Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno

by Malan, Violette

  Alaria stumbled as she rounded the corner to the horse enclosure, and Dhulyn almost put out a hand to catch her by the elbow. Only the knowledge that finding someone so close to her would make the princess jump and squeal—something that was sure to frighten the horses—made Dhulyn hold back her hand. Instead, she waited until the younger woman had righted herself, entered the stabling enclosure, and shut the door behind her before following her into the warm, horse-scented darkness, this time making as much noise she could with the latches of the door.

  Even so, Princess Alaria gasped and spun round to face her, dropping the unlit lamp she’d taken from its niche to the right of the door, and causing the nearest horse to toss its head and shy backward.

  “So now, shhhhah shhhah,” Dhulyn crooned, stepping around the princess to hold the horse’s bridle, and stroke her hand down its long nose. The enclosure was a flimsy structure, meant as a temporary measure, and it wouldn’t take much for these high-bred horses to kick it to pieces if they became excited enough.

  “She should not let you touch her.” The girl’s tone was mixed, showing both her own awareness of their danger and surprised annoyance that Dhulyn was not being bitten or kicked to death.

  “Horses like me,” Dhulyn said. She released the animal with a final caress and stooped to retrieve the oil lamp. It was, as she’d expected, full of paste rather than oil and so had not spilled. She pulled her own sparker out of her belt and lit the wick.

  “I do not require your assistance,” Princess Alaria said, blinking in the light. “You may leave.” Her voice was now tight with anger. She had been frightened, true, and that was enough to anger anyone of spirit, but Dhulyn wondered whether there was more to the younger woman’s present emotion than that.

  “Setting aside the fact that my own horses are stabled here and that therefore I have as much right to enter as yourself, I am a Mercenary Brother and your bodyguard, and you cannot tell me where I may go. Quite the contrary.”

  “You are not my bodyguard.”

  The relative darkness allowed Dhulyn to raise her eyebrows unnoticed. Was that the way the wind was blowing? Did the younger princess resent the older one’s wedding? Had she hoped for something other, something better, than being another woman’s companion?

  “Our contract is to protect and deliver safely both yourself and your cousin.” Dhulyn set the lamp into its niche. “For myself and my Partner Parno Lionsmane, there is no distinction between you.”

  “You are Dhulyn then, Dhulyn Wolfshead?” Some of the tightness had disappeared from Alaria’s voice. It seemed curiosity was stronger than anger.

  “I am, and it is pronounced ‘Dillin.’ ”

  “You are a Red Horseman.” Blinking in the flickering light, Alaria gestured toward Dhulyn’s hair, the color of old blood.

  “I am a Mercenary Brother, Schooled on this very ship, as it happens. What I was before that is immaterial.”

  “But your family, your . . . your property.”

  Dhulyn shrugged, stepping past the princess to where her own horse, Bloodbone, was watching with interest. Dhulyn laid her forehead against the mare’s neck for a moment before answering. “The Brotherhood is my family. We own no property in the sense you mean it.”

  Alaria had turned to the second of the four white horses that had come aboard with the Arderon party and placed her hand on its nose. “So then. No horse herds, no fields, no pastures. But you must own something.”

  The girl’s back was rigid. Dhulyn hoped she wasn’t conveying her emotional state to the horse. It would be a great shame if any of the mares miscarried.

  “My weapons. My horse. My clothing. And of course, the most important item there is.” Dhulyn waited until Princess Alaria turned toward her, eyes wide in question. “Myself.”

  “Yourself.” Dhulyn had heard that tone before—envy. “You are free.”

  “Free to look for work every day, free to starve if I do not find it, free to be killed when my skill is no longer enough to keep me alive.”

  A rough gesture as Alaria turned back to the horses, combing imaginary tangles from a snow white mane with her fingers. “Oh, I know. I’m not a child, I know what being alone in the world would mean. But—” she twisted her head to face Dhulyn, careful to keep her hands steady in their stroking of the horse. “You would not give up that freedom to starve—not for land, nor wealth, nor children. Not even for your own horse herd.”

