Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno (8 page)

“In that case, my dears, I will take myself away and leave you young people to it. I am an old woman now, and all this riding about in the heat of the day is quite enough for me.” She smiled, revealing remarkably good teeth for the old woman she claimed to be. “Welcome to both of you,” she reiterated, kissing first Cleona and then Alaria on the cheek. “Sun, Moon, and Stars bless you.” And with that she was stumping away, leaning heavily on her cane and leaving her guards to catch up.

Parno glanced at Dhulyn and saw that she, too, was stifling a smile. Cleona
was
surely beginning as she meant to go on. Dhulyn signaled him with her left hand, and he edged closer to her.

“Interesting he wants to see her so soon. Is he anxious to be rid of us?” she said, barely parting her lips.

“Who’s being paranoid?”

The right corner of her lips lifted in a smile, but Parno knew what she was thinking. Better cautious than cursing.

Berena Attin dispatched a page with a quick gesture before turning back to them. “You Mercenary Brothers will of course leave your weapons here at the gate.”

Princess Alaria spoke up before either Dhulyn or Parno had a chance to reply.

“At the moment these Brothers form the Princess Cleona’s personal guard. You would not ask your Tarkina’s personal guard to disarm.”

Parno saw Dhulyn shoot the younger princess a sharp look out of the corner of her eye, and he relaxed, knowing that neither of them need say anything.

Though her lips were pressed tight, the Steward of Keys gave a bow of acknowledgment, and she led them through the grand entrance hall. Dhulyn stepped quickly to take up position behind her, in front of the princesses, and Parno fell in behind them, neither surprised nor alarmed when six of the Tarkin’s own Guard formed a guard square around all of them. They could have passed as escorts, to someone less experienced, but Parno knew precautionary measures when he saw them. They might be allowed to carry weapons into the presence of the Tarkin, but they wouldn’t go unguarded, and unwatched. The Steward of Walls, though he had made no personal appearance as yet, had trained his men well to take no foolish chances.

The room they were led to was clearly the Tarkin of Menoin’s private audience chamber. The floor was a pleasing pattern of russet tiles offset with small squares of brilliant blue and purple, and the walls were covered with mosaics depicting vines and flowering shrubs growing around and out of sharply rendered urns and stylized lattice. A man, his back very erect, his dark hair curling over the collar of his tunic, stood with his back to the room, looking out of the left-hand window. Between him and the door was a grouping of four chairs of time-darkened wood, very likely from the pine trees that covered the hills surrounding Uraklios. They were simple in design, unadorned and backless; three were distinguished by their cushioned seats. The chairs were spaced evenly around a low table whose tiled top was obscured with plates of food, gold-rimmed cups, and two fine-necked pitchers of liquid.

A younger man, who had seen his birth moon perhaps twenty-three times, was straightening up from the table as they entered. He seemed to have been arranging the plates of food, but he was clearly not a servant. He had the same dark, almost black hair as the older man who was now turning from the window, the same warm olive skin, but his eyes were a startling blue in a face so beautiful he might have been the joy of any acting troupe—if there had been any emotion showing.

“My lord,” the Steward of Keys said. “Here are the ladies of Arderon.”

Cleona looked from one man to the other, and Dhulyn held her breath, wondering if it was part of her job to prevent the princess from making a social mistake. But she need not have worried. Alaria touched her cousin on the elbow and passed some signal Dhulyn could not see. The older princess focused her attention on the younger man. Her upper lip stiffened for just a moment before her diplomatic mask reformed.

Dhulyn almost laughed. She’d seen exactly that look on the faces of noblemen in the country of the Great King, where women were valued only for their beauty—and their fertility. Was it possible that in Arderon handsome men were thought to be as shallow and frivolous as the beauties in the Great King’s court?

And was it possible that Princess Cleona was now re-evaluating her upcoming marriage with that thought in mind?

“Tarkin Falcos Akarion,” she said, with a slight inclination of her head. “I am the Princess Cleona of Arderon, and this is my cousin, the Princess Alaria.”

“You are most welcome, Lady,” he said, giving her a bow the exact measure of her own. “Allow me to present my father’s brother, Epion Akarion.” He glanced at Dhulyn and Parno, looked back at Cleona, and waited, his perfect features a sculpted mask.

Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile. The uncle stepped up closer, narrowing his eyes. Epion Akarion was not as much older than his nephew as Dhulyn had thought. The family resemblance was clear, but there was something agreeably plain about the uncle’s face.

“Falcos Tarkin,” Dhulyn said. “I am Dhulyn Wolfshead, the Scholar, Schooled by Dorian of the River. This is my Partner, Parno Lionsmane, called the Chanter, Schooled by Nerysa Warhammer.”

Rather to her surprise, the young Tarkin smiled back at her, and his chill beauty warmed. “I have heard of you,” he said. His smile faded abruptly. “That is, your Brothers who were here before spoke of you. You are well known in your Brotherhood, it seems.”

“Those of us who live long enough do gather a certain measure of fame to ourselves, this is true,” Dhulyn said. “We come here as guards to the Princesses of Arderon,” she continued. “They are in our charge until they reach your hands.”

“And as they have now reached the Tarkin’s hands?” This was the uncle, his voice a rounder, deeper baritone than that of his nephew.

Dhulyn turned to Princess Cleona and bowed. “Lady, our contract is fulfilled. We consider ourselves discharged.”

“Is any payment required?” The uncle again. Dhulyn was beginning not to like the man. She glanced at Parno and saw that her Partner was stifling a smile.

“Our contract is with the Mercenary House in Lesonika,” she said, directing her words to the Tarkin. “We are content.”

Princess Cleona pulled off one of her gold and silver armlets. “Thank you for your company on this part of our journey, Dhulyn Wolfshead, and for the lesson in the staff.”

“We come to serve, Princess.” Dhulyn accepted the bracelet, tucking it into a fold in her sword sash.

“And I also thank you for your service to the Tarkina of Menoin,” the Tarkin said. He put his hand to the dagger in his belt, and Dhulyn was afraid she would be forced to accept some jeweled monstrosity; but the weapon he handed her, except for a small horse inlaid in gold on the hilt, was plain and serviceable. And excellently balanced, she noted as she took it into her hand.

“If you would care to partake of refreshment before you depart, the Steward of Walls is ready to entertain you in the guard’s hall.”

“Thank you, Lord Tarkin.” Dhulyn and Parno both touched their foreheads.

“And that sends us on our way with bells ringing,” Parno muttered in the nightwatch voice as they exited.

They were just passing between the guards at the door when they heard voices coming from the antechamber.

“I understood there are Mercenary Brothers meeting with the Tarkin.”

“That’s not quite right, Scholar, they—”

Dhulyn walked faster, stepping through the door before the guard had it fully open. She knew that voice, the words clipped but the tone not unpleasant. Did this explain her Vision?

“Wolfshead.” The young man moving toward her with his arms outstretched was thinner than she remembered him, but his blue Scholar’s tunic and brown leggings were crisp and freshly laundered. Something in her face must have warned him, for Gundaron glanced at Parno as he let his arms fall. Parno, laughing, advanced on the youngster, clapping him on the shoulders.

“Gun. By the Caids, man, what’s a Scholar from Valdomar doing here in Menoin?”

“And the little Dove, is she with you?” Dhulyn approached closer, keeping an eye on the guards who were watching them.

“The Library of Valdomar sent us. We have rooms at the Horse and Rider, off the main square.” He looked from one to the other with a grin wide enough to split his face. “I heard there were Mercenary Brothers with the Arderons, but I never dreamed it would be you.”

Dhulyn, smiling herself, turned to the guard nearest them. “Thank the Steward of Walls for his offer of hospitality, but as you can see, we have found friends of our own.”

“We will accompany you to the gate,” the man said.

“Of course.” She turned back to Parno and Gun. “We’re not keeping you from business here in the palace?”

“No, I came expressly to speak with you.” Gun’s grin faltered a moment. “Well, the Mercenary Brothers anyway.” Dhulyn touched him on the shoulder to show she understood. Whatever had brought Gun looking for Mercenary Brothers, he had no wish to share it with the Tarkin’s Guard.

It was not until they had retrieved their horses and were leading them through the relative privacy of the streets outside the palace that Dhulyn felt they could speak more freely.

“Is it your Mark we’re not to speak of?”

