Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno (17 page)

“Of course they will.” Gun tried to stand in his stirrups to get a better angle on the entrance to the Path, but his pony shifted and he sat down again.

“Their not coming back wouldn’t be the worst of it,” Mar said. “After all, they expect to die some day. The worst would be not knowing what happened to them.”

“Well, they wouldn’t know what happened to us, either.”

Mar reached over and patted Gun on his knee. “That’s right, stay logical.” But she knew that logical or not, Gun was just as worried about Wolfshead and Lionsmane as she was herself. She thought of them as her own kin, and she knew that Gun felt much the same. Parno Lionsmane actually was a distant cousin of hers—though because of the Common Rule they didn’t speak of it much to others.

“Mar.” The quiet warning note in Gun’s voice drew Mar’s attention to the approach of the Tarkin’s party. With plenty of warning, Gun could get his pony off the path and out of the way of the nobles without too much trouble. The last thing Mar wanted was to draw the attention of Epion Akarion. They had started off badly with him when they’d first come to get the Tarkinate’s final approval on their researches. They’d arrived after a voyage almost the full length of the Midland Sea to find that Lord Epion had already prepared a schedule for them, outlining exactly how they should proceed to examine the ruins and containing a list of artifacts he wanted them to find, in order of importance. All this despite the fact that all these details, and more, had been firmly agreed upon already.

Mar had had to be very clear about the rights and duties of themselves as Scholars and of Valdomar as their Library. Epion had changed his tune, turning warm and helpful, welcoming them, showing how deep his interest, how sincere his concern that they have all they needed to accomplish the work. But Mar couldn’t forget that he’d first tried to intimidate them. After all, the man was half brother—and legitimate at that—to one Tarkin and uncle and first counselor to another. How could it possibly matter to him what a couple of traveling Scholars thought?

A fine thing
, she thought now,
when experience taught you to be wary of friendliness
. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Menoin had really dodged the arrow—to use an old Mercenary expression—when the birth of Falcos Akarion had bumped his father’s half brother into a lower spot in the line of succession.

“Well, Scholars.” It was typical of Epion Akarion that he would address them both together, though Gundaron had the senior rank. Mar felt that courtesy required her to smile back at him. She wished she could make her lip curl up as Dhulyn Wolfshead’s did. “Back to your researches now, is it?” the man continued.

There might be some people, Mar thought, who would see his courteous enquiry as genuine interest, the mark of a man who took thought even for those people who stood only on the periphery of a crisis. But it made Mar uneasy; it seemed too studied to be real.

Falcos Akarion’s behavior was more natural, she thought. He had ridden past them with only a nod, preoccupied with his own serious concerns, giving them only what courtesy required. Only when Alaria of Arderon drew rein next to Epion did Falcos stop as well and look back.

Princess Alaria studied them for a moment, her gold-blonde brows drawn down. “You are their friends, are you not? The Mercenary Brothers? It was with you that Wolfshead and Lionsmane went, to share your meal rather than eat with the soldiers in the palace.”

“We count them as our kin,” Mar said.

“But the Mercenary Brotherhood have no kin,” Epion said with a smile.

It was all Mar could do not to roll her eyes and heave a great sigh. From the way Alaria’s mouth twitched, Mar thought the princess might feel the same way.

“We have the kinship of blood between us,” Gun said. “Though not blood kinship, if you follow me.”

“I think you are quite clear,” Alaria said. “Will you come with me? Stay with me at the palace?” Epion began to speak, but Alaria turned to Falcos Tarkin. “I may do this? Please?” He was nodding, his eyebrows raised, but Alaria had already turned back to Mar. “I have no one with me but Cleona’s two servants. No sisters or cousins. No one who is . . .” Here Mar thought Alaria was about to say “on my side,” but the princess must have realized what that would sound like. “No one who is my friend,” was what she finally said, her lips pulled back in a strained smile. “We have the friendship of the Mercenaries in common; perhaps you would extend me your friendship as well?”

It almost seemed that Epion Akarion was about to answer before the Tarkin could, though Mar noticed that his warmly encouraging smile did not quite reach his eyes, but the Tarkin was already speaking.

“An excellent idea,” the younger Akarion said. “There is certainly plenty of room in the Tarkina’s wing.”

“This is very kind,” Mar said, more because she was aware that an immediate answer was required than because she knew what she wanted that answer to be. She glanced at Gundaron and saw that he had the index finger of his left hand extended. “Of course, we would be delighted to accept your hospitality, Princess of Arderon.” Mar hoped she’d done right. In wording her acceptance so carefully, she was making herself and Gundaron part of Alaria’s official party—and putting themselves under whatever protection that afforded them.

In response she received three smiles, each different and each telling in its own way. Alaria’s was genuine and showed some degree of relief, as if she hadn’t been quite sure what Mar’s answer would be. That relief, however, did not in any way disturb the marks of sorrow—yes, and of anger and fear that still remained on the princess’ face. Falcos Tarkin seemed pleased enough, his handsome face easy, as at a minor problem solved. As for Epion Akarion, Mar was certain his smile had faltered a little before reestablishing itself, broader and warmer than ever, though his eyes seemed to have narrowed even further.

“If we may, we’ll fetch our things from the inn,” Mar said to Alaria, “and join you later in the day.”

Mar waited until the royal party had proceeded a span or so down the trail toward the city before she turned to Gundaron.

“Whatever your plan is,” she said, “I hope you realize we’ve just put ourselves plainly into the Arderon camp. Whatever happens to Alaria can happen to us as well.”

“What could be worse than what happened to her cousin?” Gun’s voice was quiet, though steady. “And that’s not likely to happen to any of us.” He looked back along the trail to where they could just make out the Path of the Sun. “Not now that we know it can.”

