the Bull, Schooled by Nerysa Warhammer.”

Parno shrugged without turning. “After my time, though I think I’ve heard the name.”

“So, with an experienced Brother there, no alarm would have arisen—ordinarily—no special notice given to the fact that they have not been heard from since.”

“Ordinarily?”

“Gustof Ironhand was the Senior Brother who sent these two to Menoin. He, now that the old Tarkin is gone, is the only one who knew that the contract had asked for two Brothers as bodyguards not for the old Tarkin but for the heir, the young man who is
now
Tarkin.”

“With a specified term set?”

“No term.”

“So their contract did not expire on the old man’s death.” The tone of Parno’s voice, even nightwatch quiet, set chill fingers dancing up Dhulyn’s spine. “They should still be in Menoin.”

“And I’ll wager my second-best sword that you’ve sent to Ishkanbar, and these Brothers never called into the Mercenary House there to announce their arrival,” Dhulyn said. “Otherwise, we would not be having this conversation now.”

“It is always a joy to find that one’s students are still as sharp as two daggers, even all these years after leaving their School.”

“So we’re not being given a minor punishment by being sent to Menoin as the bodyguards of the Arderon Princess,” Parno said. “That’s merely our excuse for arriving there unasked for.”

Dhulyn was nodding, her eyes fixed on Dorian’s still smiling face. “We are being sent to find our missing Brothers.”

“W
ILL NO ONE but me say the word Pasillon out loud?” Parno said. It was the beginning of the early night watch, the first chance they’d had to speak alone since Dorian had told them of their real assignment.

“If our Brothers in Menoin have been somehow turned upon, as they were at Pasillon, then we will avenge them.” Dhulyn’s rough silk voice spoke for his ears only, though there was no one close enough to them to overhear.

Parno nodded, slowly, keeping his eyes on the shadowy movement of the waves. “The Visions you had last night, did they touch upon this?”

He felt Dhulyn shrug. “How can I be sure? A sandy-haired man offered help. A carving in a stone wall—oh, and I saw Gundaron of Valdomar, using the Finder’s bowl. All of which could mean anything.”

“Or nothing,” Parno agreed. “I find myself in two minds about this assignment.”

“Is that possible? I’d have said you had brains enough for one mind only—” Grinning, Dhulyn ducked the blow Parno aimed at her head. As she crouched under his swinging arm Parno reached out with his other hand and filched the knife Dhulyn always carried inside the back of her vest—only to find that she’d helped herself to his belt dagger as she went down. Silently laughing, he handed Dhulyn back her knife and accepted his dagger in return. Parno felt the soft pressure of her cool hand around his upper arm. He waited until they were once again leaning with their elbows braced against the port rail of the main deck, a few paces away from the door of the Princess’ cabin, before continuing his thought.

“On the one hand, I would never knowingly wish for Pasillon to be repeated. For any Brother to be in such a position that revenge is the best we can hope for. But…” Parno shrugged. “If the alternative is to guard a woman on the way to her wedding . . .”

“Here I was thinking that after what we have been through in the last few moons, a quiet assignment would be very welcome,” Dhulyn said.

Parno looked at his Partner, glad that the darkness covered the frown he felt forming between his eyebrows. This was the part of her that only he ever saw. The part that would just as soon lie under a shady tree with a book and a wineskin as ride into a battle. Not that she didn’t do the latter very well indeed.

“We’ve just had a quiet sea voyage across the Long Ocean—that wasn’t rest enough for you?”

Dhulyn was silent a long moment. “So much happened on the far side of the ocean.” She laid her fingers on his wrist, as if she needed to touch him to speak of it. “I’m not sure that the few weeks we spent with the Nomads and the Crayx returning to Boravia has given us enough time to fully digest it.”

Parno stroked the back of her hand with his own fingertips. “You haven’t been worrying at this, have you? We were tested,” he acknowledged. “Our Partnership, even our Brotherhood. We have come out of it stronger, as steel leaves the forge.”

“And we have learned things about ourselves we did not previously know,” Dhulyn said. “What does your Pod sense tell you? Can you feel any of the Crayx nearby?”

Parno closed his eyes and reached out with his inner sense in the way he’d been taught.

#Greeting# #Enjoyment#

He smiled. “They’re just going through the Straits, planning to stop at Navra to pick up some jeresh.”

“Not for Dar, I hope. She shouldn’t be drinking until the babes come.”

“No,” Parno said, letting the link fade. “Just for trade.”

“Still, in some things, we’re left with more questions than answers,” Dhulyn said.

“There’s one answer we can always count on,” he said, touching his fingers to his forehead. “In Battle.”

“And in Death,” she said, a smile in her voice.

Parno pushed himself upright. “Toss you for the post by the door,” he said. “Maybe you used up all your luck winning Kari’s gloves.”

 

Dhulyn began her patrol on the starboard side of the deck, her bare feet soundless, one hand out for balance and the fingers of the other resting lightly on her sword hilt. As her eyes scanned for movements in the shadows, her mind returned to worry at the possibility that in Menoin they would find another Pasillon. This was not the first time she and Parno had brushed up against the legend. It was not uncommon, even now when their numbers were relatively few, for Mercenary Brothers to fight on opposite sides of a battle. In fact, to be killed by a Brother was widely considered the best way to die. More than thirty Mercenaries had been killed at the ancient battle of Pasillon when the victorious, maddened by their triumph, forgot that their contracts required them to spare any Mercenaries who had fought on the losing side. When they had seen what was happening, the Brothers from both sides united, holding off much greater numbers until, at nightfall, they could cover the escape of three of their own.