The people around her became fewer and fewer, until only a handful remained. Joen was amongst them. “I suppose you would like an explanation,” he asked.
“We would too.” Said one of the people who remained. “What proof have you that this girl is to be the next head of the order?” The person that asked was an older member of the guild that Zya had never seen before. Judging by the travel-worn clothes and mud-stained boots, he had travelled far and quickly to get there. It was no wonder she had never met him. He fumed at the fact that somebody other than him was being honoured so, or so it seemed.
“You know the rules as well as any, Sparan,” Joen replied defensively. “Only one who knows our innermost secrets can tell, and those secrets remain property of the successive heads of the order. Ilia herself has decreed that Zya will head or order next. Who are you to dispute the approval of the Goddess?”
“Bah! That green mist is a cheap illusion.” Sparan concentrated, and Zya felt rather than saw him direct his concentration into a focus, though he did it in the most dreadful of manners. Zya could feel the crude force, as could Joen. Eventually a wispy green vapour flowed from around the newcomer, though it was a pale imitation of the lush green fog that had called everybody to the hall. Sparan's lack of strength was such that the mist did not even manage it as far as the hallways, fading into nothingness as did his will.
“Why don't you go back to selling your stones to merchants and tricksters, Sparan? It seemed that you always had a much greater aptitude for the less respectful side of guild life.”
“You had better count your days, old man, for you will not last much longer as head of this guild,” Sparan nodded in her direction, “and your little puppet even less.” The stranger stormed past them, leaving only a group of stunned people in his wake. Nobody had ever spoken like that to the head of an order.
“Why did he speak so?” Zya asked Joen.
“He has a great deal of distrust and resentment, but at heart he was once a good man.” Joen obviously spoke from the perspective of one that was honouring a past memory. “You are right in thinking that perhaps I should have banned him a long time ago, but we all make mistakes and I am as always, prepared to give a person a second chance. Still, if Sparan does not come round, then I will have no choice but to excommunicate him from the order. His words are hollow and there is nothing he can do within these walls to harm anybody. But do not let that worry, my dear. Events have overtaken you much too quickly. Our discussion today showed that you understand more of this Order than anybody has in a long time. Do not share the knowledge you have unlocked, not for selfish reasons but because of the consequences should somebody of malicious intent breach the 'window' as you so aptly put it. I know this has been one long trial of a day. Go, get some rest, and find diversion. It will probably be the last chance that you get.” Joen waved her away before she could argue. Despite the certainty that she was not going to remain in the guild no matter what Joen or anybody else said, her gentle nature and good heart made her feel obliged to try and sort out the problems that she now saw in the order. But were those problems truly hers if she was not going to stay?
“My thanks, Joen Kzell.” Zya intoned formally, and turned without looking back so that her eyes could not betray the fact that she would never be the head of this order to Joen, or to any of the others that were still gathered in Sparan's wake.
Zya wandered without aim around the halls of the guild. She let her feet guide her through openings and down corridors as she thought about all that had happened. Eventually, something distracted her. She came back to herself, realising just exactly where it was that her feet had led her. She looked about, wondering if she had been followed but there was no sign and no sound, not even the presence of anyone to her blossoming mind. No, that was not right, she corrected herself. There was one person. Zya crept into the kitchens, the place she had once worked, certain that there was somebody up ahead. Stepping with care as Lorn had taught her to do, and thankful that the soles of her tribal shoes were soft and whispering compared to the occasional clack on the floor up ahead, she followed. Not getting any closer to the person ahead, Zya made sure that there was at least one corner between her and him for only a man could make so much noise when trying to be stealthy, and a good route of escape behind. She was sure of outrunning any pursuer in this place, for she knew the kitchen area well and was much more in shape than any wizard that had never been closer to a kitchen than his servant. She neared the door that she had once used to enter her life as a menial, and paused. Whoever was up ahead was not leaving, despite having the door ajar. It seemed as if they were waiting for somebody. Zya crouched behind one of the large wooden tables used in preparing the great quantities of food consumed by the guild every day, and waited for events to unfold.
