Zelianora Tarkina had been pleasant to Mar, asking for her help with tutoring the Tarkin-to-be, but with him the Berdanan princess was distantly polite, like an upper Scholar whose classes you were not yet a part of.
Gun told himself he was happy that Mar was being accepted more easily. After all, she’d only been tricked and lured into a mistake in judgment-a mistake, what’s more, she’d set out immediately to correct as soon as she had learned of it. It was obvious to everyone, even to himself, finally, that what he’d done was far worse. He hadn’t set out to betray or destroy anyone, but he’d ended up betraying and destroying everyone.
Even himself. There was no doubt in his own mind who was to blame. How many times had he been told while still in his Library not to become too focused, too narrow in his methods and his theories? Too sure of himself and his abilities? To do his best to keep the greater whole always in view? In his zeal to track down the ancient Shpadrajha, and connect them with the modern Espadryni, he’d done a good job of forgetting that particular lesson, and making himself an easy tool for-he shivered. For Beslyn-Tor. For the Green Shadow.
He picked up the pages and rescued the needle from where it had fallen into the crack between two flagstones and found himself staring at the bone implement’s sharp point, wondering how large a hole it would make in a vein. There were other needles in the kit. How large a hole would he need?
He gripped the needle fiercely, eyes shut. He might as well stop playacting. He was too big a coward to solve his problems that way.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to hold a needle?” Mar’s head popped up over the ladder from the lower level of caves.
“What are you looking so cheerful about?” Gun pushed the needle carefully through the scrap of soft cloth that held its brothers.
“The Tarkina says that Dhulyn Wolfshead will probably forgive me.”
“May the Caids continue to smile on you.” Gun was sorry as soon as the words left his lips, even before her face fell. He knew he should be happy for her, but…
“I’m sorry,” he said, shifting over on the bench and indicating the space next to him. “I mean it, I really am happy for you. It’s just hard to tell you so when I’m feeling so sorry for myself.”
“Well, if you know you’re feeling sorry for yourself, you’re already well on the path to recovery.”
“If you’d like to stop talking like someone’s nurse, maybe you could actually be of some use.”
“Or I could go and find better company if you can’t be civil.”
Gun took a deeper breath, let it out slowly. “I’m sorry, really, I am.”
“Yes, you’ve said that,” Mar said dryly, but Gun looked up in time to catch the sparkle in her eyes before she turned her head. “You know it isn’t me you need to apologize to-well, yes, it is, and I forgive you, just don’t do it again-but there are others who need your apology. For… what happened, I mean.”
“You mean for helping a madman hunt down and destroy innocent people?” Gun waved away her protest. “I knew what you meant.” He squinted up at the lowering sun. No one seemed interested in accepting his apologies anyway. “I am sorry,” he finally said. “But who am I going to tell?” Certainly not the Marked he’d help find and turn over to the Green Shadow.
To his surprise, Mar was actually considering his question seriously, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. He was even more surprised when her brow cleared and she smiled.
“Tell the Tarkina.”
“What?”
“I’m serious. She’s the representative here of the Tarkin, or I suppose Bet-oTeb is, really, but she’s still so young. Tell them both. Tell them… tell them everything.” Gun looked away; he knew she meant his Mark. “Ask them what you can do to make amends. You can help them, you know.”
“They won’t care. They don’t trust me.”
“Give them a reason to.”
Gun sighed. Isn’t that what Parno had said? He looked up to find Mar watching him, her eyes warm, but the corners of her mouth turned down. He found himself sitting up very straight. He thought he had faced what he was capable of when he admitted to himself what he’d done in helping Lok-iKol. But like the Wolfshead, he’d been hiding a part of himself that could be useful. A part that could help.
“Mar, you’re wonderful.”
“Did I help?” She was smiling, her dark blue eyes shining.
Gun took her by the shoulders, spilling the papers to the ground, and kissed her on the mouth.
The call of the Racha bird told Dhulyn that Cullen had been able to leave Gotterang unmolested and reach Yerloa’s Spring. The Cloudman himself was nowhere visible, however, only Dal-eDal, Karlyn-Tan and two guards, pale-faced strangers alike enough to be brothers. All four wore dusty clothing in the Tenebro colors of black and teal. The breeze penetrating into the small copse of trees promised a warm day, bringing smells of damp earth, and, from somewhere nearby, the scent of apple blossoms.
Karlyn-Tan was evidently looking out for her, and as Dhulyn had made no attempt to hide her approach, stood as soon as she came into view. He held his place, however, making no move toward her. She smiled in the darkness. No one’s fool, she thought. The less movement, the less noise.
“Your Cloudman has not come, Dhulyn Wolfshead.” Dal-eDal’s was the hunter’s soft murmur. “Will you take one of our horses, or ride double with one of us?”
Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile and there was evidently enough light to see by, for the Tenebro lord backed off a pace.
“Cullen,” Dhulyn called softly. Dal-eDal snapped his head around and one of the two brothers swore as Cullen stepped out from cover so thin even Dhulyn had trouble believing he’d hidden there.
“Your horse is on the far side of the spring, Dhulyn Wolfshead,” Cullen said. “Disha tells me no one is near.”
Dhulyn measured the light in the east with a practiced eye. They were little more than an hour from Gotterang’s main gate, enough time, once she’d fetched Bloodbone, to finish her preparations.
She was leaning over from her saddle, practically upside down, tying her bent left leg to the saddle leathers in such a way that she looked safely trussed up, when Karlyn-Tan came to her, soft cloth bag in his hand.
“Well, Karlyn-Tan,” she said, before he had a chance to speak. “Once again, we meet under strange circumstances.”
“Once again, Dhulyn Wolfshead, you seem to be bound.” He answered her smile with a careful one of his own. His faded more quickly. “I’m afraid this time you’ll be blindfolded as well. I regret the necessity, Wolfshead,” he said, as he handed her up the cloth hood. “But best to put this on well before we get to the gates.”
Dhulyn shrugged. “I thank you for your concern, Karlyn-Tan, but a blindfold won’t unnerve me at all. We’ve had occasion, Parno Lionsmane and I, to learn how to fight blindfolded.”
“I’d like to hear that story.”
“If we live, I’ll be sure to tell you.” She looked over her shoulder. “Pull on that thong, would you? It needs to be tighter.”
“It seems far too tight already,” he said, though he reached to comply. “You are not meant to be truly bound.”
For answer Dhulyn thrust downward with her left leg, heel out as if she were kicking someone in the throat, and all the bindings that held her leg fast to her saddle fell away as if by magic.
“Any more observations, Karlyn, and we shall miss our appointment.”
Fanryn looked around from staring out the window at Swordsmiths Street and stepped over to help Alkoryn Pantherclaw strap the last packing case shut.
“That will be the lot of them,” he whispered, the light from the windows picking out every line and wrinkle on a face suddenly old.
Fanryn straightened up and looked over her Senior with her surgeon’s eye. Like his namesake the panther, Alkoryn had been pacing the room since Dhulyn had left before midnight, and the grayness around his mouth and eyes testified to that. She picked up a glazed jug of ganje from its place on the strangely naked worktable, poured out a cup, and placed it in front of Alkoryn’s customary seat.