“Why must you do that?”
A pause followed, as if consideration was needed before framing a response. Zya could appreciate that, though it made her slightly uneasy. “To keep you on the right track. So that you do not overextend yourself and become lost in the illusion.”
Zya reached out, and drew her hand through the purple light surrounding her. “So this is illusion.”
“It is,” the voice agreed. “It is the first thing initiates can do, and also the easiest. A connection with your own focus stone and an understanding of its nature become juxtaposed with your need to learn more about abilities you doubtlessly have. It still requires a little guidance from their teacher for them to keep the focus steady. I must add that seldom have we had anybody that could maintain conversation while concentrating on their focus.”
Zya took that as a complement, but now she had more questions. “Where are you? Can you show yourself?”
“No, but if you withdraw your senses from the stone, the focus will end and you will be able to see me.” The voice was gentle and yet carried a tone that was so similar to Venla that it almost broke Zya's heart to hear it. The tone was one of command. Zya took one last look around the room she had created within her mind, and remembered that she had seen this once before in her dreams, and doubtless would again in the future. She closed her eyes once more, and tried to create a gap between her consciousness and the stone's crystalline perfection. It was difficult, having to concentrate, and even more difficult pulling away from the stone, so seductive was the feeling it gave. Eventually, she felt herself distancing from the stone. It was working. Pressure built in the back of her head as she willed herself back, and when it evened out, she knew the focus was over.
“All done?” The voice said beside her, and she opened her eyes. Expecting to see a woman beside her, Zya was startled to find an old man, with a beard that had been plaited so that it dangled like a rope off of his chin, almost down to his knees. His eyes were green and brown, earthen colours both, and were in complete contrast to the white hair that brimmed out from under the hood of his cloak. “That was you?” She exclaimed, still slightly startled at the fact that she was talking to a man.
“It was I,” he replied, his voice deeper, but only an octave or two.
“You sound different.”
He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders in a noncommittal gesture of agreement. “Vision is not the only sense affected in a focus, especially for a novice. It may be that you were once close to a person and their voice intruded upon your thoughts.”
Zya had not considered that possibility, but then things were so new to her. “You are the head of the guild,” she said.
The old man nodded. “My name is Joen Kzell, and I have the honour of heading the Earthen Clerics at this time. Honour in especial when I can be witness to an initial focus the magnitude of what we have just seen.”
“My focus was that great?”
“Well Zya, part of the focus comes from the person, and part from the stone. It is a mingling of consciousnesses, a magical mixture of two distinct personalities. I would say that rarely have two such forces ever come together as they appear. I can say in all honesty, to borrow a phrase from your previous teacher, that I have never seen a hollow stone used in a focus, and to such dazzling effect.”
Having never seen any other focus as far as she could remember, Zya did not know what to make of such a comment, and instead of saying something meaningless, merely waited, looking about her. The brightness of the white light had faded to the point that she no longer had needed to squint, and she could see the inside structure of the room matched the roughly hewn columns of the outer wall. “How was this room formed?” She asked partly out of interest and partly because she felt he was expecting her to answer with some vacuous comment. She wanted to surprise the man.
In fact Joen seemed delighted that she was answering questions with questions. “Thus was one of our first and greatest achievements created, by the determination and patience of the first Earthen Clerics of this city.” His gestures were expansive, and there was an overtone of pride in his voice. “This structure was grown from the very stone of the city, and into it was put the strength of many guildsmen, some say the spirit of Ilia herself. It took nearly a generation in the making, twenty years from base to tip all told. If one meditates for long enough, and has the strength of mind to listen, the distant voice of our Goddess can still be heard, echoing in the heavenly vaults from whence it came.” He ended his speech with nearly a whisper, and Zya could see that his flair for oratory was one of the more dominant facets of his personality. Learning from this man meant that this was going to be an interesting time.
“Why are you going to teach me?” His face dropped slightly, so she pressed on, meaning to make herself more understood. “What I mean is that if you are the head of the order, then surely there must be others that could teach.”
Joen smiled with benevolence. “Do not worry yourself with trifles dear girl. Everybody is capable of teaching in this guild. There is no one person that would not be capable of teaching you to focus, but when we saw the illusion you produced, that marked you as something special. Even more so when we saw what you had been using.”
Zya examined the stone in the palm of her hand. The crystals within caught at the light, making them twinkle. The illusion she had been a part of was still there, contained within its own little starry universe. Zya sealed that universe off by replacing the top of the stone. The strangest thing was that the stone clicked together, and once it was whole, it did not appear to have a crack in it. Nonplussed, Zya pocketed the stone and followed Joen out of the room back into the greater gathering hall of the guild. There were roughly two score wizards there watching them, and they bowed in unison. Zya smiled, trying her best to keep an embarrassed flush from spreading up her neck to her face.
