The Path of Dreams (The Tome of Law Book 2)

by Matthew W. Harrill

  Zya looked over the giant shell of a building with its iron-grey pillars, it was as imposing as anything she could remember. Walking past it seemed to take an age. Zya gradually became oblivious to Lorn's commentary. Most houses paled back into the dusky shadows after but a few steps, but the grey bulk with its spiked iron gates, covered in pitted rusty holes, left more than a shadow of an impression. Zya closed her eyes, as she trusted Lorn to lead them through the crowds of merchants and pirates and many others that thronged in the streets, and still she could feel the impenetrable bulk of stone around her. In a way, it was similar to the experience she had had with the clouds but moments earlier. She could feel the way the rock had been pressured into its current state, heat altering it, making the crystalline structure melt into something else. She could feel as the picks and chisels bit into the rock, shaping it into something other than its intended shape, and she wondered why they would do that; to her it was as plain as daylight that this was not its intended shape. Surely they too had seen this, for they could not have possibly ignored it. Zya never thought to consider why she was so worried about the fate of a stone building; all she felt was the ill structure of the stones that were a part of its whole. Gradually a new feeling crept its way into her mind as she expanded her consciousness to include the whole structure. In her mind's eye the building was different. She felt that she could see into the stone, and as she did, she was hit by a wave of nausea. “That building radiates wrong.” There was no other word for it. The emanations from the rocks combined into a whole that was just so ill. And now that it comprehended her, it understood her, and tried to use her compassion to aid itself, to shape itself to her intended form. Zya did not know what was happening, but she regained enough control to open her eyes. It did no good. With a gasp of an inhaled breath, and her eyes staring wide into nothingness, she looked around, grasping to focus on her surroundings.

  The only person taking any notice of her was Lorn. “What is it?” he asked, his face alive with concern. She stared at him, understanding his words, but prevented from replying by wave after wave of nausea hitting her right in the stomach, reaching to every part of her body. Her mind was alive with images as if seen through a crystal, superimposed over the reality that she could see. It was coming at her in flashes, faster and faster. Crystalline structure turned at many different angles hit her through her eyes and seared their impressions into her very soul. “Zya? Zya!” Lorn grabbed her shoulders roughly, and shaking her, tried to snap her out of it, but Zya knew she was too far immersed in the ill that was not just this building, but seemed to be coming from beneath her very feet too. She suddenly was not sure if she was floating, falling, soaring in the sky. It seemed like all of the impressions rounded up into one cacophony of emotion, and she was floating in it like a bottle upon the sea, resisting the pull of forever, the sucking of the depths beneath with its fragile buoyancy. Her rock was Lorn, and she concentrated on him as he tried to bring her back. She rolled her eyes, which were still wide open, and her mouth opened slightly, as she breathed fast and deep, trying to will the passionate wrong that had taken a hold of her out by sheer brute force. It did no good. There was a pressure on her forehead, and there was nothing she could do to shift it. Her arms dropped to her side, and she saw Lorn's face, justified concern betraying his normally stolid features. She retched, trying to force words from her throat. Somehow Zya managed to get control of herself long enough to turn and grasp the iron bars that separated the great mansion from the pathway. She stared at the building momentarily, and then turned back to Lorn. Grabbing him by the arms, she fought to hold herself upright, which took a gargantuan effort, for she was blacking out with the sensation the stone of the building was emitting. She managed a mere two words as she dropped to the floor.

  “It's wrong,” she gasped, and as unconsciousness beckoned, she realised with a truth as crystalline as the stone that was beating her under that the wrong was exactly the same as the wrong she had felt so far back in that distant village by the river. It was the briefest of feelings, but she understood it clearly as she spiralled out of reality down through a vortex of crystal images.

  Zya felt herself hit the floor, despite Lorn's attempts to hold her. As she did so, her eyes popped open.

  “Lorn.”

