Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno (27 page)

“Father,” Star-Wind said. His tone was gentle, but formal, which told Dhulyn the younger man was indeed the Cloud Shaman’s apprentice, as he had implied. “Here are the guests sent to us by Singer of the Wind, the Long Trees Tribe. The Mercenary Brothers Dhulyn Wolfshead and Parno Lionsmane. Mercenaries,” Star-Wind turned to face them. “These are Singer of the Grass-Moon, Senior Cloud Shaman, and Spring-Flood, Horse Shaman to the Salt Desert People.”

The strongest and the weakest Mages, Dhulyn thought. The Cloud Shaman was shorter than the men around him, though it may have been from age. His eyes were faded to the palest of blues, and his hair was entirely white. The Horse Shaman was a vigorous man of middle years, well-muscled and with the greenest eyes Dhulyn had ever seen.

The old man beckoned her forward with a gnarled hand and looked Dhulyn in the eyes, considering her with his head on a slant. “From beyond the Door of the Sun?” he said. His voice had a hollow whistle to it, as if lungs or throat had been punctured.

“Yes, Grandfather,” she said. Good thing that patience was part of the Common Rule, Schooled into all Mercenaries, otherwise this constant questioning on the same topic would very soon grow annoying.

He reached out to touch her face, brushing away the few stray hairs that had escaped from her braiding and fallen over her cheek. Dhulyn held still, blinking slowly. She felt Parno’s tension to her right.

“I had thought my old friend, Singer of the Wind, must be deceived, perhaps even magicked in some way, but I see that I was mistaken. You are welcome, my child. Very welcome.” Having said this, however, the old man turned back into his tent, leaving them standing.

Spring-Flood turned away from the tent opening and held both hands high above his head in a command for attention. “Listen everyone,” he called out. Though he hadn’t raised his voice very much, many had come closer as the old man was examining Dhulyn, and everyone now gave the Horse Shaman their attention. One or two of the women, tending to their own concerns, were nudged by their neighbors until they either stood or turned to watch.

“These are the Mercenary Brothers we were told of, Parno Lionsmane and Dhulyn Wolfshead. It is as we have been told, the Wolfshead is whole and safe. She may be treated as a woman of fields and cities, though you will see she is dressed as a warrior and belongs to the same Brotherhood as our other guest, Delvik Bloodeye.”

Eyes turned toward her, some narrowing in calculation, others with simple curiosity.

Parno cleared his throat, and Dhulyn signaled him with a lift of her left eyebrow. For all that the Horsemen appeared to be willing to follow the guidance of their chiefs and accept her, they would still probably feel more comfortable dealing with a man.

“If we might see our Brother now,” Parno said to the Shaman.

“Of course. Star-Wind will escort you. Consider him your guide as you stay among us.”

Or our guard
, Dhulyn thought. Judging from the blandness of his expression, Star-Wind had already known what his assignment was to be. Doubtless why he had been one of the scouts sent to meet them.

The Mercenary Brother Delvik Bloodeye had been given a small round tent not far from the central fires. No one stood guard, Dhulyn noticed, and the tent flap was tied back. A lamp, smelling oddly of inglera fat, had already been lit inside. There was another smell, a familiar one that made Dhulyn grit her teeth. She nodded her thanks to Star-Wind, ducked her head, and entered the tent. Parno stopped in the doorway and turned so that he could watch both outside and in.

Crammed into the round space were two pallets with a low stool between them, the collapsible kind made with three thick sticks of wood, a piece of hide and some thongs. The pallets were no more than layers of bedding and skins spread over piles of cut grass. The bed to the left held a man whose skin was sallow under his tan. Even lying down it was obvious he was a huge man, easily a full head taller than Parno and almost twice as big around. At the moment, however, what drew Dhulyn’s notice was the sweat on his skin and the way his mouth twisted from side to side.

The young man on the stool leaped to his feet as they entered, his blood-red hair tied back with a scrap of thong. He stared at Dhulyn round-eyed, warily taking in her Mercenary badge before looking beyond her to Parno and Star-Wind.

“He is comfortable,” the young man said. “We have dealt with most of his pain, but the fever we cannot keep away; always it returns.”

