The rest was one blur of focussing and theology, as befitted the head of the order. Joen shuddered, and leaned against a wall.
“Are you all right, Joen?” Zya asked in anxious tones.
“Am I… Why would I not be?”
“We have been stood here some time now, and though I hate to distract you from your memories, we are supposed to be beginning the training.”
Joen bowed his head. “I stand chastised. Times long past, Zya. I was remembering, or attempting to remember what I was doing when I was your age. It might help to give me a little more perspective. It has been quite a while since I have trained somebody as young as you.”
Joen turned, and began to shuffle along the hallway.
“Who was he? The one as young as me?”
“I did not say the student was male. That is presumptuous, do you not think?”
Zya grinned, “only if the presumption was not right.”
The answer caught Joen off guard, and he laughed a bellyful. Various members of the order stuck their heads out of rooms, ready to complain as the serenity of silence was broken by the noise, but on seeing who was the source, either ducked their heads back in or smiled, sharing in the pleasant atmosphere.
“Ahhh one would have to learn to have a quick mind with you.” Joen complemented her. “The other young student that I spoke of is Ralnor, your previous teacher. He has the position of choosing, and that was gained through hard work and a certain intuition, one that you appear to share. How did you know that it was a he that I spoke of?”
Zya did not turn towards him as she said, “I just knew.”
“Magic where there is no magic?” Joen mumbled.
They found their way into his study as they talked. The musty smell of parchment was balanced by the freshness of the rock, and damp earthy odour of the loam from which a few plants sprouted.
“My Goddess provides all that I need to exist, and her fingers reach deeper than the surface.” The aroma was subtle, but intoxicating to him all the same. Pouring them both a drink, Joen moved around the desk from Zya, and sat silently for a moment, composing his thoughts and sipping the ice-cold fruit juice. “Tell me. What do you know of the Gods and their impact upon the world?”
Zya sat without comment for a moment, remembering all that she had been told in the past. Snatches of information came to mind, but none of them were as substantive as the story Gren had told everybody on a sunny morning, where they had become riveted and almost stopped moving as they had listened to the old storyteller. She repeated the story verbatim, emphasising the interaction of the Gods, and the role of each in creating the world they now lived in. Moreover, she emphasised what she knew of Ilia, for that was what she sensed Joen needed to hear from her.
Joen listened with intent until the end. “I have never heard its like. The perfect recollection of the Gods and how they formed the earth has never been told in such a way. Truly you are a marvel. Never has a student come into the order so fresh-faced and yet so knowledgeable.”
“Well it is just a story.” Zya replied, unsure of his judgement of her. “It is one that has been handed down through the generations by the story-tellers. I heard it from the man who would profess to being the cook in the group that I travelled with.”
“You didn't believe him?”
Zya looked ahead, almost through Joen himself as she sought the words for an appropriate answer. “It was not so much that he was not a cook; he could cook perfectly well, and with so little ingredients could make a feast fit for any Duke in the Duchies. It was more that he possessed an intellect that went so much further than his chosen vocation. He was a cook with the soul of a poet.”
“The way you describe people,” Joen marvelled. “Your turn of phrase could only be one chosen by Ilia herself. I have never heard anybody speak so eloquently. This must have been fate, for you are the type of person that can speak and everybody will listen. I may be bold in saying so, but I believe you are a prophet for the Goddess, her herald even.”
Zya did not know what to make of all this, and sat still.
Suddenly aware that Zya was watching him, Joen formed a reply. “Your cook must be quite a man.”
“He would not say that, he is too humble. But he was quite willing to take anybody down a peg or two should the need arise, and neither size nor age mattered to him.”
“I can see you hold this man in high esteem. Hold his teachings in your heart. Keep them next to my own, as I will model you after me. It will be my legacy to the world, especially if Ilia shows her divine self once again. I expect you would like to know what it is you will be learning.” Joen said, his hands clasped in front of him.
“How to focus, I hope,” Zya replied, unconsciously playing with the dagger she wore on the new belt.
Joen's eyes darted over her. Zya remained impassive. This had not been the first time a man looked her over in such a way. It was unnerving because of who it was, and where they were, but Zya always believed in the benefit of the doubt.
“Exactly,” Joen replied. “You have shown that you have the capability to learn to focus. Actually I would go so far to say that you have more than capability. You have a talent. If that chatterbox of a girl that came back in with you had said anything, she would have told you that the illusion you created through your first focus was remarkable to say the least. It has already been recorded in the annals of the order, and will be there forever more, showing that you excelled where passing would have been enough. It will also show that the stone you carry is rare, as rare a find as anybody is likely to see, but will always be yours. Nobody will ever be able to take that from you, it was meant for you, otherwise you would never have found it.” “Will I still be able to attend the Feast of Growth?” Zya asked, putting on an eager expression.
“I don't see why not,” Joen replied. “I have the feeling that you will far exceed all expectations, and the normal six months training will take less than three with you. Of course, that is only a guess, but I have every confidence that between the two of us we will make massive inroads into the work we have ahead.
