Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno

by Malan, Violette

  “Is there any part of the body you do not want bruised?” Dhulyn hefted the staff Dorian tossed to her and took her grip, right hand in the center, left hand halfway between that and the end of the staff.

  For the first time Princess Cleona looked uncertain. If there had not been so many people already gathering to watch, Parno would have wagered the princess would have made some excuse to back out. But give the woman her due, she narrowed her eyes and took up her stance.

  “Face, hands, shoulders,” she said, with only the slightest tremor in her voice. “Everything else will be covered by the wedding garments.”

  Cleona knew her way around a quarterstaff, that much was obvious. It was a common enough weapon for nobles to be taught, even where it was not the custom for women to become soldiers. That was not the case in Arderon, if Parno remembered his tutor’s lessons correctly. Two or three generations back there had been an uprising of the then predominantly male army, put down only with great difficulty—and help from the Mercenary Brotherhood—by the then Tarkina. None of that ruler’s successors had made such a simple mistake again. Now more than half of all the soldiery in Arderon, including guard troops, was female.

  Dhulyn and the Princess Cleona circled each other, looking for openings. The Black Traveler was moving smoothly, at least compared to what she and Parno had experienced on the Long Ocean, but it was obvious from the way Princess Cleona swayed and shifted her feet that she didn’t have her sea legs quite yet.

  Parno was beginning to regret that he hadn’t opted to do this himself. There were two paths for Dhulyn to choose between. Deal with the princess quickly and cleanly—much harder to do when the object was to leave her uninjured and alive—or draw out the match to make the woman feel as though she was considered a worthy opponent. The latter was certainly the diplomatic pathway—but when it came to her Mercenary skills, Dhulyn was rarely diplomatic.

  The princess struck first, a feint to the knee followed by a blow aimed at the head, which Dhulyn neatly parried with as small a movement as the staffs allowed. His Partner showed no excessive speed or knowledge, Parno noted as the bout progressed, matching herself carefully to the princess’ abilities. Parno began to breathe more easily; it seemed Dhulyn would after all remember that she was a bodyguard—and whose body she was guarding.

  Another exchange of blows, much faster this time, and Princess Cleona’s lips began to curve into a smile. Out of the corner of his eye Parno saw Dorian purse his lips and give his head a tiny shake, and he almost smiled himself, thoroughly understanding. The princess had forgotten where she was, and who she was fighting. That kind of confidence would lose her the match.

  Dhulyn blocked a sudden jab to her ribs with the shod end of the staff and tapped the princess on the left side of her leg, just above the knee. Parno glanced at Dorian, but from the sparkle in the Schooler’s eye, he’d caught it, all right. Had Dhulyn struck the knee itself with that much force, she would have broken it. As it was, she had badly bruised the muscle of the princess’ thigh, and at any moment—there, the leg almost gave under her. Dhulyn stepped back, holding her staff across her body.

  “I think you have pulled a muscle, Princess,” she said, speaking slowly and with great clarity. “Further exercise may cause more serious damage.”

  Eyes wide, Princess Cleona looked from Dhulyn’s staff to where her own hand had gone instinctively to her leg. She gave Dhulyn the minutest of nods. “Yes, you are right, thank you,” she said. She handed her staff to one of her own servants and accepted Parno’s hand to guide her to the nearest seat, a small bench that ran along under the ship’s port rail.

  “Will you rest, Dhulyn Wolfshead, or shall Alaria fetch her bow?”

  “I can rest while the Princess Alaria fetches her bow and my Partner fetches mine.”

  “We shall have a simple target, first,” Dorian suggested when Alaria returned carrying with her one of the shorter southern bows, useful for shooting from the back of a horse. The one Parno had fetched out of Dhulyn’s large pack was much the same type, only made to be broken down into pieces for storage and traveling. Dhulyn nodded in satisfaction when she saw it.

  “Perfect, my soul. The longbow would not have been an even match.”

  “There is no better bow than the horse bow of Arderon,” Princess Alaria said.

  “For mounted shooting, certainly,” Dorian said. “But the longbow has its place as well. Mercenary Brothers are Schooled in five types of bow.”