For a while nothing happened. The silence in the kitchens brooded, like a menacing creature building up malice enough to cause it to strike. The kitchens still carried the faintest scent of a meal prepared during the afternoon, but they had been empty for a while. The only current occupants aside from Zya and her quarry were the lengthening shadows thrown in by the cobweb-filled windows. As they stretched across the kitchens to make the suite of rooms their own, still Zya waited. What had her interest was the identity of the person that waited by the exit. She imagined him peeking around the edge of the heavy oaken door that was the symbolic barrier between the acolytes of Ilia, and the normal world outside. She sifted through the myriad of sounds that she could hear, the noise of the dwindling crowds in the guild quarter, the mice fighting over a scrap in an adjacent storeroom, even the faint whistling of the wind through a loose pane of glass in an adjacent guild until she managed to identify the breathing of the man she was sure she had followed. It was faint and surprisingly light, but it was hurried and obviously nervous. Whoever it was knew that somebody would be coming, and they wanted this over with. Anybody could come wandering into the kitchens, for they were not sacrosanct. If anything, that would buy Zya time to try and see whom it was she had followed on nothing more than instinct. She knew that the person was so nervous that they were as likely to bolt through the door as cower and hide should they be disturbed.
Then something changed. A feeling that Zya had not felt in a long time began to surface. It began as a twitch at the base of her spine, but grew with alarming rapidity until it was a hole in the pit of her stomach. She was already crouched, so she could not curl over any more. Her shoulders tensed, her arms pressing into her sides and her hands bent up at the wrists as she struggled to deal with the feeling that had her trapped. She knew not who was nearby, waiting by the door, but she knew exactly who was coming to meet them: O'Bellah.
Had she possessed the level of control that she had upon entering the city, Zya would have crumbled in a second. However, in the brief time that she had spent at the guild Zya had awakened a skill that she seemed born to. The power of her mind was such that although she was very aware of who approached the guild, it did not paralyse her with fear as once it had. This time she reacted with intrigue. What was a man responsible for spreading an evil far to the East doing in one of the westernmost cities of the Nine Duchies? That question helped her focus her thoughts and master her will. It was a blessed relief. The knot of fear was still there, but it was manageable. From the throb of it, she knew that O'Bellah was in the alley outside of the kitchens. She itched to get up and take a look at the man, to see if he was worth all the worry he seemed to generate in her, but for the moment she waited. A waft of city air indicated that the door had been opened wider and then he was there, in the next room from her. Zya was itching to get up, but something warned her that such a move would be no less than fatal. Thankful for the prescience that she now relied on she edged nearer to the room, getting as close as she could without giving her hiding place away.
“Were you followed?” Asked a bullish voice that could only be O'Bellah.
“I was not,” replied a voice that was startlingly feminine, “b
ecause the kitchens were empty this afternoon. Apparently something of great import has happened and the menials were given the afternoon to themselves.”
“What has happened?” He demanded.
“I do not know.” The feminine voice was terrifyingly familiar. “I was kept busy this afternoon with studies.” The word 'studies' came out in such a way that it could have meant one of many things. It certainly did not mean research. Where had Zya heard that voice before? She racked her memory to try and recall it, but could not concentrate on both that, and keeping the fear quelled within her. There would be a way around the latter; Zya was sure of the fact that this nimbus of fear was projected, and not something that occurred naturally. That alone aided her in her own personal battle with the fear. Her thoughts were invaded by the sound of a strong hand hitting flesh, and a stumble into boxes. “Foolish wench,” spat the male voice, “I do not come here for suppositions and excuses by yellow haired village girls. Where is he?”
A sob was stifled, and then the female voice replied. “My teacher is predisposed with new information that may help you subvert many of the guild. He bade me beg forgiveness on his part, but he told me to tell you that by the time of the Feast, he will be in a position to give you not just an answer, but the guild as well.”
“With him as its head and that merchant Sparan as heir to the title, I don't doubt.” O'Bellah replied sarcastically. “Well if that is the way the merchants want it, then they will have to live with the consequences once their 'prince' holds sway over the wizards.” Zya knew not what the man was talking about, but she listened closely. There was something momentous afoot here, involving just about everybody she seemed to know. She knew the identity of the person speaking to O'Bellah, but did not want to admit it to herself until she laid her eyes on her.