Mar pressed her lips together and frowned. “I suppose you’re right. Still, you must have had something in mind when you signaled me.”

Gun rode along in silence for several minutes, twitching at his reins unnecessarily. “Can you see us, a day or two from now, going to the palace and requesting an audience with Falcos Tarkin in order to ask him what news has come about Dhulyn Wolfshead and Parno Lionsmane? I don’t think we’d get very far past the Deputy Steward of Keys, do you?”

“If that far,” Mar said, beginning to see where Gun was going. “But if we are right in the palace . . .”

“Attending upon the very person who has the most right to ask questions and have them answered,” Gun continued, “then our questions are answered as well.”

“This is why I love you,” Mar said.

About three horse lengths in, just as Dhulyn had seen from the vantage point on the cliff, the Path of the Sun divided sharply to the right and left. Falcos had said the path to the left was known to be a false one, so Dhulyn and Parno turned right. The walls of the labyrinth closed out all sound from without, as if they had entered a tightly closed room and shut the door behind them. Dhulyn dropped immediately into the basic Hunter’s
Shora
, but that only made her more aware of the breathing of the horses and of the sound of her own heart, beating in time with Parno’s.

“The sun is shining.”

Dhulyn glanced behind her, but Parno was still only half a horse length behind. For a moment, he had sounded much farther away.

“I’m thinking you should ride beside me after all, my soul,” she said to him. “I do not like the way these walls flatten the sound of our voices.” She waited until he had come abreast of her, still looking upward at a morning sky as blue as a child’s eye.

“No blooded chance the sky cleared that quickly,” he said.

Dhulyn shot a quick glance upward before lowering her eyes to continue her careful examination of the route in front of them. “I think it’s warmer as well.”

“That might be nerves.”

Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile, still looking ahead.

The path turned again, and now the walls appeared older, the stones worn and covered in places with lichen and moss. Somewhere, Dhulyn could hear water dripping. Just past that spot, another path, this one walled in thick hedges of black walnut, met theirs on the right.

“Odds,” Parno called, holding up his fist.

Dhulyn held up hers as well. “One, two, three.” She held out two fingers, Parno four. “Your turn next,” she said, dismounting and pulling out her sword.

“Don’t go more than twenty paces,” Parno said. “If it’s not a dead end, come back for me.”

Dhulyn answered with a grin and a rude gesture. She was no more than three paces into the new path when it turned right. Raising her sword, she placed herself against the inside corner, crouched, and sent out her senses. Nothing. She could sense no breathing, no heartbeats, nothing. Nevertheless, she shot only a quick glance around the corner from her crouch, and only when she was satisfied that there was nothing to see did she proceed.

When it looked as though the path would turn right again Dhulyn stopped, frowning. This was not possible. Given the length of the sections of pathway, the direction in which she had been turning, if she turned right again, she should find herself back on the path behind—

Parno was in front of her. He had been leaning into the pathway she had taken, but as soon as she stepped out behind him, he spun to face her, sword up. Even the horses had turned to look at her.

“How—”

“Don’t ask.” She waved at the entrance she had just come out of. “There was no entrance here when we passed a moment ago, as you very well know.”

“But—”

“Parno.” At her warning Parno whirled back to face the direction they’d been heading in. The entrance he was standing next to, the one she’d followed away from the path they were standing on, was gone.

Her Partner grinned at her. “What do you say? Shall we both go this time?” He pointed at the new entrance.

“And end up behind ourselves?” Dhulyn looked ahead to where the entrance had been. “Or ahead of ourselves?”

“Carry on, then?”

“What else.” Dhulyn swung herself back into her saddle.

Perhaps twelve horse lengths farther along they came to a place where the path divided, and they must decide to go right or left. Dhulyn leaned out of the saddle and tapped with her fingertips at the wall closest to her. The stone was cold, as if the sun had only just now moved to shine on it.

“It’s the Path of the Sun, my soul, is it not?” she said.

“That’s what they keep telling us.” Parno’s tone was not as sour as his words. Warhammer tossed his head, and Parno leaned forward to stroke the horse’s neck. Bloodbone did no more than flick an ear at her fellow; she had always been the more phlegmatic of the two horses.

“The sun rises in the west and travels eastward until it sets.” Dhulyn pointed to the right-hand path. “That way leads almost precisely east.”

“According to the Scholars I had as a child,” Parno said, “the sun does not move; it is the earth that revolves, turning its face always away from and then toward the sun.”

Dhulyn turned to her Partner, her left fist propped on her thigh. “And that helps us how?”

Parno shrugged, but there was a ghost of a grin hovering around his mouth. “If this labyrinth was built by the Caids, as Gun suggests, they would certainly have known the true movements of the sun and earth.”

Dhulyn nodded. “Still, knowledge that does not help us can be put aside, I think. This is not literally the path of the sun, but we know that successful attempts to walk must start at sunrise. Perhaps as a working theory we can extend the metaphor so far as to take the paths that lead in the more easterly direction.”

Parno looked down the left-hand path, frowned, and looked down the right-hand one before nodding. “As a working theory then.”

Dhulyn’s theory worked long enough for them to become hungry and pull roasted chicken, hunks of bread baked that morning by the Tarkin’s cooks, and fruit out of their saddlebags. They had travel bread, and hard-cured strips of fish and meat in their packs; time enough to eat that when the fresh food ran out. Dhulyn was just taking a swig from her water flask when they approached another turning in the path. The stone and rock walls had gradually given way to dense cedar shrubbery, in places rough and straggly, in others trimmed as though by gardeners. Here the hedges looked as though they had been cut with a knife.