“Welcome to the guild, Zya S'Vedai, daughter of Tarim,” intoned Joen, who then watched with her as the guildsmen stood back up. Whatever her preconceptions were about the guild, they were instantly changed as she saw the faces looking back. Instead of a sea of beards, she saw the faces of all ages. Some were just older than children, and through the age range they grew until old men squinted back. What surprised her most was that there were more than a few women here, dressed in the same garb as the men. It totally rearranged her preconceptions. Instead of looking at the guild as a collection of wizards, she saw from their faces and the way they stood that it was more like a family. This sudden thought made her homesick for her father, Lorn and Ju. “Thank you for the kind welcome.” She said out loud. “I hope that I can give back as much as I have already gained.”
Joen grinned broadly. “I think I can speak on behalf of everyone when I say that you have already done far more than that, Zya.” He then proceeded to lead her away from the gathered mass, and into a side room that turned out to be his study. Decked out with luxuries that seemed sparse in the rest of the guild, Joen bade her sit in one of the high-backed seats to one side of his desk. He took the opposite seat from her, and poured them both a drink.
“Drink up,” He said, offering her a glass. At her curious look at the drink he added, “It is fruit juice, imported from the South and iced from the North.
Zya took a cautious sip. The flavour blossomed on her tongue, reminding her of the summer morning she once spent looking out over a river. It was a similar instant of joy, and made her pang even more for the company of those familiar to her. She felt quite overcome at that moment, to the point that Joen noticed.
“What is the matter?” He asked, his old eyes full of concern.
Zya laughed in spite of her mood. Everybody was looking out for her. “It is a delicious drink. Excuse me for my frankness, but what do I call you?”
Joen looked up to the ceiling of his study as he thought out loud. “What do you call me? Master? Sir? How about Joen, seeing as I am to teach you. Joen it is. Now you can tell me what is the matter.”
“None of the sort,” he replied, “in fact it sounds a perfect idea considering what you have been through. That illusion must have tired you beyond measure.”
“I am somewhat weary,” she agreed, unwilling to let on that she actually felt nothing other than a need to see her family.
“That is settled then. Take your time to go and see your family, and return when you feel up to it. But before you go, let me tell you of the things that await you.” Joen leaned forward, looking straight into her eyes. “I would hate to think you would miss out on any of this.”
* * *
If Zya knew Lorn, he would have had carried on with life in the weaponsmiths, only pausing to mope after her in his private moments. So the shock when he saw her walk past the window in the direction of their house brought a satisfied smile to her face. Dropping his work, he excused himself and ran out after her. Already she was disappearing down a side street, staying as unobtrusive as possible. Lorn walked faster to keep up, and eventually gained on her. “You are a welcome sight in a city of strangers.” He said as he caught up with her.
Zya stopped, recognising the voice and turned around slowly. “I was homesick.” Zya threw her arms around his neck and kissed him firmly on the lips, a lingering kiss that spoke of intimacy. He held her close for a moment as she hugged him tight. She then pushed herself away, smoothing down her robe and laughing sheepishly.
“You are full of surprises.”
“I guess that I was more homesick than I thought.” Smiling at his confused state, she took his hand. “Come, let us find my father. I would have all that I know to be familiar around me while we catch up. It has been too long.”
“He will be pleased to see you,” Lorn agreed. “How long have you got away from the guild?”
“Until tomorrow,” she replied, implying by the tone of her voice that she did not want to speak any more on that subject.
That made Lorn grin. “Something is always up with you.”
“Come on. The walls have ears. These robes mark me out as a guild member of the Earthen Clerics. While they are well respected by most people, they are not universally loved. Every guild has its detractors, and it's clear judging by the faces of some that were I still alone, they would let their feelings out for an airing.”
Lorn looked around them. “But we are well within the tribal quarter, where the Gods and Ilia in particular are revered, even loved.” Lorn's face and longbow discouraged any attempt at even catcalling, as did the knife that Zya still wore about her waist, yet they did not tarry. They passed quickly and without incident through the couple of streets that separated the weapon smiths from the carpentry and their house. Zya sighed in relief when she spied the open gate that led to the countryside beyond. “Missed the open spaces, haven't you?”
“I have. It is only when I actually see it that I realise how much it means to me. Once a traveller always a traveller, at least at heart.”
“Have you got enough time for us to go out there?”
Zya looked at him, and then glanced around at the people about them. “Perhaps.”
Lorn's expression betrayed his unease. Zya had more important things on her mind. She crossed the short distance to her father's carpentry, and burst in through the door, leaving it swinging ajar. By the time Lorn arrived she was hugging her father while Darrow looked on with a broad smile. Lorn nodded a greeting to the big pirate, who looked resplendent in bright green velvet with his blue-steeled falchion strapped to his back looking completely out of place.
Zya stepped back from her father, and a tear was running down her cheek. “Sorry,” she said, embarrassed.
Tarim looked confused. “Why be sorry? I am as glad to see you, as you are to see me. How have things been?”
Zya proceeded to tell the three of them about her experiences thus far in the guild, from the first time she entered and realised where it was she had been taken, up to the illusion she had created and the introduction of the guild master as her new teacher. When asked about the use of a stone by Darrow, Zya produced her focus stone, popping the lid, as she liked to call it, and letting them see the crystals within.