  “It's okay, I've got you.” Lorn held her close. Clearly afraid he was going to lose her, he checked her pulse from the wrist he had grasped hold of as she had slumped against him. Lorn risked a glance up and around, but people were ignoring him, or if they were paying any attention to him they were making a good show of hiding it.

  “What happened?”

  “It's the mansion. Lorn, we need to go.”

  “Can you stand?”

  Zya attempted to, but her legs gave way.

  “Well that answers that question.” Seeing no other option, Lorn moved slowly along the street, with Zya clasping for her life to him. Her lithe body was no significant weight if there was even the merest of responses, but the near-deadweight would be a test for his endurance. Lorn had not made it much further than a dozen steps before he was forced to stop and take an extensive breather. “I always thought you were lighter than that, “he gasped.”

  “Well thank you very much.” Zya replied.

  “No, I … I mean.”

  “Lorn, it's okay. I'm just joking. I'm grateful for your help.”

  He wiped the sweat that had formed on his brow despite the frigid atmosphere. “This is not proving easy. I have newfound respect for the predators that live on the steppes. The mountain lions are reputed to take a kill up to a league from their den in order to hide it from scavengers. We normally gut our kills to make carrying it easier.”

  “I prefer my guts where they are.” Zya put her hand protectively over her midriff and smiled.

  “Well maybe if I don't try so hard to make us look like we are locked in some sort of embrace, it will be easier.”

  The bustling crowd continued by, for the sight of two people so intimate was nothing uncommon. This people had a very open and emotional nature to them, and lovers were so often seen in a tryst that they were respected and politely ignored. Fortunately for Lorn, help arrived in a very familiar form.

  “Ho lad!” boomed a voice from behind him as a meaty hand clapped down upon his shoulder. “Looks like you have fed your lass a few to many shots of rum there! Let me help you get her home.” The hand lifted, and Lorn felt Zya's deadweight lessen. The large man that had diverted the baker with his violent cascade of insults stood next to him, and looked around the crowd, and then broke into a grin. His purple waistcoat hung unbuttoned, for it could not have been done up anyway due to his barrel chest. His yellow silk shirt stretched at the buttons that by some miracle held it together, and it was literally bursting at the seams wherever else it showed through. His hair was heavily oiled, and hung down his back, waterproofing him with its excess, but he did not notice. The man buried his shoulder under one of Zya's arms and draped her arm about his neck.

  “Is this necessary?” Zya asked the pirate.

  “Just close your mouth, lass, drop your head and keep quiet.”

  Taking the cue without missing a beat, Lorn did the same on the other side, and they moved off into the crowd. As Zya was part lifted and part dragged across the cobbles of the road, the brightly attired man kept up a diatribe of beration, calling Lorn every name under the sun, and demanding continually as to why he had let her get into this state. Zya recognised something forced in the man's way of speaking, and understood that this was a show for anybody that might care to listen. For his part, Lorn acted contritely, cursing back at the man whenever he deemed it appropriate, but he let the pirate do most of the talking, and let the man lead them away from their intended destination, the market, to a completely different part of the city. They were shuffling towards the warehouse district, where it was rumoured the pirates stored their booty. The smells of the river ahead wafted up towards them from time to time, and judging by the
strength of the aromas Zya could tell that they were pretty close. If the proximity of the houses was great in the places he had already walked, the dwellings of those that lived in this district were positively tangled. There was an abruptness about the place, as if Zya expected to turn a corner and not be able to find her way back. That would worry Lorn, but then he was not experienced in urban surroundings. The houses were rickety in appearance, but seemed sturdy enough. Zya recognised good craftsmanship when she saw it, courtesy of her father's craft, and these houses were deceptively well made. She kept this revelation to himself, as the stranger at his side was just that. She was grateful for the help though. By the time Zya had become thoroughly confused, the pirate stopped cursing at Lorn, and became more alert. The crowds of people had thinned to the point that they had hardly seen more than a glimpse of a person in a good long while. It was easier to think that they had disappeared by coincidence, but knowing what she did of this city, Zya was more convinced that it was by active choice that the city folk did not come into this area. The paths were as dirty as in any other part of the crowded areas, but no more than a few tracks were visible.

