Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno

by Malan, Violette

  SHE SEES THE WOMAN LAUGHING AND POINTING TO A SPOT ON THE FLOOR. THE MEN PULL UP THE FLOOR BOARDS AND HAUL OUT A WOMAN, AN OLD MAN, AND THREE CHILDREN. . .

  SHESEES THE WINDOW BEYOND WHERE BEKLUTH ALLAIN IS SITTING, AND IT IS DAYLIGHT NOW, THE SUN SHINING. THE WINDOW LOOKS OUT ON RUINS, WATCHTOWERS FALLEN, BRIDGES CRUMBLED INTO THE RIVER, STREETS FULL OF RUBBLE. BEKLUTH LOOKS UP, HIS EYES CATCHING A GLINT OF GREEN FROM THE LIGHT, AND SAYS, “HOW CANI HELP?” . . .

  Horrors. Devastations. Armed camps. Mutilations of friends, despair of mothers and fathers. This. This was all along the help the trader had been offering. She had thought them Visions of the past, before the people of this land had taken steps to guard against the broken Marked. But they were not. They were the result of accepting the only kind of help Bekluth could give. What she had Seen, that would be the result, that would be the Espadryni’s world, if she followed Bekluth’s suggestion.

  The White Sisters had told her she already had the answer.

  What had the old Healer in Mortaxa said? Few if any Healers had enough life force to heal someone who was born deformed. Healing could not replace limbs cut off or eyes lost. If these Marked were born with their spirits deformed, with some vital part of themselves missing, then it followed that they could not be Healed.

  And that flash, the glimmer of green in his eyes—eyes that had never at any other time shone green. She had seen that before. And Seen it too. That told her where the Green Shadow’s dust had really gone and what it was that had broken the Marked.

  That was the meaning of her Visions.

  Dhulyn pulled the dagger from her belt and cut Bekluth Allain’s throat.

  Clinging to Falcos’ arm, Alaria finally stumbled out of the Path and stood, swaying, looking out at what was clearly a field that had been recently burned. Though to be fair, she thought, it was hard to tell whether Falcos was holding her up or the other way around.

  “I think I’m going to vomit again,” Alaria said.

  “Look.” Falcos lifted his free arm just enough to indicate direction. “Horsemen.”

  “Then I’d better vomit before they get here.” Alaria tightened her grip on Falcos’ arm. They had come without arms, as House Listra had told them they must. They’d trusted to the horse heads to bring them through the Path of the Sun, and here they were, alive, on the other side.

  They’d just have to go on trusting to the horses.

  “Gun! Gun! Come quick. They’re bringing someone from the Door.” Mar was calling from the far side of the camp, where she had been talking to Singer of the Wind.

  Gun leaped to his feet and started running. Wolfshead and Lionsmane—they’d done it again. How long had they been gone? He glanced at the position of the sun. A few hours?

  But he slowed to a walk when he saw the party that approached, two people on foot. Two familiar people, but not the ones he’d been expecting. Not the Mercenaries. He began to walk faster.

  “Gun!” Now Mar was running toward him, and he sped up to meet her. “Gun, it’s Alaria. Alaria and Falcos Tarkin.”

  He almost didn’t understand her. But he let her pull him forward, to where the Tarkin and the princess were being escorted to Singer of the Wind’s own fire.

  Though they had already been seated, both Alaria and Falcos rose to clasp them by the hands and kiss their cheeks, just as if they were kin. Gun found himself reddened, and he rubbed at his upper lip

  “You’ve escaped from Epion Akarion,” Mar said once they were again seated around the fire and water was being passed from hand to hand. “But what made you try the Path?”

  “Escaped is not exactly what we did.” By the time Falcos and Alaria between them had described the events which had led them here, and Gun and Mar had explained in their turn the whereabouts of the Mercenary Brothers and the killer, a meal of roasted rabbits and roots was already prepared and being served.

  “If they don’t have Bekluth Allain to take back with them, how will they be able to prove that Falcos is not the killer?” Gun asked as he waited for his rabbit to cool.

  “Did you not hear what was said by the elder of the Tarkin Falcos Akarion’s council? That is not what will furnish the needed proof,” Singer of the Wind said. He turned to address Falcos. “Our peoples are linked, Falcos Tarkin, the Horsemen of the Espadryni and those of Menoin. Long ago, in the time of the Caids, we were friends and kinfolk, and your people chose to adventure beyond Mother Sun’s Door.”

  “But we’re not Red Horsemen, I mean Espadryni,” Falcos said.

  “Perhaps no longer, if you ever were. That is more than I can speak to. But the Tarkins of Menoin are the only ones to whom we are bound by ancient oaths to show the secret of the Path, and only the true Tarkins can learn it. The only ones who are not shamans, or, it seems Mercenary Brothers.”

  “But Bekluth Allain, he learned it,” Gun pointed out.

  “He has some magic of his own about him,” one of the other Horsemen pointed out. “Else how is it we did not see him for one of the Marked?”

  “How many Marked have you actually seen?” Gun asked. “You couldn’t tell that I’m Marked.”

  “Well, but you are not broken,” the man replied. Mar caught Gun’s eye, and he subsided without further argument. Mar was probably right, this was not the time. Whatever else the Horsemen knew, they couldn’t know all there was about the Marked.

  “But you will show Falcos the clue?” Alaria said. “And we can go home. And that will prove to everyone that he’s in the right.”

  Singer of the Wind smiled at her. “If he can see pattern that is the clue, then he has the proof. And if they have further need of witness, we can do that for them. We have here three who can pass through the Door of the Sun and who will speak to the trader’s guilt.”

  And from the look on the old man’s face, Gun thought, he’d enjoy that very much.

  “What if they don’t, uh, if they don’t believe you?”

  “I am Singer of the Wind, of the Long Trees Tribe of the Espadryni. Who will not take my word must meet my sword.”

  “That should work,” Mar said, grinning.

  Gun found himself smiling as well. “Or you could always challenge them to walk the Path of the Sun.”

  “You’ll come back with us?” Alaria said. “Even if you can’t see the pattern, you can Find the way?”

  Gun looked at Mar. “We’ll wait for Dhulyn and Parno,” she said.

  “And if they do not return?” Singer of the Wind’s voice was very soft.

  “I’ll Find them,” Gun said.

  “That’s it then.” Parno put his hands on his hips and looked with disgust at the square stone opening. “It doesn’t matter if we go through on horseback or on foot, at night, at dawn, or at sunset. Whatever it is that turns this blooded thing back into a doorway, we don’t have the key.” He turned to Dhulyn. “What now?”

  “Didn’t you say you wanted some time to rest?”

  “I believe I mentioned taverns? Wine?”

  “Well, you’ll have to settle for hunting and the clean out-of-doors.”

  Parno groaned. “For how long?”

  “Until Gun comes to Find us, of course.”

  Violette Malan lives in a nineteenth-century farmhouse in southeastern Ontario with her husband. Born in Canada, Violette’s cultural background is Spanish and Polish, which can make things interesting in the kitchen. She has worked as a teacher of creative writing, English as a second language, Spanish, beginner’s French, and choreography for strippers. On occasion she’s been an administrative assistant and a carpenter’s helper. Her most unusual job was translating letters between lovers, one of whom spoke only English, the other only Spanish.

  Join Violette on Facebook, and read her blog on her website: www.violettemalan.com

 

 

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