Dhulyn placed the back of her fingers against her Brother’s damp brow. He was fevered, no doubt of it. “You are Delvik Bloodeye,” she said, recalling the information Dorian of the River had given them back on the Black Traveler. “Called the Bull, and Schooled by Yoruk Silverheels. I am Dhulyn Wolfshead, called the Scholar, Schooled by Dorian the Black Traveler. I’ve fought at Sadron, Arcosa, and Bhexyllia. With me is my Partner, Parno Lionsmane, called the Chanter, Schooled by Nerysa Warhammer.”

“You’re Senior,” Delvik said, his voice like a thread.

“I am. What happened?” she asked, not that she needed more than the smell to tell her the worst of it.

“We were heading north—well, south in this place—”

“We understand,” Parno said from the doorway. “And we know why you are here. Take your time, my Brother.”

Delvik Bloodeye shut his eyes, took two deep breaths and released them slowly. When he opened his eyes, he was visibly calmer, his eyes clearer. “As you know, my Brothers, there is no mark of any trail when you have completed the Path of the Sun, but our Brother Kesman Firehawk saw prey birds to the south and reasoned there might be water, so we went that way.” Delvik continued, telling how they had found water, but nowhere the marks of the killer they sought. How they had finally met with a trader who had directed them to the camp of the Salt Desert Horsemen.

“It was while we were on our way here that we crossed another trail, one that we finally recognized, though it was faint. So far as we could tell, it headed back toward the Path of the Sun, or at least where we had been when we came out of the Path. It was as we followed this trail that the ground opened beneath us, and we fell into a pit filled with stakes of wood, sharpened.”

“It is an orobeast trap,” Star-Wind said. “A fierce cat that during bad seasons will come down out of the western hills to follow our herds. We leave them uncovered and unstaked, and therefore safe, unless there is news of such a beast. We do not know who armed this one, or why.”

“Someone who realized he was being followed, perhaps,” Dhulyn said.

“It worked well enough,” Delvik said. “Kesman was killed instantly, a stake passing through his body. I watched him die and was resigning myself to the same fate, since I was under my horse and could not free my leg from the stake that held me, when I heard the sounds of hoofbeats, and the Red Horsemen found me.”

Dhulyn drew back the covering and hissed when she saw Delvik Bloodeye’s leg. “What has been done?” she asked.

“Singer of the Grass-Moon saw to him, and at first it seemed that all was well,” Star-Wind said. “And then these lines began to draw themselves upon his skin, and his toes began to darken.”

“And the Mages can do nothing more for him?” As the young man’s face changed, Dhulyn added, “I mean no disrespect. I ask out of ignorance of your abilities.”

“They’ve tried, my Brother, I swear they have.” Delvik’s voice shook and his breath was momentarily shallow. He’d seen his birth moon perhaps thirty-five times, Dhulyn estimated, and had probably never been seriously ill a day in his life. He must have gone late into his Schooling to be junior to both her and Parno. He was looking better now than when they had first come into the tent, but Dhulyn knew that this was only from relief, now that he knew he wasn’t going to die alone, away from home and with no Brothers around him.

“They knit the bone,” Star-Wind was saying. “But this poison of the blood—” he shook his head. “We cannot cure that.”

“I know this to be true,” Delvik added. “It almost killed the old man when he tried. And as old as he is, he’s still the best Mage they have.”

“I am second to Grass-Moon,” Star-Wind said, “And lucky to be half the Mage he is, when it comes my time to Sing.”

“We must get him back through the Path of the Sun,” Dhulyn said. “Somehow, we must get him back.” She looked at Parno over the young Brother’s head. “Without a Healer, he will die.”

“We won’t get him back in time, Dhulyn my heart, you know that.” Parno spoke softly, but firmly.

“Then we must take the leg.”

I
T WAS A lucky thing, Gundaron thought, that he had taken the most sedate of their three ponies and that the trail to the Caid ruins was so familiar. Otherwise he might find that riding and having to make conversation with Epion Akarion at the same time was too much to handle. As it was, he considered himself lucky not to have fallen off somewhere along the way. He had expected Mar to come with him as usual, but she had reasoned that one of them had to stay with Alaria. He would never have chosen Lord Epion as his companion, but once the Tarkin’s uncle had discovered where Gun was going—and why—there had been no way to refuse his offer to come along.

“This concerns the Tarkinate,” was the argument the man had put forward. “And my family in particular. Falcos cannot possibly spare the time to go, but I can and will.”