Zya was less than convinced, though she was relieved at the fact that he had not lied to her about the Feast. What a shame young women were so eager to show themselves off. Little did Joen know she had a completely different motive for attending the event.
“So there is no time like the present for starting then?” Zya was as forthright as she was honest, and once again Joen had to suppress the smile her words seemed to almost always manifest on his face.
“Indeed not, my dear,” he replied. “The first rule about focussing is to always work with the stone. Never force yourself into it. That is where many beginners go wrong, and injure their minds or worse. The rest of the rules we will work through as we go along, for they will need gradual introduction. Now take out your stone and hold it in front of you.”
Zya removed her focus stone from the pocket in her robe, and flipped the top of the stone off, revealing the tiny purple crystals within. It was truly a dazzling sight. “What now?” She asked.
“Close your eyes, and clear your mind. With the stone aligned we will cross that bridge together.”
Zya felt it as soon as Joen spoke the words. They were so similar that she felt the gift of the seer rise up in her almost unbidden. The dream came upon her and she did not even know it.
Chapter Fourteen
Since their escape from Raessa, Obrett and his three companions had maintained a relaxed but nonetheless active vigilance against the possibility of pursuit. Making frugal use of their supplies, they rode due East, crossing one of the tributary rivers that made up the Hotiari, the grand river that cut across the middle of the Nine Duchies, eventually resulting in Lake Eskebeth, the Reedswallower, and the Iscuan Delta far to the South. Obrett only came to realise how far from home he actually was when they crossed the shallow ford. The clear water running with abandon bore none of the trademark sluggishness of the great river at its lower points. D
espite his homesickness, he felt a certain joy at crossing the river. It was as if an invisible boundary had passed. In fact, once they were over the second river in their path, almost one month into their escape, they felt a distinct lessening in the compulsion that had managed to subdue almost every individual within its radius into heading for the dark city in the mountains. They passed into a desert; the barren reaches of northernmost Mern where nothing grew except for rocks and weeds. Jumbled boulders were the masters of the waste, the insects and cowering plants their subjects. It was here that they had come upon a ruin that had poked out of the ground like some long forgotten tower, buried up to the neck by rock and soil, and left to its entombed fate, alone. There was something odd about the place, arousing a certain feeling within all of them that spoke of a focus. There was nothing special about the tower by day. It stuck out in stark contrast to the pale rocky desert, the smooth dark walls and domed roof only broken by the iron-framed windows that allowed light in. The unanimous decision was that this would be a place that they could make a stand from. They also decided to send Jacob and Ispen on towards their guild houses in distant Nejait, the city that nestled on the western side of the mountain range to the East. The guilds would need to hear of what was happening, since the joining of other guilds to the madness that was the Witch Finder's cause could not be ignored. Under protest, the two journeying wizards took the extra horses with them, despite vociferous arguments that Obrett and Brendan might need them. And so the Law wizard and the Earth wizard were left standing upon a low circular wall, made of the same dark stone as the tower as they contemplated its existence.
Brendan threw back the hood that he had been wearing, exposing damp hair to the warm breeze. “Were we right to let them go on alone?”
“I think so.” Obrett had always been convinced. “Look at the facts. When we were held prisoner, who was interrogated, and who was beaten? Ispen and Jacob were left alone as far as we knew. Aside from having the ability to focus, they seemed to be of no use to anybody there.” He looked over at the aging Earth Wizard. “Which was a gross underestimation on their part. It really is remarkable work: there are no seams between stones. It's almost as if the tower was carved out of something, or had been grown from the ground up.
“So you think they will be missed less than us then?” Brendan concluded.
“Exactly,” the Law Wizard agreed. “If they look for anybody, it will be you and I rather than Jacob and Ispen. It is better that we make a stand at somewhere that at least looks defendable, rather than ride on with them and risk all four of us.”
“That's not all though, is it?”
Obrett looked out to the desert, squinting towards the mountains to the West. In there rested the city fortress from which they had escaped, and the mere sight of mountains gave him a bad feeling. “No it is not. They have full guilds to go to, but you and I are in a different position. You lost your closest brothers when forced to spy on the forest tribe, and nearly all of my order has turned against the Old Law. Were we to go on, we would only be repeating the same words that Ispen and Jacob will tell their orders, and other orders. Better that we stop somewhere and try to figure out what we can do to prevent them gaining ascendancy over every other wizard in the Duchies. Anybody that goes over to him will eventually find themselves victims of that stone monstrosity that follows him like a pet. I mourn for my ex-companions already, for that idiot Caldar has led them astray. They will not survive. Many are old and weak, of no use except as an eldritch snack for that creature.”
“I do still have an order despite what happened,” Brendan countered. “There may only be a few of us left, but they would heed any warning that is spoken.”
“And they will, for Jacob will visit with them and tell them what has befallen you.”
Brendan was silent for a moment. “You did not mention this before.” He said this with only the slightest of accusations.
