“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.”
“It’s a while since you’ve had to do this,” Parno said. Dhulyn looked up from the small quantity of iocain she had left in her pouch. Delvik Bloodeye was asleep and breathing more easily now that the drug had taken away some of the pain.
Dhulyn nodded, folding away the leaves once more into her belt pouch. “Not since the time there was the Dedilos sickness in the camp outside Bhexyllia.”
Parno grimaced but said nothing, knowing Dhulyn did not like to speak of it. The illness was rare but frightening. With luck it would kill you quickly; without it, it would only take your wits and leave you with a wandering mind. That time there was no Healer in the camp, and by the time one could have arrived, it would have been too late. There were not enough Healers, Parno thought, not for the first time. There was no rarer Mark, except the Sight. “Bad enough when there’re not many Healers,” is what he said aloud. “I never imagined a place where there were none at all.”
Dhulyn nodded. “Delvik
will sleep now until sunrise,” she said, standing up. “I don’t want to wake him.”
“Why would we?”
“Neither of us knows him,” she said. “Who will tell his story?”
Parno looked down at their Brother. “We know his story,” he said. “It is the same as ours. In Battle.”
“Or in Death,” Dhulyn answered.
They had been offered another tent alongside the horse line, as far from the area of the Espadryni women as it could be and still be considered within the camp. They had refused it, preferring to take over caring for Delvik.
“It would be much better if you did not have to do this thing.” Dhulyn stretched out on the other cot, and Parno perched on its edge. They had not slept apart since they had left the Mortaxa, across the Long Ocean. Parno thought it would be as long again or longer before either of them was ready to bed with another.
“Much better if he had died before we arrived, I agree.” Dhulyn turned over on her back.
“If the younger one—Kesman?—had lived, could Delvik have ordered him to give him the Final Sword?” Parno reached behind him without looking and felt Dhulyn’s cool, calloused fingers slip into his hand.
“It’s an interesting question, isn’t it? There are limits to what a Senior Brother can require of a Junior. Is this one of them?”
Parno squeezed her hand. “Well, don’t think you can ever order me to do it. To you I mean.”
“Not even if I were in dire pain?”
“No,” he said flatly. “I would keep you alive until we found a Healer, no matter how much pain you were in.”
“I’d kill you, if the situations were reversed,” she said. He could hear a smile—and the approach of sleep—in her voice.
“Charming. Now how am I supposed to sleep?”
“You’ll take first watch,” she said. “I have to kill someone in the morning.”
“Just another day in the Brotherhood.”
Dhulyn drifted off to sleep, hoping she would not dream . . . .
IT IS A COLD, DARK HILLSIDE, AND THE MOON SHINES BRIGHTLY OVERHEAD, THE EYE OF THE FATHER IN THE SKY. THE AIR IS CRISP, CRINKLING THE HAIRS IN HER NOSTRILS, AND SMELLS LIKE SNOW BEFORE MORNING. WHAT DHULYN NOTICES FIRST IS THE SILENCE. EVEN IN THIS COLD, SHE WOULD EXPECT TO HEAR SOMETHING—MICE UNDER THE SNOW, THE HOOTING OF AN OWL ON THE HUNT.
BUT THEN DHULYN HEARS THE FOOTSTEPS, AND WHEN SHE TURNS, SHE SEES A MAN OF MEDIUM HEIGHT, CLOAKED AND BOOTED AGAINST THE COLD, STRIDING AWAY FROM HER. HE LOOKS LIKE A DARKER STAIN AGAINST THE TREES, A PURPOSEFUL SHADOW IN THE MOONLIGHT. SHE SEES HIS FOOTPRINTS DARK AGAINST THE GROUND AND KNOWS THEY WILL BE GONE BY MORNING, COVERED BY THE COMING SNOW.
SO HOW CAN SHE SEE THEM NOW? AGAINST THE DARK GROUND?
