Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno (33 page)

“You do not have any armor with you now,” pointed out one of the other young men.

“If we had brought our packhorse through the Path of the Sun,” Dhulyn said, “we could have shown you all of our weapons. As it is, we have only what seemed reasonable to bring with us.” She refrained from telling them that what seemed reasonable to a Mercenary Brother might seem excessive to a Horseman.

“Of what does this special training consist?” Star-Wind stepped forward, but not, Dhulyn noted, until it seemed there were to be no blows. He had reached out to stroke Bloodbone’s shoulder but had held back his hand when the mare turned to look at him. Dhulyn smiled again, this time careful to keep the scar from pulling her lip back.

“Well, now, I have the same Schooling as any Mercenary Brother, but each of us has his or her own special talent, and that of my Partner, Dhulyn Wolfshead, is horses.” Parno looked around him with a smile. “Something that should cause you no surprise.” He got some smiles in return, but there were also some uneasy sideways glances aimed her way. “I’ve practiced horse tricks many times, but if it’s a demonstration you’d like, it’s my Partner you should be asking.”

In a moment all eyes were on her.

“With or without saddle?” she asked.

“My heart,” Parno cut in. “In battle a saddle is always used.” He was giving her an out, a chance to show them the easier techniques. Dhulyn all but rolled her eyes.

“Of course, but I thought our friends would be interested in a more difficult demonstration.” Dhulyn scratched her left ear with her right hand and Parno raised his right eyebrow in acknowledgment.

“Well, then, without saddle by all means,” Star-Wind said.

Parno held up his hand for silence as his Partner stroked Bloodbone’s nose and, catching the mare’s head between her hands, rested her forehead against the horse’s face.

I hope you know what you’re doing, my heart
. He’d seen and recognized the signs of Dhulyn’s impatience and frustration growing in her since the night before. Very rarely did her temper get the better of her, but when it did, Parno had learned to watch out. He knew of no one more skilled on horseback than his Partner, but any Mercenary knew that anger made you stupid and that stupidity led to mistakes.

Dhulyn was breathing deeply now, and Parno had hopes that she was using a
Shora
to help her concentrate—or even to keep an even temper.

“Women have no magic over horses,” the one called Scar-Face said, the sneer in his voice just below the surface.

“Where there is love and trust, there is no need of magic,” Parno answered. Star-Wind made a sign, and Scar-Face fell silent, but his tightly pressed lips showed his disapproval.

Dhulyn took a final deep breath and stroked her hand down Bloodbone’s nose. The mare tossed her head and breathed into her mistress’ face. Smiling, Dhulyn swung herself onto Bloodbone’s back.

“I’ll begin with the easy steps,” she said. Her voice was quiet and tranquil, and it was hard to be sure she spoke to the men and not the horse. “Is there a short piece of rope to hand?” When one had been found and tossed to her, Dhulyn wrapped an end around each hand and held her arms up over her head.

“What does she do?” Star-Wind asked.

“She shows you that she is not directing the horse with any action of her hands,” Parno said. “The point is that in battle, you may need both hands for your weapons.” He turned to the young shaman. “I’m certain you are all skilled at guiding your horses with just your knees.”

“To be sure, there is nothing new in that,” Star-Wind agreed.

“Then watch.”

For Dhulyn the easy steps consisted in showing her fine control over Bloodbone’s motion and her own excellent balance. She stood on the mare’s back as Bloodbone trotted, then galloped, back and forth, turning first one way then the other. She lay prone on the mare’s back, then hid herself from their view by hanging down Bloodbone’s side. At one point she stopped, looking around her, and had Bloodbone kneel. Suddenly, they both disappeared from view.

“What is this? Who has done this?” Star-Wind looked around him outraged, clearly expecting some trick on the part of one of the better shamans among the other Horsemen.

“Wait,” Parno said. He pulled his chanter out of his belt and gave three long whistles. Immediately Dhulyn and Bloodbone popped up from behind the crest of grass, which had been hiding them in a shallow depression, and were thundering down toward the gathered men, Dhulyn whooping out a war cry and swinging the piece of rope around her head like a battle-ax. Suddenly, without lowering her hands, she stopped short, and Bloodbone spun first one way and then the other, as if dodging unseen foes. Then Dhulyn had Bloodbone move forward with a peculiar hopping gait, hooves kicking out before her.