  “Five? I know of only three types,” Princess Cleona said from her seat by the rail.

  “Nor will you learn of any others from me,” Dorian said, softening his words with a bow.

  “I am not counting crossbows,” the princess said.

  “Nor am I.” Dorian smiled and turned to Dhulyn and the younger princess. “You know the target, my Brother,” he said to Dhulyn. “Will you explain?”

  Dhulyn looked up from the last metal fastening of her bow and stood. “Do you see where the forward mast has been painted white,” she said to Princess Alaria and waited for the girl’s nod. “We’ll each have three shots at that. If we make all three,” Dhulyn glanced sideways at Dorian, “things will become more interesting.”

  A tossed coin landed Ships and decided that Alaria would shoot first. Parno watched the girl carefully and saw that, like her older cousin, she had been well-trained. She knew enough to allow for windage, and she had evidently shot from horseback enough to accommodate herself to the swaying motion of the ship. She held the first shot too long—Parno thought at any moment to see her wrist tremble—but the arrow went smoothly into the white. Now that she had the range, the second and third shots went more quickly. All three were well-centered, and all struck within the space that could be covered by a large man’s hand.

  Alaria smiled as she stepped back, the first relaxed smile Parno had seen from her.

  Dhulyn, face carefully impassive, stepped into position, slipped two arrows into the back of her belt and held the third in her right hand as she rolled her shoulders. At Dorian’s nod she lifted her bow and took her first shot, reached behind her and took the second, reached once more and took the third. Her arrows appeared above Alaria’s, in a precise vertical line, each three finger widths apart from the others.

  Alaria looked from the target to Dhulyn and back again. “You did not say what grouping you wanted,” she said. Parno wasn’t sure he could hear a tremor in her voice, but she had stopped smiling.

  “Yours are well grouped,” Dhulyn said. “I think, Dorian, that there is no point in our using the single ring, since the princess can space her arrows so well. Let us go directly to the three rings.”

  Dorian signaled, and three of the apprentices who had gathered to watch, the older man and the two sisters, scrambled to obey. Between them they removed the used arrows and attached a short wand to the mast. From this wand they suspended three rings on braided thongs in such a way that they would line up behind each other. Each ring was about the size of the supper plates one would be given in an inn, perhaps as wide as a man could spread his fingers.

  “We will have to shoot through them all and hit the mast,” Dhulyn said to the princess.

  Her eyes narrowed, Alaria studied the rings before nodding. Parno could almost read her thoughts. The rings were wider than the spacing of Alaria’s three arrows; she felt she’d have no trouble with them.

  “Are you ready?” Dorian asked. When he had collected nods from both Dhulyn and Alaria, he turned back to his waiting apprentices. “Start them swinging.”

  Alaria stood, openmouthed, looking from the swinging rings to Dorian and back again. Finally she closed her mouth, lips in a thin line. “It can’t be done,” she said. “It’s not possible.” She turned to Dhulyn. “You can’t mean ...” Princess Alaria fell silent at a gesture from her cousin.

  The rings had already started to slow down, and Dhulyn signaled to the apprentices to start them up again. She stood apparently relaxed, the slightest of smiles on her
face, but Parno knew she was chanting to herself, a meditating Shora. She would concentrate on the rings, not the mast. If the rings lined up, she would have the mast. Her face relaxed, nothing existed for her now but the ship, the rings, the wind. Parno closed his hands into fists. A murmur of a voice from among the watching crew. A gesture from Dorian and the crew member slunk away, shamefaced and silent. Dhulyn showed no sign of having noticed it. She released the breath she was holding and let fly.

  THUNK!

  The rings no longer swung.