  “No,” Dhulyn said, blinking at the younger woman’s vehemence, and her own slight hesitation. “You are right, I would not. Nor would any of my Brothers. But the Brotherhood is not a life for everyone.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  What, another Arderon princess running from home? Dhulyn looked the girl up and down, studying what she could make out in the flickering light of the small lamp. Younger than she first appeared, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, Alaria was almost as tall as Dhulyn herself, long-limbed and healthy, as befitted a member of a Royal House, no matter how minor. Her hair was a dark gold, though not as dark as Parno’s, and was closely braided around her head like a helmet. There was not sufficient light for Dhulyn to see the color of Alaria’s eyes, but they seemed light. She carried a long dagger sheathed at her belt as well as the more common knife, and she wore an archer’s arm guard on her right wrist. Left-handed, Dhulyn noted automatically.

  “Why are you here?” she said aloud. “Not here in the stable,” she added. “Here on this boat?”

  “I could not let Cleona come alone.”

  Dhulyn lifted her brows. That had the ring of simple truth. She followed her cousin from love . . . or was there more to it than that? Dhulyn reflected. The two women had shown themselves friends in the way they sat together, talked, even laughing more than once. Was there more? “I know it’s unusual for a royal bride to bring an almost equally royal attendant with her,” was all Dhulyn said aloud. “You must have chosen to come. Leaving your family, your property.”

  “You left your people, Horse people the same as mine.”

  Dhulyn clenched her teeth, inhaling slowly and silently through her nose. This is what her curiosity brought. “The Tribes of the Red Horsemen were broken,” she said finally. “There is nothing left of them except myself.”

  For a moment the girl stood staring at her, shock making her face hard; then the lines of Alaria’s mouth softened, and she took a deep breath.

  “I’ve an older sister,” she said. “And for all that we’re cousins to the Tarkina, our House is a small one.” She grimaced, glancing at Dhulyn from under her brows. “Do you know what is meant by a ‘good marriage’?”

  Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile. She knew what such a thing would mean in woman-ruled Arderon. “Your marriage to some man who would bring wealth or property with him. Some rich woman’s son.” Dhulyn considered what she’d seen of Alaria’s discontent. “And denied marriage to someone else? Someone poorer, but preferred?” That might be reason enough for the girl to follow her cousin to Menoin.

  “Oh, no, I’m not in love with someone else. It was just—” Alaria stopped short, as if she suddenly realized what she had let slip. If she was not in love with another, someone clearly was. And who else was there but Cleona? Alaria had moved to the horse in the next stall. “Cleona is bringing these horses as her bride gift, each in foal to a different stallion, to reestablish herds on Menoin.” Alaria looked up, her face suddenly animated. “Did you know our horses came from there, originally, in the time of the Caids? There may still be remnants of those ancient herds in the mountain valleys. Think of it—to rebuild the lost stables of Menoin. That’s why I chose to come with Cleona.”

  “A decision all could accept.” Dhulyn nodded. “And a worthy ambition.” So the young woman was running to something, as well as running away. There was still an undercurrent of bitterness in Alaria’s voice when the girl spoke of her mother and sister, but her tone had warmed when her subject was her cousin or the horses. The young princess had made the right choic
e, even if a part of her still looked back over her shoulder to her mother’s House.

  “That is quite a good mare you have,” Alaria said finally. “May I ask where you got her?” A reasonable change of subject and a sign, as if Dhulyn needed one, that the time of confidences was over.

  “Far to the west of here, in the lands of the Great King. She is somewhat larger than mares are here in Boravia, as you can see.”

  “You wear much armor?”

  “Not much, no,” Dhulyn admitted. “But enough that my mount must be strong enough to carry me. And she’s battle-trained, you see, and must be prepared to fight as long as I do.”

  “She’s not your first horse.”

  “And with luck, won’t be my last.”

  “The other has been gelded. I suppose that was the man’s idea?”

