Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno (28 page)

“I see a green flag.” Now Epion was pointing off to the right.

“There are a few,” Gun said. “That shows where I Found something worth digging for, still buried under the surface. Once we’ve finished our preliminary survey, if enough underground artifacts are discovered, a full expedition will be mounted.”

“And will more Scholars come then from Valdomar?” Epion’s tone was neutral, but Gundaron had dealt with enough politically charged situations to know what the man was really asking.

“Oh, no,” he replied. “A site like this is far too important to be left to one particular Library. Bids for participation will be asked for from as many as might want to apply, and a final mix will be chosen from the total group of applications. By Valdomar Library in partnership with the court of Menoin,” he added. It was true, but it was also what Epion wanted to hear.

Even though he didn’t really need it, Gun checked the position of the golden line that led him along. He had recognized that inlaid pattern of moon and stars the moment he had seen it in the bowl, and now that he was here, he could have headed straight for the right spot, relying on his memory of the site alone.

“This way,” he said, leading Epion off the main road across what might very well have been a public square, toward where a green flag fluttered in the morning breeze. They walked over a section of stone pavement from which the dirt and grass had been partially removed, revealing the worn and broken remains of a large medallion set into the original paving materials, a medallion that incorporated the shapes of a blazing sun and the crescent moon. On the far side of this remnant, perhaps half a span farther away, was the green flag.

“Look,” Gun said, walking faster and pointing ahead. “Do you see that bush there? It’s been pulled out since Mar and I were here last.” What had been the beginning of a wide staircase—the one he had seen in the bowl—had been partly uncovered by him and Mar about a month earlier. Gun, looking for Caid artifacts in general, had Found something below the dirt, and so the square had been marked accordingly. But someone had been here since and had dug farther than he and Mar had gone, pulling aside even more of the growth and exposing a jumble of rocks that were too even to be anything but broken chunks of ancient paving.

“They built to last,” he said, tracing the layers of material with his fingertips. “You have to give them that.”

“What now?” Epion said.

“My line leads me right inside,” Gun said. “Obviously, whoever moved the bushes and shoved that flagstone over has hidden what we’re looking for in some underground vault of the Caids.”

“Let me,” Epion said, starting down the steps.

“Better not,” Gun said. “We don’t know what there is underground, and I may be the only one who can Find it.”

“Of course.” But Epion did not retreat back to the level of the old square. “But is it safe? Jo-Leggett,” he called to the guard who had accompanied them. “Come and stand here at the top of these steps. Keep a clear line-of-sight to your brother.” Epion pushed at a leaning bit of rock with both hands.

“Safe enough for whoever has been here before us,” Gun pointed out. “Where underground rooms have been found before, they’ve usually been quite stable. As I said, the Caids built to last, and whatever has not been exposed to the raw elements—”
and other things I won’t go into
, Gun thought with a shiver—“generally remains intact.” He looked back at Epion. “I don’t know how much room there will be underneath,” he said. And that was true enough. What the bowl had shown him—a small room lined with shelves full of books and scrolled documents—would not necessarily be exactly what was under their feet right now.

“Fine then, in you go.” Smiling, Epion dusted off his hands on his trousers, heedless of the embroidered linen. Of course, Gun thought as he shrugged off his pack and placed it carefully on the ground, it’s not as if the man had to launder his clothes himself.

Epion helped him shove one of the smaller pieces of paving to one side until a pointed opening was cleared, made by two stones leaning against each other. Crouching down, Gun duck walked under. The steps were gritty under his boots, and he had to pull his head down almost to the point of pain to fit into the opening. Only the gold line, now quite obvious and necessary in the darkened space, told him he could continue forward.

Eleven steps farther down, the grit was gone, and Gun was able to straighten out bit by bit, until he was almost upright. He still kept one hand over his head, in case of unseen obstacles. Finally there were no more steps, and the sound of his own footfalls echoed differently, and he realized he must be in the room he had seen in the bowl. He fumbled open the pouch attached to his belt, carefully pulling out his sparker and the stub of candle that he was never without.

He sparked, once, twice, and the oiled wick caught. Gun waited, eyes shut against the glare, until he could safely open them. There, laid out in front of him, was the room he had seen in the library. Here and now it was covered with dust, much of it, unfortunately, what was left of the books and scrolls that had slowly been disintegrating since the time of the Caids. Gun turned, careful not to disturb the dust any further. This room would have to be very carefully excavated if any of the ancient parchments were to be preserved.

“Can you see it?” Epion’s voice was startlingly close.

“Not yet. Someone’s been here, though. You can see where the dust’s been disturbed.”

“Can you tell who?”

“Maybe if I were a Mercenary Brother.”

Gun edged forward, pulling the neck of his tunic up over his nose to serve as a filter against the dust he couldn’t help raising. There. Exactly where he had seen it, only now, instead of standing on end, spine out, tucked in the middle of the row between other books, it was lying on its side, alone on a thick layer of dust. There was the gold spine, and the sunburst on the cover, glittering in the light.

“I see it.” Gun stepped forward, still taking care not to send up clouds of dust. He was reaching out for the book when a crunching, squealing sound came from the direction of the stairs, and a shift in the air almost blew out the candle. Gun turned, ignoring the dust, and raced back to the steps, bumping his head as he crawled back up the way he had come. It was not until he was actually touching the rock that his heart was convinced of what his brain had already told him.

The stones had moved. The exit was blocked.

The wind had picked up with the setting of the sun, making the horsehair tent ropes creak and the edges of both tents and ground sheets flutter. The tall grass in the distance, uneaten by the herds of horses or inglera, rustled, sounding like far-off rain. As Dhulyn lit the lamp, Parno glanced out the narrow tent opening and saw Star-Wind with the younger Horseman, both sitting on their heels, five or six paces away. Close enough to be of service, they were far enough off to show that they made no attempt to listen.
He’s a Mage, though
, Parno thought. There was no telling what he could and couldn’t hear.