“If there were men on the ground, they would fall beneath those hooves,” Star-Wind said. “And Dhulyn Wolfshead could be striking out at those farther away. I begin to understand.”

“Wait, there’s more.”

At the unseen signal, Bloodbone leaped straight up into the air like a cat and struck out sideways with all four metal-shod hooves. She spun and did it again, and again.

Parno shrugged apologetically. “Doesn’t look like much here, it’s a little more impressive in the field of battle.”

Star-Wind gave a whoop and slapped Parno on the shoulder. “You are a very funny man, Parno Lionsmane, very funny. Not look like much? Mercenary, it is impressive enough, believe me. Can you train our horses to do such things?”

“It takes a long time,” Dhulyn said, walking Bloodbone nearer. “And the rider must be trained as closely as the horse. Yours aren’t shod,” she added, sliding off Bloodbone’s back and tossing the reins to one of the boys now jostling each other to catch them. “That makes a deal of difference to the damage that can be done. But you must ask yourself, Star-Wind, whether the nature of your enemies and the battles that you fight justify such an expenditure of time.”

Star-Wind nodded, tongue tapping his upper lip. “It is pretty, though, isn’t it?”

“As pretty as killing people ever is.”

“
G
UN.” Mar touched her sleeping husband softly on the cheek, waited until he’d blinked his eyes open and focused on her face before she stood up and went to open the shutters on the day. Half the morning had gone, and she’d waited as long as she could, expecting at any moment that Epion would appear at their door, but evidently the Tarkin’s uncle had duties that kept him occupied this morning. If only he’d had such duties the day before—though according to what he’d said, in a manner of speaking, he had.

Mar resisted the urge to go back and help Gun out of bed, to touch him again. They’d spent the whole night wrapped together, and it still hadn’t quite managed to dispel the dread she’d felt the day before when hour after hour had passed and Gun still hadn’t returned. They’d not been apart since they’d met, not since Imrion, not even in the Library at Valdomar, since Scholars recognized marriage as well as other forms of partnering.

“This tunic’s shrunk,” Gun said from inside the folds of blue linen.

“That’s because it’s mine.” Gently Mar helped Gun get his head out of her spare tunic and handed him his own. One of the things she greatly enjoyed about being a Scholar was that their dress was decided for them, blue tunic with their Library crest on the shoulder, brown leggings, a brown hood when the weather called for it, and a black cap for formal occasions. It didn’t hurt that blue was a good color for her. Though a cousin of a High Noble House, Mar had been fostered with a family of weavers, and while she had a respect for and a knowledge of good cloth, she had little understanding of and less interest in the nobility’s preoccupation with fashion.

“There,” she said, giving Gun’s tunic a last pull to straighten it into place. “We’ve fruit, ganje, and biscuits in the sitting room.”

“A person could get used to this,” Gun said. He started to stand up, groaned, and sat back down on the edge of the bed.

“Muscles sore?” Mar said with sympathy.

“I don’t think I’ll need a Healer.” His voice was so solemn Mar couldn’t be sure he wasn’t joking.

She’d let Gun sleep, knowing that both body and mind needed rest after his ordeal the day before, but she’d had a couple of hours with nothing to do but think over their position in the face of what Epion had told them, and she kept herself from fidgeting while Gun ate his breakfast by force of will alone.

He glanced up from spooning fig preserves onto his third biscuit and must have seen something of what she was feeling on her face.

“Do we believe him or not?” he asked around the bite of food in his mouth.

“Gun, did you tell Epion it was a book you were looking for?”

Gun’s jaws froze in the action of chewing, but his head was slowly shaking from side to side. “I don’t think so,” he said after swallowing. “We told Alaria, though. Might she have told him?”

Mar frowned. She’d been hoping for a more definite answer. “What about all the details of the mutilation, the differences between the bodies? Were Epion and Falcos even in the room when we were talking about that?”