Gun had agreed as graciously as he could and had taken some secret amusement in making the older man, and the two guards he brought with him, keep their horses to the pony’s pace. The guards, Gun couldn’t help but notice, were dressed in what he’d come to think of as Epion Akarion’s colors. Instead of the black tunic with purple sleeves that identified the Palace Guard, these men wore blue tunics, with only one purple sleeve. He should change that, Gun thought. These men could so easily be mistaken for the City Watch, in their solid blue uniforms.

The pony suddenly shied to the left, and Gun clamped his knees together as he felt himself slipping and then had to grab the pony’s mane as she shot forward.

“You will find,” Epion said, his voice gentle and his tone warm, “that the animal has been trained to increase speed when you press on its sides with your knees.”

Gun stifled a curse. He’d left his father’s farm to go into a Scholars’ Library and had foolishly thought he’d be leaving all beasts behind him at the same time. “I thought it better not to fall off,” he said to Epion. “Of course, it would help if the stupid animal didn’t jump at dry leaves blowing across the path.”

“She is testing you,” Epion said, still with the same gentle humor. “And I’m very much afraid she’s finding you wanting.”

Gun laughed. He knew that Mar didn’t like Epion, but Gun didn’t think the man was so bad. An amateur’s enthusiasm was sometimes hard for a Scholar to take, but enthusiasm was all it was, he was sure. “I wouldn’t be much of a Scholar if I could be thrown off my path by someone’s looking down on me,” he said. “Not even the most superior of ponies—” or of nobles, he thought inwardly “—can compare with the upper Scholars and teachers of a Library when it comes to snubbing and finding people wanting. Any student who can’t take being made to feel inferior soon goes home.”

Finally Gun reached the spot where he and Mar usually tied up their ponies, and the beast would go no farther. There was soft grass here, and once upon a time someone had moved rocks around to turn a trickle of water into a tiny pond. Gun heaved a leg over the pony’s back and thumped to the ground.

“Did you bring your scryer’s bowl?” Epion asked. He looked with interest at Gun’s pack.

“Now that I know
what
to look for, I don’t need the bowl,” Gun explained. “Any more than I would need it to Find Menoin, or this pony, or any other known object, for that matter.” He removed the pony’s saddle and set it on a convenient rock. The beast bumped him companionably with her nose, and Gun, careful of the creature’s teeth, obliged her by taking off the bridle. It was only then that he remembered Mar was not with him to put it back on. Perhaps one of Epion’s guards would do it for him. The taller one, the one with the crossbow, stayed on his horse, but the shorter one with the dark beard dismounted to accompany them.

“I realize that you now know what to look for.” Epion had dismounted from his own horse and tossed the reins to the taller guard, without doing anything else to make the horse more comfortable. Obviously he didn’t expect this to take very long. “But how does that tell you where it is?”

Gun looked a little upward, and a little to his left, at the thin gold line no one but he—or perhaps another Finder—could see. Not unlike the golden sunbeam that had guided him through the Library in his mind, the line would lead unerringly toward the book he was looking for, until he either found it or stopped looking. Really experienced Finders, those who made it their full-time occupation, didn’t need this kind of clue, but Gun didn’t feel he was at that stage yet.

“There’s a line,” he said to Epion. “As though it were painted on the air, that I can follow.” He hoisted his small pack, waited politely for Epion to say or do something further and then set off down the path, following the golden line as it led to the edge of the ruins. Here he turned north and east, heading down a wide flat area with obvious—to the trained eye—smooth patches.

“Mar-eMar and I think this was one of the main boulevards of the Caid city,” he told Epion as they walked. “These large flat areas are the remnants of paving. There are better examples than these, of course; some of the ones on the Blasonar Plains are almost intact under the grass.”

“And these little flags?” Epion pointed to the left.

“They mark the grids of our search squares,” Gun said. “Each one is attached to a metal rod that has been driven into the ground, blue for areas we’ve finished with, red for those we have still to investigate and catalog.” Gun thought Epion’s interest was genuine. After all, the man had tried to direct their research when they’d first arrived, and while he hadn’t come to the site very often, Gun thought that was likely because Mar had made it plain he wasn’t welcome—or as plain as you can make such a thing to the Tarkin’s uncle. Not that Mar was in the wrong, Gun quickly brought his thoughts back into loyal lines. The last thing any Scholar needed was interference from someone who wasn’t even technically their patron. Gun shivered. He’d had enough previous and unlucky experience with people who wanted to guide his researches to last him a lifetime. Just as well Epion had learned to keep his distance. Until now at least.