“We’ll need a saw,” Dhulyn said under her breath. “Preferably one with very small teeth.”

“No.” Delvik’s hoarse whisper almost startled them; they had thought from his breathing he was asleep. They turned to find him with his eyes open. Parno crouched down on his heels, bringing himself eye-to-eye with the injured man.

“My Brother,” he said, “Dhulyn and I are not Knives, but we know how to remove a limb without loss of life.”

“No,” Delvik repeated. He licked his lips, and Dhulyn fetched a waterskin from the other pallet and held it for him to drink. Once he had wet his mouth, he spoke again.

“Do not take the leg.” His voice was stronger now. “Give me the Final Sword.”

Dhulyn kneeled down next to Parno, where Delvik could see her and hear her without having to move his head. “It is dangerous, what I plan, but it can be done. I can cut just above the knee,” she told him. “Any lower and I risk missing the path the poison has already taken.”

Delvik shook his head, and raised a hand that trembled. “If it were a hand,” he said, turning his over as of showing her what he meant. “I would accept your offered skill. A one-handed Brother can still serve. But a leg gone? A Mercenary Brother who cannot walk unaided? Who cannot ride?” He shook his head again. “It must be the Final Sword.”

“You could serve the Brotherhood in a House.” Dhulyn shifted her glance to Parno, who managed to meet her eyes steadily. His Partner’s face was neutral as always, pale skin showing a smudge of dirt on the left cheek, but he could see, from the little fold in the corner of her mouth and the darkening of her gray eyes, what Dhulyn was thinking. There were not many cripples in the Mercenary Brotherhood, and the few there were all served somewhere in a Mercenary House.

Delvik sketched a waving motion before his hand fell, limp, back to his side. “How could I serve? I cannot read,” he said. “I would not even be able to carry trays.”

“Perhaps a School—”

“No!” Somehow Delvik found the strength to grasp Dhulyn’s wrist. She let him. “Give me the Final Sword. It is my right.” His hand fell away again, his strength exhausted.

Dhulyn sat back on her heels, mouth set in a thin line. Parno watched her face. To someone else it might seem impassive, a typical Outlander’s face, but he knew how to read the tracks left by her emotions. Anger, Denial. Resignation. She was trapped by the Common Rule—he knew it, and she knew it. She had given Delvik every option, and three times he had asked for the Final Sword. As Senior Brother present, Dhulyn must abide by his choice. She rose to her feet and turned away, massaging the spot between her eyebrows with her left thumb.

“The Rule is common to us all, Delvik,” she said without turning around. “It shall be as you wish.” Dhulyn began to rummage in her belt pouch. “I have iocain leaves here, my Brother. They will make you more comfortable. Rest. I must speak with the elders of the Salt Desert People.”

Parno followed her out of the tent to where Star-Wind rose to meet them.

“Our Brother has the blood sickness,” Dhulyn told the Espadryni Shaman. “He will not let me take the leg, and without a Healer he will die.”

Star-Wind, lips pressed tightly together, looked away to survey the camp, then turned back to them. “In three days we move on; our herds need fresh grazing. We will leave you what supplies we can spare and the tent, but with respect, Mercenaries, we cannot carry your Brother with us.”

Parno looked to Dhulyn, but her eyes were focused in the middle distance, the small scar on her upper lip standing out white against her ivory skin.

“Thank you for your courtesy,” he said, when it became obvious Dhulyn could not speak. “But it doesn’t arise. Our Brother has asked for the Final Sword. Three times he asked, and so we must give it.”

The Horseman was already nodding. “Of course,” he said finally. “Can we assist in any way? Is there a ceremony?”

Parno thought that the Horsemen must have their own methods of dealing with whatever wounds and illnesses their Mages could not cure. The extremes of age, illness, weakness—these were things a mobile people could not tolerate for long. Still, he shook his head. “Thank you, but this is a matter for our Brotherhood. Dhulyn Wolfshead is Senior Brother and—”

“But it will not be she who kills him?” Star-Wind’s voice had hardened. He looked from Parno to Dhulyn and back again.

“She is Senior,” Parno repeated. “It is our Common Rule.”

But Star-Wind was shaking his head in short sharp movements. “To have a Marked woman kill . . .” He looked up and caught both their gazes. “Do you see? We have said that she is whole, and safe, and now she wishes to kill someone.”

Dhulyn cut through the air with her right hand. “Can you cure him? Can any of your Mages? He has asked for the Final Sword. I must give it to him. It is the oath that binds all of us.”

“Cannot Parno Lionsmane do it?”

“He is Senior to Delvik, but he is not the most Senior Brother present. I cannot even order him to do it. I must do it myself.”

“It is an act of mercy,” Parno said. “Surely, it would be more cold-blooded in her, more unfeeling, if she left him to die, to slowly rot away . . .”

Star-Wind was plucking at his lower lip with the thumb and first finger of his right hand, but he was nodding. Slowly, but nodding. “What you say is true. If it were one of the Seers, she might cut his throat without a qualm, but not for mercy. His pain and suffering would be as nothing to her—unless it was noise she wished to stop. But even then she would not kill him if there were cost to herself. She would as soon walk away.”

“Will your Elders, your people, see this the same way you do?” Dhulyn asked.

Star-Wind once more looked over his shoulder at where the rest of the camp were preparing for sleep. “We must hope that they do.” He turned back to them. “Do nothing now. This cannot be done with stealth, or in the night. This must be seen by Mother Sun.”