“I wasn't sure how you would react, my friend,” Obrett admitted, wiping the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief. “To be utterly truthful with you, I did not think that either of us were as able as the other two to ride so hard and so fast towards the distant city. Better that we stop and make some 'noise' so to speak, to keep Raessa away from our true purpose.”
“To align the guilds against the Witch Finder?” Brendan only confirmed out loud what Obrett had been thinking for a long time now. “That is a dangerous course. There are a lot of powerful people out there.”
“And the Witch Finder is one of them. At least he will be if he ever regains his ability to focus. We should pray that day never comes. If Garias Gibden does not have to rely on other wizards for focussing, then he will be a force indeed. That is his only problem for now.”
Brendan smiled at the irony. “A man who calls himself the Witch Finder, dedicated to removing wizards, is a wizard himself.” He shook his head, breaking into a quiet laugh. “Fear is his greatest ally, and I don't think I fear him any longer. If ever I see the man, I think I shall laugh. He is a contradiction in terms. A wizard with no power dedicated to removing wizards indeed.”
”Cynicism is a powerful tool when used in the right hands,” Obrett agreed. “Beware of his motives my friend. He gathers the guilds for a reason, and that we know all too clearly. His ultimate goal is the obliteration of the Old Law, in some way so profound that we have not considered it yet. I judge that he is intending to remove the Old Law in more than name. I think he is mad enough to want to challenge the very Gods. Trust me my friend, we need every bit of help we can get. Never doubt he has power. Emotive magic is a strong ally. Now shall we stand here looking some more? Or would you like to make this tower into a home?”
Brendan knocked on the immense iron doors that stood at least twice as high as they did. “Is it possible that two frail old men could open a door of such weight and size, even together?”
Obrett pushed at the door, which gave slightly. “There's your answer.”
Brendan needed no more prompting, and together they pushed.
The doors yielded grudgingly, many seasons-worth of sand blocking their entrance with a fluid persistence. Yet they opened wide enough to permit entry to the tower. Once inside, Obrett felt the air cool almost to the point of frigidity. In complete contrast to the outside, the air was fresh and sweet with the scent of flowers, yet none were evident. The tower's foyer was clear of anything but a few stone benches, dusty and ancient in their design. The sand did not extend far past the door; it had obviously built up during storms that had managed to push it under the edge of the huge iron doors. Funnily enough, there was no evidence of rust or sand scouring on the exterior. It was as if the doors had resisted any attempt to breach them, until now.
“That is the strangest smell.” Brendan walked over to one of the benches and cleared the dust with the edge of his now-removed cloak. He sat down and concentrated. “There are no flowers, or hints of perfume here but when I stand up and move towards the door,” he did so as he spoke, “the fragrance gets stronger. Shut the doors. Let us keep unwelcome guests out.”
Obrett complied, marvelling at the fact that the hinges were silent despite years of apparent inattention. The doors boomed shut, and a great iron latch locked down without any prompting. The flowery fragrance disappeared. “Strange that.” Obrett sniffed at the air, finding only the remotest trace of the flowers.
“It would lead me to believe that this tower is surrounded by meadows in full bloom,” Brendan concluded. “Open the door once more.”
“It would help if we cleared the sand out of the way first.” Obrett kicked at the ripples on the floor. Brendan joined him in clearing the sand, easier by hand as they knelt down amongst it. The sand was as nothing before the immensity of the iron doors, but it was still very clear that it impeded their opening. The task did not take long, and the door opened with ease. The fragrance returned, but when they looked outside the only thing they saw was the low circular wall surrounded by the rocky desert beyond.
>
“Most strange,” concluded Brendan.
“How about we look around the rest of the tower?” Obrett suggested, laying down his pack. Brendan agreed and they went exploring. The ground floor of the tower was a simple layout. Behind the entrance there were two rooms, used for storage as evidenced by the relics that they found. Wooden crates yielded nothing but dried and twisted remnants of what may have been food, and there was the impression that weapons had once been stored by the piles of rust that they found under pegs up against one wall. There may or may not have been the remains of sword hilts in amongst the rubbish, but much had been scavenged a long time ago. Further on from there was a third room, an ancient kitchen. A stone stove dominated the centre of the room, with a table off to one side and shelves protruding from the other wall. Both rooms were lit by windows so small and set to high up in the wall that entrance could never be gained through them. To climb up and jump through would be utmost folly.
“This tower was secure in its day.” Obrett poked his fingers around the edges of the windows. “Not a flaw, not a thing wrong with them.” He turned to Brendan, who was examining more of the boxes in the forlorn hope that something of use could be found inside. “This tower is suspiciously sound for a ruin, don't you think?”
“Let us see if the upper floors reinforce that suspicion.” The Earth wizard replied, leading the way out. They walked back into the entrance to find that the sand had once again built up against the door. This made both men pause. “Strange,” Brendan commented as he nudged the sand with a booted foot.
The Path of Dreams (The Tome of Law Book 2) Page 43