  At this absurdity Dhulyn laughed outright, and she had the satisfaction of seeing another look of annoyance flash across the younger woman’s face. “Believe me, Princess Alaria. It’s no man’s first notion to geld anything—rather the opposite, in fact.” Now the look of annoyance deepened. “Stallions unwanted for breeding are frequently gelded, as you know, and especially if they are to be used as warhorses. And you may think what you like about most men, but only a fool undervalues my Partner.”

  Alaria shrugged, jerked her head in a parody of a nod, and walked out with only a muttered good night as farewell.

  “Well,” Dhulyn said to Bloodbone, “that could have gone easier.” Still it was a typical reaction: first the confidence, then the embarrassment. Alaria would likely avoid her for the rest of the trip. Dhulyn doused the lamp, making sure it was out by spitting on her fingers and touching them to the wick, and set the little pot of oil paste back on its shelf beside the door. She crooned a good night to the horses and let herself out, keeping pace with Alaria, though well back, until the younger woman let herself into the cabin she shared with Princess Cleona. Dhulyn found Parno, standing relaxed in the shadowed corner made by the wall of the fore cabins and the portside ladder—the best spot for watching the fore-cabin door and all approaches to it—and touched his arm. He touched her shoulder and shifted to one side as Dhulyn settled in next to him, feeling the wood still warm where he had been.

  “I found out what she’s been so stiff about. Not much wanted or valued at home, it seems, and has come to be with the only person who does want or value her.” Sensible, Dhulyn thought. And brave of the girl to face reality so squarely and act on it. But still. Hard to know that it was so easy for some to let her go.

  “She told you?”

  Dhulyn shook her head, relating the princess’ story in a few words. “You’d have got more out of her, I know. She professes not to think much of men—what Arderon woman does? But she’s of a High Noble House, practically royal, and that gives you more in common with her than I, whatever the Princess Alaria might think.”

  Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile, her lip curling back from the scar that marred it. She had been a Mercenary Brother since Dorian had rescued her from the hold of a slaver’s ship. House manners and pretty speeches did not come easily to her.

  “I’m still surprised you asked her anything at all. It’s not like you to be curious about a young woman’s private life.”

  “The last time we let one of our charges keep something private, we were taken captive and almost killed.” Even Dhulyn could hear the dryness in her tone. “I’ll admit it’s hard to see how these princesses could be involved in the disappearance of our two Brothers, but this marriage was contracted for before they vanished,” Dhulyn said. “We cannot rule them out entirely, not just yet.” She looked up at her Partner. “What of the other one? It seems she may be in need of sympathy and comfort, considering the role she’s about to take on, especially if, as the young cousin implied, she leaves love behind her.”

  “What makes you suggest I was thinking of comforting her?”

  Dhulyn looked at her Partner sideways, trying not to smile. “You’re always thinking of comforting someone.”

  “That’s because you never need any.” Parno pressed his shoulder against hers, and Dhulyn answered his pressure with her own.

  “You’re all right then, being back here in your old School? I wonder how I would feel, to be back in the mountains with Nerysa.” The tone was light, but Dhulyn felt the reality of Parno’s concern under it.

  “This was my home for many years, after I thought I would never have a home again,” she said, knowing that Parno would understand. “But watching these youngsters, here where I used to be one,” she shrugged. “It only makes me feel old.”

  “Old? You?” Parno spoke almost loudly enough for the man at the wheel to hear. “You’ll never be old, my heart. Now me, I was born ancient.”

  “If it were not for the cover it gives you to enter Menoin without questions, I would tell the Princess Cleona to find another ship.”

  Parno took his eyes away from the apprentices practicing signals—some close together, others as far apart as the narrow-beamed ship would allow—and eyed Dorian with interest. The irritation present in the man’s words was not noticeable in either tone or facial expression. At least, not that Parno could see. Dhulyn, of course, knew her Schooler much better, which was not to say that the man had no secrets. From what Dhulyn had told him, the first time Dorian had spoken to her, in the hold of the slave ship he’d rescued her from, it had been in her own language, the tongue of the Espadryni, known to the rest of the world as the Red Horsemen. Dorian had used that language only once more, on the day Dhulyn had passed from being a youngster apprentice to a Mercenary Brother. She had never asked her Schooler how he knew the language of a dead Tribe, and Dorian had never explained.