SHE CROUCHES DOWN AND TOUCHES THE TIP OF ONE FINGER TO THE MAN’S FOOTPRINT, AND IT COMES AWAY DARKENED. THERE IS NOT ENOUGH LIGHT TO SHOW HER THE COLOR OF THE STAIN, BUT DHULYN DOESN’T NEED IT. SHE KNOWS THE SMELL OF BLOOD, NO MATTER HOW DARK OR COLD IT MIGHT BE. SHE LOOKS DOWN THE PATH TOWARD THE MAN, BUTHE’S GONE. SHE LOOKS BACK IN THE DIRECTION THE MAN HAS COME FROM AND HOPES SHE WILL NOT SEE ANYMORE. . . .
SHE HASSEEN THIS ROOM MANY TIMES, AND THE MAN IN IT. HERE IS THE MAGE WITH HIS PALE CLOSE-CROPPED HAIR. WHEN HIS EYES ARE THE BLUE OF OLD ICE, HE CAN READ THE BOOK AND CUT THE MIRROR. WHEN, AS NOW, HIS EYES AREA BEAUTIFUL JADE GREEN, HE CANNOT. WITHOUT CUTTING THE MIRROR, HE CANNOT OPEN THE GATE. HE FALLS TO HIS KNEES AND BOWS HIS HEAD, HIS HANDS COVERING HIS FACE. DHULYN IS NOT ONLYDHULYN HERE, SHE IS SOMETHING MORE, NOT UNLIKE THE MAN ON HIS KNEES. BUT HERE THEVISION CHANGES, AND DHULYN TAKES A STEP AWAY AS THE GREEN OF THE MAN’S EYES SPREADS THROUGH HIS BODY, UNTIL THERE IS A JADE STATUE KNEELING IN FRONT OF HER, A STATUE THAT EXPLODES SOUNDLESSLY INTO DUST AND VAPOR.
NO, SHE SAYS, THAT IS NOT WHAT HAPPENS. THE DHULYN OF THE VISION LOOKS UP AT HER, AND SHE KNOWS THEY BOTH WEAR THE SAME CONFUSED LOOK . . .
A DIFFERENT DARKNESS, WARM, HUMID ENOUGH TO MAKE THE SWEAT POOL ON THE SKIN AND THE CLOTHES CLING TO THE BACK. SHE IS STANDING IN THE GARDEN OF A GREAT PALACE, AND EVEN IN THE DARK SHE CAN SEE THAT IT IS WEEDY, UNTENDED, THE BOWL OF A FOUNTAIN DRY AND CRACKED. BUT THERE IS NOISE AND LIGHTS WITHIN. A YELP OF PAIN BRINGS HER CLOSER TO THE WINDOW. SHE SEES CHILDREN TORTURING A SMALL DOG WHILE THEIR ELDERS LOOK ON AND GIVE ADVICE. A WOMAN TURNS TOWARD THE WINDOW AND LOOKS AT HER.
HAIR THE COLOR OF OLD BLOOD AND A FACE DHULYN KNOWS. IT IS NOT HER OWN FACE, BUT ONE ENOUGH LIKE IT TO MARK THE WOMAN AS KIN. CLOSE KIN. BUT DHULYN NEVER WANTS TO SEE THIS WOMAN’S EXPRESSION ON THE FACE OF ANYONE NEAR OR DEAR TO HER. THIS IS NO PAST SHE HAS EVER SEEN BEFORE.
Gundaron sat stiff, knees drawn tight to his chest, hands pressed over his lips. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, he told himself. Nor even of small, enclosed spaces. The chamber was large, and there was plenty of air—fresh air at that. He wouldn’t suffocate in the time they would take to find him. Epion—or one of the guards, that was more likely—was probably halfway back to town by now to fetch workmen to dig Gun out. It would only be a matter of hours. He wouldn’t even have time to get hungry, not really.