  “Where are we going?” she mumbled, attempting to sound drowsy and not really faking it.

  “Somewhere safe. You can stop your acting now if you wish.”

  “She isn't acting, pirate,” Lorn defended her.

  The area they were passing through now seemed a bit warmer, and lighter. There was an inner glow from the houses that set them at ease. Chickens pecked and clawed at the dirt, searching for a meal, ignoring the passers-by. Wooden gateways and fences sprung up for no other obvious purpose than to just block the way, and the pirate, for that was surely what he was, dodged surely around them, following the track where the cobbles were shown underneath the dirt and refuse. They stepped over a pile of clothes and were presented with a light wooden door that was obviously intended to look shabbier than it actually was.

  “This place is not as it appears to be,” Lorn commented.

  “Oh?”

  “I have watched carpentry, pirate. This door is much more secure than it is made out to look like. This is one elaborate deception, but to what ends I do not know. Zya knew that Lorn could protect her if the occasion arose, but he would have wanted to get her somewhere safe. Before Lorn could voice any more concerns, the pirate stepped away, leaving Zya in Lorn's arms. The pirate blocked the view of the door with his large frame, and fumbled with something for a moment. A couple of clicks later, and the door swung inward on hinges that were well oiled; they did not make a sound, which was normally the sign of a carefully kept house, but not in such surroundings. The door opened fully, and the gaudy man passed into the house, beckoning towards Lorn urgently. Seeing no need to pretend anymore, and understanding that the man knew Zya was not simply drunk, he discarded all propriety and lifted Zya into his arms, carrying her gently into the house. The interior of the house matched the pirate's clothes. Bright colours were overly abundant, and very ostentatious. Purples and yellows brightened up the walls in the form of silks and drapes. Oranges and greens were all over the floor. The change was so radical, so incredibly blatant that Lorn stood there gaping for a moment. Then his senses recovered from the rainbow onslaught, and he looked for a place to put Zya. The house stretched in several directions, again adding to disperse the preconception that Zya had already decided about the house. It was far bigger than it was made out to be. Off to their right there was a parlour of sorts, where an immense cauldron stood with clothes steaming away inside. Stood to one side was a tiny little woman, dressed in a plain blue dress with her hands on her hips and an astonished look on her face. Zya had seen the look on her face before, on the faces of the wise-women of his tribe. It spoke a volume about who was in charge here, and as she looked back to the man, there was supplication on his face. “Oh my,” she said, approaching them with quick, little steps. “Whatever has happened here?” The small lady said in not so small mothering tones.

  “This little darlin' has had a turn for the worse, and it was safest to bring her here.”

  “I am fine,” Zya protested, trying to stand and failing miserably.

  The little woman looked up at the pirate under a mop of light brown hair, greyed at the temples, and the slightest raising of one of her eyebrows was all that she had to say about that decision. Then her face became the epitome of concern, as she studied Zya, still in Lorn's arms. “Oh the poor dear, bring her in here.” She indicated a room that was to the left of the parlour entrance that contained a small bedroom. Lorn brought Zya quickly to the bed that was contained therein, along with a desk and a small wooden chest that was locked, and placed her gently on the bed. He brushed her hair back softly, looking with concern at the woman before him. “Okay?”

  “I hope so.” Zya smiled at him, feeling genuinely safe for the first time in what seemed like an age. The big man entered, having shed his grisly purple waistcoat, and having donned a much less garish and much more serviceable leather jerkin. The woman entered behind him, with a bowl of warm water and a cloth. She quickly shooed the two men outside and pulled up a seat, dabbing at Zya's forehead with a great deal of care. “Whatever happened to you, my dear?”

  “I passed out,” Zya admitted, willing to allow that much of the truth to be heard.

  “Well you were lucky my man was there to bring you home. Bay's Point is not a safe city to lie unconscious in for long. You stay there and rest.”