  “Princess causing trouble, is she?” Parno said now. “Well, isn’t ‘passenger’ another word for ‘trouble’?”

  “She is holding herself very stiff, very aloof, showing smiles only to the young cousin. Did I tell you Princess Cleona pretended at first not to know me?” Dorian said. He grinned at Parno, who couldn’t help shaking his own head and smiling back. Who could possibly see Dorian the Black Traveler and not know him again? “But when she saw that I was content to let that be, in no hurry to claim an acquaintance, she deigned to recognize me and introduce me to her young cousin.” He flicked his eyes toward where the two women were approaching with Dhulyn in close attendance behind them. “Watch how she calls me ‘Captain’ to make it less obvious that she is distancing herself from me in my capacity as Mercenary Schooler.”

  Parno hid his grin and came to his feet as the princesses approached.

  “Captain, seeing all your pupils thus occupied puts me in mind that neither my cousin nor myself have had weapons practice in some days. May we have partners from among your students?”

  Parno was not surprised when Dorian’s smile stiffened. The man was a Mercenary Schooler, first and foremost. To carry passengers as a cover for a secret mission was one thing—to have them spar with his youngsters was another. Parno had counted eleven apprentices when he and Dhulyn had come aboard the day before. Three were young women—two obviously sisters—one a man almost Parno’s own age, and of the seven younger men remaining, only two were not yet old enough to shave. The day before he had seen them drilling as a group—the Drunken Soldier Shora. From what Parno had seen, all eleven were more or less at the same stage of their Schooling—and therefore using white blades, not the dull, blackened practice swords.

  “As your bodyguard, Princess Cleona, I must suggest that you do not spar with any of the apprentices.”

  The princess lifted her eyebrows and blinked. “I saw them yesterday when we came aboard. They appear skilled enough to me,” she said in a tone that seemed to decide the matter. Her voice was rich and full, but Parno had yet to hear her speak with any real emotion. Was what Dhulyn suspected true? Had she left a love behind her, and did she show only her duty face to the world?

  “They are just skilled enough to kill you,” agreed Dorian. “But
not quite skilled enough to avoid killing you. To be sure there are no accidents, you must have opponents much more experienced than these.”

  “And if we use staffs or wooden blades?”

  “Princess, if you think you cannot be killed with a quarterstaff or a practice blade, then you are definitely not sparring with any of my apprentices.”

  “What about one of you bodyguards? Surely you must be sufficiently skilled.” There. There was some emotion. Princess Alaria had the same rich voice as her cousin, but it was spoiled by an undertone of impatience.

  Dhulyn caught Parno’s eye over their heads. Parno was careful to keep his own face from registering anything. She raised her right eyebrow and shrugged. Shall I do it? she was asking. Parno blinked twice. Go ahead.

  “I will spar at staffs with Princess Cleona,” Dhulyn said.

  “Excellent,” the princess said. “And Alaria can fight the winner.”

  But the younger woman was shaking her head. “Anyone who can best you at the staff, Cousin, will have no difficulty besting me. Make mine an archery contest, and I’ll agree.” Now Parno thought he detected a little eagerness in Alaria’s voice.

  Dhulyn was already dressed for combat in her loose linen trousers and vest quilted with patches of brightly colored cloth, bits of fur, lace, and ribbons, but Princess Cleona had some preparation to make. She began by lifting off the headdress she wore against the sun, revealing her golden hair tightly braided and clubbed to the back of her neck. Next came the waist harness bearing her knife and belt pouch, then her jewelry, and finally the princess toed off her bright green half boots. In the absence of boat shoes, bare feet would give her the best purchase on the deck.