  Three

  ONCE AGAIN DORIAN of the River hired rowing boats, this time to tow the Black Traveler into the harbor at Uraklios, the capital of Menoin. The first boat that had come out to meet them, oars flashing in the late afternoon sun, had returned immediately to the pier, where even from the deck Parno could see that a runner had been sent scurrying through the crowds, carrying the news of the arrival of the Tarkin’s bride. The runner must have been very fast, Parno thought. By the time they were close enough to distinguish the clothing and faces of the people on the docks, quite a crowd had gathered. Here in Menoin, five days’ sail farther north than Lesonika, it was still summer, and the crowd showed it. There were bare arms, uncovered heads, and even some bare legs among the people waiting. Bells were ringing, and carefully timed clouds of black and white smoke were shooting into the air from somewhere on the palace grounds high on the escarpment.

  Dhulyn had gone with the younger princess to see about the horses, while Parno waited outside the tiny cabin for Princess Cleona to put in an appearance. The older woman came out wearing a light cloak, pale blue, with the royal horse emblem prominently displayed, that flapped gaily in the wind that blew—warm but sharp—across the water.

  “Is the Tarkin there to meet me?” she asked, joining Parno at the rail just as Dhulyn and Alaria came out of the horse enclosure.

  “I see no purple banner,” Parno said, squinting into the wind.

  “There,” Dhulyn pointed. “That looks like an honor guard, in black with purple sleeves.” Dhulyn caught Parno’s eye, and he blinked twice. “Those in blue, keeping back the crowd, they must be the city watch. And those to the left are Jaldeans,” Dhulyn continued, “in the brown cloaks.”

  “Priests?” Princess Cleona raised her hand to shield her eyes against the angle of the sun.

  “Of the Sleeping God,” Parno said. “There’ll be others, I imagine—look, there, in the green, priests of the horse gods. That would be the primary sect in Menoin.”

  “As it is in Arderon,” the princess said, touching the horse crest on her cloak.

  Parno glanced at Dhulyn, but she was still searching the pier with narrowed eyes. The horse gods would be the same ones that Dhulyn herself swore by, Sun, Moon, and Stars. With the lesser gods of Wind, Water, Earth, and Fire.

  Cleona turned from the rail with an air of decision. “You and Parno Lionsmane will attend to the horses. Alaria and I will be escorted by our own attendants.”

  “Your pardon, Princess Cleona,” Dhulyn said. “As bodyguards, Parno Lionsmane and I will attend you and the Princess Alaria. Your servants will bring your horses. Dorian,” Dhulyn greeted the captain as he joined them. “You will have your people bring Warhammer and Bloodbone ashore after the royal horses have been disembarked?”

  “Of course.” The older man turned to the princesses. “It has been a great pleasure to have you aboard, Princess Cleona, Princess Alaria.” He inclined his head to each in turn, touching his fingertips to his forehead. “May you have fair winds and warm days.”

  Cleona gave him a shallow bow in return but continued to look around her with a slight frown.

  Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile. “Lady, if you feel the Menoins will be expecting a larger party, I’m sure Captain Dorian will lend you some of his apprentices, but you can have no more impressive entourage than Mercenary Brothers.”

  For a moment it looked as if Princess Cleona might smile in return. “In Arderon we consider the horses of the royal lineage to be all the entourage we require,” she said. “As for the size of my party, I am here to play my part in returning the Menoins to the traditions and practices they have allowed to fall away. They will come to understand my plain ways soon enough, Dhulyn Wolfshead. I will begin as I mean to go on.”

  Dhulyn caught Parno’s eye. This must have been what Dorian had been speaking of, when he told them of the marriage. Old traditions reestablished. There seemed to be a spiritual as well as a political need for this marriage.

  The harbor at Uraklios was deep enough that the Black Traveler could be towed directly to her docking place. The Royal Guard in their black tunics and purple sleeves kept the crowds well back, as Dorian’s crew ran their widest gangplank down to the pier. To the left was a smaller group of four guards in green with only the left sleeve purple. They stood in a square around a litter chair swathed in curtains and veils. I hope that’s not for Cleona, Parno thought. She wasn’t the type to allow herself to be carried around in a chair. She’d sooner ride, even if the horses she’d brought were all pregnant. He signaled his readiness to his Partner.