Gun waved this away. “It’s not that I’m hiding it, not anymore. It’s just that I’m here as a Scholar, and I’ve learned since we were last together that if people know I’m a Finder, I don’t get any Scholar’s work done. The Library at Valdomar gives me many freedoms and privileges—thanks in part to you two—but they still expect me to produce work for them.”

Dhulyn nodded. That made sense. Prejudice against the Marked had been on the rise a few years before, but the failure and eventual dying out of the New Believers—a sect of the Jaldeans—had put an end to that. People were unlikely to take against those who could Mend, or Find, or Heal, and if there were no longer many Seers to be found, well, people were well used to that.

Not that there weren’t always a few, Dhulyn knew, who were afraid of the uncanny and even the uncommon. Still, Gundaron was right. If people knew he was a Finder, they’d be coming to him for service all the time. In fact, now that she knew he was here, she felt more confident of finding their missing Brothers.

“But you knew you would Find Mercenary Brothers at the Palace?” she asked. “You merely did not know who it would be.”

Gun turned down a steeper street, little more than an alley, that led seaward, toward the main market square. “If I’d thought to try Finding
you
, I might have known. But it was just Brothers I was looking for, the nearest ones.”

They turned the corner into a slightly wider street, and Gun led them under an arched gateway into what was clearly the stable yard of an inn. Dhulyn looked around; the cobbles were even, with clean straw spread to prevent shod hooves from slipping. The water in the troughs looked fresh, and the young boy currying a fat pony off to one side clearly knew what he was about. He looked up at the noise they made entering, and he laid his brushes down neatly where the pony could not get at them before running forward to accept Bloodbone’s reins from Dhulyn’s hand.

“We’ll want rooms as well,” Parno said.

“I’ll speak to my father,” the boy said, apparently unable to tear his eyes away from their Mercenary badges until Parno’s horse Warhammer nudged him in the back. Then the boy bobbed his head, took up both sets of reins, and led the horses away.

“Back door’s faster for our rooms,” Gun said over his shoulder as he gestured them forward. “Unless you want to speak to the innkeeper first.”

“The boy will speak to his father, and I assume if you can afford to stay here, so can we.” Dhulyn tapped the armlet she’d tucked into her sash.

The door from the stable yard opened into a short hallway, with stairs leading upward on the right, three doors on the left—one of which Dhulyn’s nose told her was the kitchen—and an opening at the far end that led directly to the common room at the front of the inn. Dhulyn caught Parno’s eye as they prepared to follow Gun up the stairs. When she’d first met him, Gun had been Scholar in a High Noble House in Imrion for some months and had grown plump and out of shape with good feeding and little exercise. Now, from the way he ran without effort up the stairs, it appeared that he had returned to the good practices of his Scholars’ Library.

“Hold back a bit, my heart,” Parno said from behind her. “Give him a chance to tell Mar we’re coming.”

“And Mar a chance to pick up their dirty clothes off the floor?” Dhulyn stopped to let Parno catch up.

“Or draw up the bedcovers,” he agreed.

They didn’t need to see which room Gun had gone into; by the time they had reached the head of the stairs, Mar was out and running toward them. There were no strangers present, but Dhulyn still hesitated before opening her arms and accepting the younger woman’s hug.

“There now, my Dove,” she said, patting Mar’s shaking shoulders. “You’d think we were returning from the dead.” She caught Parno’s eye over Mar’s head and winked.

“You can’t fool me, Wolfshead,” the younger woman said as she stepped back. “You’re just as glad to see me as I am to see you. Both of you,” she added as she turned to receive Parno’s kiss. “I know that Mercenary Brothers aren’t supposed to have family outside of the Brotherhood, but I still think of you both as my kin.”

Mar-eMar Tenebro alluded to the fact that they were actually kin, she and Parno. But more significantly, Parno thought, Mar, Dhulyn, and Gun shared something that Parno did not. All three were Marked. Though come to think of it, of the three, only Gun’s Mark worked well and reliably. Without the assistance of other Seers, Dhulyn’s Sight was erratic and almost impossible to direct, while Mar’s Mark was gone now, burned from her by the awakening of the Sleeping God.

“Where now?” he asked. “This seems a public spot for a reunion. Your rooms or the common room downstairs?”