  “No, honestly I am all right.”

  “Lie there and rest.” The mothering tones became that of a matron, one who was used to being obeyed, and Zya lay still.

  Moments passed, and then Lorn and the pirate returned, carrying tankards brimming with foamy ale.

  “Get this down you, lass. You will be right as rain in no time at all.”

  The woman took a tankard and tipped some of the contents down Zya's throat before she could protest. It tasted nutty, and wholesome.

  Lorn raised his tankard to their hosts. “Your good health, whoever you may be.”

  “And yours also, young archer.” The pirate replied amiably. They both drained a good swig of their ale, and the pirate leaned back, stretched expansively, and let out a thunderous belch. “Ah, by Panishwa's arse, 'tis a good brew, don't you think?” Zya could not help but agree. She wanted answers though. “What is your intention concerning us?”

  The man became all business at Zya's direct approach, his jolly face replaced by one of uttermost seriousness. “Do you not think that we could at least make our introductions before we get down to all that?” He said, sounding slightly hurt.

  Lorn nodded. “Very well. I am Lorn, son of Hern, of a tribe in the Uporan steppes.”

  “I am Zya, of the East country travellers.”

  The man stood, and offered a hand that Lorn felt obliged to shake, and did so to relieved the tension after his previous statement. “Well met Lorn, son of Hern. I know of your father, an honourable gentleman and a shrewd bargainer.” At the look of surprise on Lorn's face, the man continued. “You were not expecting that, young Lorn. Well suffice it to say that your father and I have done business on occasion, and that I knew of your coming long before you arrived. I am Darrow, an inhabitant of these parts, and oft time merchant, though I dabble only a little.” He knocked one ham of a fist against his forehead. “Not much of a head for figures, me. Just good knacks for a deal and a lot of luck have seen me through is all.”

  “And the lady?”

  “My woman, Yneris. She is as good a lady as I have known. She will look after your girl, if that is what is needed.” Darrow looked slyly at her. “Welcome to my home, lass. That was some seizure you took there, lass. Care to share your thoughts?”

  Lorn sipped at his ale. “Let me first ask you a question. You have been gracious enough to someone who has offered you not much more than suspicion and caution, but we do need to know that we can trust you.”

  Darrow considered this for a second while he wiped foam off of his
stubbled face with his sleeve. “Okay, how can I prove that I am who I am? I know your father well, and we have even hunted together once, when I met him with goods from the city. He showed me the trophy that he has carried with him since his ascension to the status of hunter. The antlers of a deer, with points sharpened and tipped with dyes of several hues. They can be found mounted on his seat in the tent that he uses for tribal meetings.”

  “You have quite a memory, to remember all that.” Lorn complemented.

  “Does that mean you trust me?” Darrow asked, his look intent.

  Lorn clasped his hands together, with his elbows on the arms of the seat, his index fingers pointing up as he pursed his lips and rested his chin on them. “What would my father say in a situation like this?”

  Without missing a beat, Darrow replied. “He would say that your Old Law states that one should judge a man by his actions and intent, rather than by preconceptions.”

  Lorn nodded. “That is exactly what my father would say. You appear to know him well.”

  “Are you one with the Old Law?” Zya interrupted.

  “Probably not as much as you would like, lass, but that is the nature of things in this Port.” Darrow leaned back in his chair. “Like I said, son. I have known your father for many years. He and I… well we understand each other, even if we never always see eye to eye. I am, as you may have guessed, not strictly a merchant. Now, to your friend here, what is your story?”

  Lorn related the tale of how he had met Zya while she had been entranced by the far-flung magic of Raessa, and how he had met her father and the young boy, Juatin, known to his friends simply as Ju. As he mentioned these names he was met with a chuckle from Darrow. “I know the boy. Been running messages for the guilds and merchants almost since you first got here. Making quite a nuisance of himself too. He is a nimble little creature. None of the pickpockets can get near him.”