  Dhulyn Wolfshead went down the gangway first, her right arm swinging loose and her left wrist resting as if by accident on the hilt of her sword. She scanned the people around the open space, looking for any sign of trouble; no one in the crowd seemed anything but curious and excited. Buildings overlooking the area were set well back, she noted, nor were there any archers silhouetted atop their roofs. Even Mercenary Brothers would be hard pressed to make a successful arrow shot from any of them. Children were poking their heads around the legs of the City Guards, but even they seemed well under control. Several adults in the crowd had lifted children to their shoulders, so the youngsters could have a better view. Should Cleona turn out to be a popular consort, people would be boasting of their presence here today for years to come.

  Dhulyn reached the end of the gangway and stood to one side, the signal that the princesses could disembark. Cleona had pushed her cloak back so that it hung in swinging folds from her shoulders. Under it she wore a deceptively simple dress, a straight gown of deep blue, split for riding, over gold trousers and knee boots. The overgown’s sleeves were also slit from shoulder to wristband, revealing the rich gold and silver bracelets wound around Cleona’s bare wrists and upper arms. Her hair had been pulled back and braided into a thick knot at the nape of her neck; shorter wisps were kept off her face with a jeweled headband very much like a crown. Alaria followed behind her in a similar, but more subdued, costume, her hair in a simple braid and her arms covered. Both women wore waist belts carrying long knives and daggers.

  As Cleona stepped off the gangplank, at the very moment that her foot touched the ground, an enormous purple banner unfurled, snapping in the wind. It was the royal banner, Dhulyn realized, flown only in the presence of the Tarkin or his immediate family. The flag bearers had waited until Cleona was standing on Menoin soil before unfurling it.

  Suddenly there were people kneeling in the crowds, some pulling down their neighbors who had remained standing. Voices called out to her from the crowd. “Stars bless you!” “Sun warm you, my Lady.” Children began to cheer, and soon the adults had joined them.

  Cleona looked around her, cheeks blushing, lower lip trembling, finally touching her hand to her lips and inclining her head to acknowledge her people’s welcome.

  One of the guards in green reached his hand into the litter chair, and out of the shadows beneath the canopy came a very old, very tiny woman. Grasping the guard’s wrist, she pulled herself upright and accepted a black walking stick inlaid with silver filigree. She advanced, step by slow step, until she was close enough to Cleona to speak without raising her voice.

  “I salute you, Princess of Arderon,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I am Tahlia, House Listra, head and chief of the Council of Noble Houses. I am also the oldest female relative of the Tarkin Falcos Akarion, and in his name I welcome you to Menoin.”

  Very sharp, Pa
rno thought as he watched the exchange of formalities between the two women. Very smart this Tarkin Falcos. Rather than coming himself, to send his ranking female relative, a House head in her own right, and chief of the council, to greet the royal daughter of a country where women had the exclusive rule—that was good thinking on his part or on the part of those who advised him.

  Parno eyed the Royal Guard standing nearest to them. Unlike the others, he wore a light metal helmet shaped to his head, with a short nose guard. When he noticed Parno watching him, his eyes widened, and he lifted his chin in acknowledgment. Parno gave the slightest of nods and shifted his attention back to the old woman.

  “Mercenary Brothers,” House Listra was saying. “If your contract is to bring the Ladies of Arderon to Menoin, you may consider your task completed. Here are guards enough of the Tarkin’s own choosing.” Those standing nearest wore a crest of black, blue, and purple sewn on the left shoulder. Those would be the elite of the Tarkin’s personal Guard. Some one of them knows what happened to our Brothers, he thought.

  “With respect, House Listra,” Dhulyn said. “We must deliver our charges to the Tarkin himself.”

  “As you will,” the old woman said. “The Mercenary Brotherhood is always welcome in Menoin.”

  Are we, Parno thought as he touched his forehead in acknowledgment of the old lady’s welcome. Then where are our missing Brothers?

  By the time they were mounted, Parno and Dhulyn on their own warhorses and the princesses on two beautiful bays provided for them by the Tarkin, more of the Palace Guard had arrived, along with additional squads of the City Watch, to control the increasing crowd. These guards formed an avenue that allowed passage to where the palace, a spread of ancient buildings in golden brown stone, stood high above the town on its rocky hill.