“My, Isn't that a pretty little jewel,.” Darrow said as he peered in through the tiny hole at the end of the stone. “How do you use it?”
“Concentration mostly, I think,” Zya replied. “Though I do not know how to do anything really with it. The first big test was to try and find the stone from a group of them, and there was no guarantee that I was going to find my stone. Luck has been with me today. The strange thing is that it all doesn't feel quite right. I know what I need to do, and I can use the stone in doing it, but something interferes.” Zya thought to herself for a moment, trying to come up with a better analogy. “I suppose it could be different types of training clashing, for I have had several.”
Darrow obviously did not know what this meant, but before he could frame a question, Tarim interrupted him.
“Tell me about this Joen Kzell,” Tarim asked her. “Is he a man you can trust?”
“I have no reason not to father, they have shown me nothing but kindness and understanding. As it transpires, I had just as much a chance of getting him as a teacher as anything else. My lessons start tomorrow, and continue for three moons. Then comes the Feast of Growth, to celebrate the warming of the North.”
“You've been invited to the Ducal Estate?” Darrow looked surprised as he said that. “That's a rare honour.”
“Joen said that novices from all the guilds attend. It has become a tradition.”
“Looks like you are going to get your wish then, doesn't it?” Lorn said with aplomb. “You always wanted to visit that place.”
“Be careful in there, girl,” Darrow warned, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Word has it that there are some less than savoury characters behind those walls, and we wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you.”
“I am sure I will be able to take care of myself by then.” Zya replied with confidence. “Tell me what has happened with you all since I have left you. I must have missed loads.”
This question gave Darrow the opportunity to break into his verbal stride. “I have news about Juatin, your young companion, message runner and general sneak. He has been running messages to and from the mercenary guild of all places, for a rival of mine.”
“Is that safe?” Lorn asked with a great deal of concern.
“Should be,” Darrow replied, not looking the least bit worried. “He is quick on his feet, and keeps his mouth shut. That is all they desire of him, and every day he gets a little more information about our mysterious guild.”
“Any news of O'Bellah?” Zya asked, the first pangs of worry coming to her for a very long time.”
“That name has half of the mercenaries cussing, and the other half scared into silence.” Darrow admitted. “This man that you have claimed is out to ruin the world has to be seriously well connected elsewhere to have such a solid bunch of people acting like that. The strange thing about it is that it seems that they are recruiting, and no longer being secretive about it.”
“What has Bays Point to do with him?” Lorn asked of the burly pirate.
“He is connected to Raessa.” Zya interrupted.
“Maybe, maybe not. It seems that from what Ju has been hearing the man is not in town at the moment, nor is he for the foreseeable future.” Darrow leaned in, as if he did not want anybody else to hear. They all leaned in with him. “They say that does not matter, that he has ways of finding out what is happening from afar. They say that he has wizards aiding him, wizards from guilds all over the land, and that they are turning their fellows to aid him.”
Zya found this claim to be slightly incredulous. “Who are 'they'?” She asked, in tones that plainly echoed her feelings.
“Mercenaries mostly, as far as the boy could
tell. It's a seething pot of distrust and anger within the mercenary ranks when there is nobody to keep them in line. That is where your O'Bellah has made a difference.” Darrow sat down heavily on one of the polished chairs scattered around the room. “Let me tell you about mercenaries. They are a crude lot, full of bad language and coarse ways, not at all like pirates. Moreover, they usually work in bands, and do not gel well with mercenaries not of their band. Imagine if you will the rivalry that would have existed between the tribes up on the steppes had you not all had that greater purpose that seems to govern you all. Well the worst rivalry you could imagine would be a drop in the ocean compared to the friction that occurs when you put two of these bands in the same region, let alone the same complex.”
”That bad, huh?” Zya said.
“You had better believe it, girl,” Darrow affirmed. “Now imagine the tension inherent in such men when you have say ten, even twelve of those bands under one roof.”
“Volatile wouldn't even begin to describe it,” Tarim murmured, setting the tools he had idly been using to shape wood down.
“Right,” Darrow agreed. “What you have there is a melting pot ready to be tipped over, and able to consume most everything in its path. Had I not known you better, that one situation alone would convince me that was responsible for the bad feeling not only you, but many of this normally vibrant city have been feeling.”
“No, it is not that. It is O'Bellah. We have seen what he is doing in the countryside.”
“I believe you lass. The one thing that can seemingly hold them all together. Your mysterious O'Bellah. Imagine what sort of a person is able, despite not even being present in the city, to maintain order and discipline within the ranks of multiple mercenary bands. Remember that this is a group of the roughest individuals that would draw their swords at the slightest provocation. He has regimented them in a way that has never been seen before. Add to that the many that are drawn from the city itself by the apparently easy pickings on offer to those that sign up, and you have all the bad seeds in the entire region packing out a single building. More enter every day, and yet none come out. Ever.”
The Path of Dreams (The Tome of Law Book 2) Page 39