Gun was rubbing his upper lip again, a sure sign of distress. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember. I can see why you ask. If we knew he
hadn’t
been told about the book, or the mutilations, it would mean he has guilty knowledge, the kind he could only have if he were somehow involved in the killings. As it is ...”

Mar sighed. “As it is, we’re no closer to that answer than we were last night.” She leaned toward him, shoving the plate of fruit closer to him. “But I think I know what we should do first.”

“And from the look on your face, it isn’t finding Epion.”

Mar leaned back in her chair, nodding. “We still have to tread carefully, but maybe not as carefully as Epion implied. Think about this: We have our own standing here, through our Scholars’ Library, and our permission to dig in the ruins comes directly from the Tarkinate. If Falcos wanted to get rid of us, all he’d have to do is rescind that permission, and we’d have no choice but to return to Valdomar. There’s no need to kill us.”

“So if we are in danger,” Gun said, “it isn’t because of who or what
we
are.”

That was the great thing about Scholars, the path of logic wasn’t a strange journey for them. “We’re only
here
, in the palace I mean, because of Princess Alaria, so whatever this is, it touches her more than it does us.”

“So we go to Alaria.” Gun wiped his mouth and hands on the napkin provided and started to stand, winced, and pushed himself upright with his hands on the edge of the table. “I only hope there’s no riding today,” he said. “I don’t think my muscles could take it.”

Fortunately, it was only a step from their rooms to the Tarkina’s apartments, or the abuse Gun’s muscles had taken the day before might have been tested further.

There were two guards outside the door to the Tarkina’s suite instead of the one Mar expected. Still, one of them was Julen, wearing the crest that marked her as one of the Tarkin’s personal guard, and the other—an unfamiliar older man in an unadorned Palace Guard tunic—merely raised his eyebrows when Julen nodded to them and led them through into the anteroom of the Tarkina’s chambers. She opened the inner door.

“The Scholars of Valdomar, my lords,” Julen said.

They were clear of the doorway and into the room before the word really registered and Mar understood why there had been two guards at the hall door.

“Lord Tarkin,” she said as soon as she’d gathered her wits. “Lady.”

The strange thing was that Falcos and Alaria each had much the same look on their faces. Not the besotted, “I’m not thinking straight” look of new lovers, nor yet the strained, “I’m just here because my position requires it” look of people who are making the best of what their duty demanded. Rather this was the look of people who had been interrupted while discussing something apart from themselves, something serious.

Something that worried them.

“I am pleased to see you looking so well, Gundaron of Valdomar,” Falcos said. There was a slight smile on his beautiful mouth and a twinkle in his eye. “From what the Lady of Arderon has been telling me, it was not so sure a thing. When did you return, and what delayed you?”

Mar bit at her lower lip. Of course she’d been unable to hide her fears from Alaria the day before, and the princess had no reason not to share the story with the Tarkin.
Relax
, she told herself. Even if everything Epion had told them about Falcos was the truth, it appeared that Falcos still meant to play his part.

“You should have come to me yourself, Mar-eMar, and not left things to chance. I know you may not be accustomed to palace life, either of you, but, please, next time take a guard or at least a page with you when you leave the city. Though the Caids know, there was no safety in numbers for the Princess Cleona. What was it that took you out alone, Scholar?”

So, the Tarkin was pretending not to know that Epion had gone with Gun to the ruins. Mar pressed her lips together. Who to trust, who to believe? Falcos looked open and honest enough, and Alaria—who had not struck Mar as a fool—certainly seemed to trust him. Dhulyn Wolfshead had not liked Epion, she remembered. Was that enough to guide her?

“Mar, what is it?” Alaria rose and approached her, touching her on the arm.

She knew what Dhulyn Wolfshead would do in this spot, Mar thought. The Mercenary Brother would simply say what she thought. She’d say that more trouble and confusion was caused by people hiding their thoughts and being afraid to find things out than by any other thing.

“It’s Epion,” she said, watching Falcos closely. His face changed. She saw resignation, and a touch of what she thought might be despair. She did not see fear of discovery, annoyance at having his plans upset, or even calculation.