Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno (7 page)

“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.

O
NCE 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
, Parno 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.

Parno looked around him with interest. Unlike his Partner, he was always happy to be in a new town. Uraklios, capital and principle city of the ancient island Tarkinate of Menoin was a prosperous trading center, visited by both coastal merchants of the Midland Sea and Long Ocean Traders, though the harbor was notably empty at the moment. To Parno’s eye it presented a familiar aspect, whitewashed buildings with tiled roofs, some with signs denoting shops and here and there a tavern. Houses, sometimes with balconies on the street, clearly built around central courtyards, cobbled and flagstone streets and alleyways narrow to make as much shade as possible, and growing steadily steeper as the Arderon party rode away from the water and up the hill to the palace.

There were Stewards and pages in plenty once they reached the main courtyard of the Tarkin’s palace, but Cleona waited for Tahlia Listra to join them in the entrance doors. Waiting for them there was a woman of middle years, wearing the royal crest of black, blue, and purple on the left shoulder of her tunic and bearing at her waist a large ring of keys.

“My lady Princess,” she said. “I am Berena Attin, your Steward of Keys. The Tarkin invites you to take refreshments informally with him prior to tomorrow’s formal ceremony of welcome.”

Cleona held out her hand, and Parno smiled. She had learned something about the customs of her new land, it seemed. Berena Attin blinked and took the offered hand.

“Is it the custom here, as I have read of, that the Steward of Keys cannot leave the House building of which she is Steward? So that you cannot even walk across the courtyard?”

“It is, my lady Princess,” the Steward said, somewhat taken aback.

“And it pleases you?”

“It does.” Berena Attin smiled, and after a few moments Cleona returned it.

“Very well,” she said. “If my servants can be shown to the stables prepared for my horses, I would be pleased to attend the Tarkin now.”

Tahlia Listra snorted. “Tell Falcos to be patient,” she said. “I’m sure the princesses would rather see their rooms, rest, and unpack before seeing the Tarkin. This evening is soon enough.”

“We rested well on the ship, thank you, Mother’s Sister,” Cleona said, using the formal term in Arderon for a ranking female relative. “And such a short ride cannot exhaust us. Until our chests arrive from the ship, we cannot unpack, and so we will meet with the Tarkin in the meantime.”