Epion or the other guard, the one with the dark beard, would wait by the entrance, Gun thought. So they would have no trouble finding the exact spot again. Gun brushed away that thought with a brisk mental wave of the hand. Mar knew where he was—or at least where he’d intended to go. If the upper area was relatively undamaged, she should be able to direct the digging from the portion of their notes where the sun-and-moon marked steps were described.
Did Mar know that Epion had gone with him? Did anyone? The stable boys, he thought. They’d know, even if no one else did, that horses had been taken out and, for that matter, that Gun and his pony had not returned.
And of course, there were other Finders in the city. One of them would surely be available to Find him.
If the guard wasn’t thrown by his horse while riding back to Menoin for help. If Epion and Dark Beard weren’t also buried somewhere in the cave-in.
Strangely, instead of frightening him further, this thought made Gun uncurl, drop his hands, and sit up straight.
“You can’t plan for what might happen,” he said aloud, paraphrasing something Dhulyn Wolfshead had said to him once. “You plan for what can happen.” You couldn’t know how likely something was, the Wolfshead had said. But you could know whether or not it was possible.
It was possible that it would take hours or days for anyone to come looking for him. Possible that even if they came quickly, it might take hours or days for them to dig him out. There was something he could try first.
He rolled his shoulders to loosen the tight muscles of his neck and stretched out his hands. He didn’t have the bowl, but before he met Mar, he used to Find with books. And he did have a book.
He steadied the Caid volume on his knees and opened it to somewhere in the middle, grinned when he saw the language—at least in this section—was unfamiliar. That should actually be of help. He began trying to read the words backward, just letting his eyes drift over them, letting the letters calm him, letting his mind float.
I need a way out, he thought. Where is the way out?
At first he thought nothing was going to happen—after all, no one could Find what wasn’t there. But then a blue line appeared in the air in front of his eyes. He closed the book, tucked it under his arm, and got to his feet. At that moment the candle guttered and went out.
But the blue line was still there, glowing softly in the darkness, the same midnight blue as Mar’s eyes. Warm and soft like velvet. It even seemed to shed a bit of light. Not as much as a candle or lantern, of course, but enough, Gun thought, to help him keep more or less oriented. He stepped forward with confidence—and tripped over a chunk of fallen masonry.
He landed on the book, coughing at the dust raised by his fall. He sneezed, and pulled the collar of his tunic over his nose, trying not to breath in more dust. Blinking, Gun found he could still see the blue line. He put out his hand as if to touch it, as if it were
an actual, palpable line made of rope, and walked forward more cautiously, the Caid book once more under his arm.
At first Gun expected at any moment to feel the wall of the book chamber with the fingers of his outstretched hand. After all, the room hadn’t seemed particularly large when the candle was lit. But he must have got turned around at some point, he decided, and was now walking down the length of the room. Even so, surely the room hadn’t been this long? He hadn’t thought to count paces when he began following the blue line, and it was too late to start now. Mar would be disappointed in him, he thought. Even after all they’d been through, when he was focused on something—especially a book—it was easy for him to forget more practical matters. Just as he had that thought, Gun’s reaching fingers stubbed against the hardness of the wall.
The blue line lead directly into it.
He put the book down between his feet and ran his hands over the cold stone until he realized they were trembling too much to do him any good. He took several deep breaths, exhaling slowly, and willed himself to be calm. This time, he could feel texture under his fingertips, as if the wall were made of bricks about the size of his hand, very smooth, with hardly any mortar between them. No, not bricks, tiles.
Gun rubbed at his upper lip. The line was still in front of him, still leading into the wall. Clearly this was the way out. But how? If he could step back, if there were more light, would he be able to see the outline of a door? He hadn’t seen one when he’d entered the chamber, but then he hadn’t been looking for one, had he? He’d been focusing on the golden line that led him to the book.
He reached out again to touch the blue line. His hand passed through it.
“You’re not really there.” His voice did not echo, nor did it sound particularly nervous, he thought. “You’re in my head, not out here in the world at all. You’re just the pointer my own mind is using to help me Find.”
Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno Page 21