“Is there anything else? What of your fellow novices? Are any of them looking like they can be persuaded, or are they still singing the guild song?”
“Most are nondescript, studying as I am. Some show more promise than others, and a couple have been singled out for special treatment.” The detached, almost analytical side to the person surprised Zya. She had not seen that side to them in the time she had known them. Maybe she was not meant to, but now the cover was blown.
“Tell me of them,” he demanded.
“You are looking at one, and the other was recruited after a fainting spell outside the mercenary guild. My teacher witnessed it and tracked her to her house in the Tribal Quarter.”
“Wandering scum,” O'Bellah spat. “What was she doing there?”
“I do not know why, but her father has a carpentry there, and evidently one of the nomads lives with them. One who is well positioned within the clans. My teacher attempted to get information, but none was forthcoming.”
“Information of their movements dries up quicker than a worm in the desert when they feel threatened. Tell your master that he should be more careful when dealing with their kind. You haven't said what is so special about this girl. A faint does not do much to impress.”
Zya sat in the dark with growing anger as her only company. Her entire guild history was recalled, from the moment she had been invited in to the point that she had discovered her own focus stone. Only things entirely private to her were left out such as the actual reasoning behind her discovery, a thing she would never have revealed before and certainly would tell nobody of within the guild now. Who was she able to trust? Two people that she had judged to be sound of character were now revealed as false. Zya suddenly could not see herself remaining in the order, whatever might happen. The only blessing was that there was little or no information given about her time in the order after she cast the focus that alerted the guild to her potential. Evidently Joen had no knowledge of this, though that would change if Zya could help it.
The information had animated O'Bellah in some way that Zya could not see. “I want you to do me a favour. Get to know this girl. Find out about her roots. I am after a girl of tinker origin, not tribal. She once wandered much as the tribe do, but with a purpose. I need her for something.”
“Would I not do?” There was a cattish hint of jealousy in the girl's voice, as if she considered herself to be the centre of everybody's attention. Nothing had changed there.
“You are a comely wench, to be sure, but this one thing you could never hope to do.” There was lust, dripping thick in his voice, but he was determined. “Find out about her, but do not tell even your teacher. If I hear so much as one whisper about this from anybody but you, I shall have you given to a lover whose embrace is eternity and whose clutches are torment personified. Do NOT fail me. You can get information to me by sending a runner to the mercenary guild. Now go.”
“What if she is not the one you seek? How can I win?” The voice was timid now, very much afraid.
“My dear girl,” O'Bellah replied, “who ever said anything about winning? You serve. Remember that and never question me again.”
This obvious dismissal was as embarrassing as it was terrifying. Zya kept her gaze on the door from her hiding place as much louder footsteps echoed through the kitchens. A light flickered, and Zya saw tears running down Bethen's face as she half stumbled, half ran around the obstacles in the dark. The bumps and yelps went on for some while as the girl navigated her way out of the labyrinth in the dark, but the ill-feeling that O'Bellah caused Zya never went away. He was still waiting there for something. She considered herself fortunate that she had served in the rooms, for she knew her way about with her eyes closed. She felt compelled to see the man's face, and to that end edged her way around the silent kitchen to a window that was the other side of the doorway, and would give her a perfect view. The window in question was obscured by one of the very rare curtains, which was ideal. Zya found herself an ideal spot from which she could observe the alleyway, looking out from the edge of the window around the curtain. She looked out at the man that had evidently been trying to hunt her down, maybe from as early as the visit to Hoebridge. He was big, with a flabby neck, and piggy-little eyes that seemed to reflect a spoiled childhood in the candle's glow. He had a sneer that was part of his face as much as an ear or nose, and he gave off an air of contempt for everything that was obviously the cause for the ill feeling. Never had she seen anybody that hated everything so much. As she watched, another form materialised out of the shadows. “What do you think?” The dusty voice of Ralnor grated.
“She will do just fine. Are you sure she is up to it?”
”Young women are malleable. She will do her job at the Feast, and the Duke will be putty in her and therefore our hands. It is well documented that he takes a new concubine from the guilds to ensure their good will. This will backfire on him, and we shall get him to accede to our plans, or he shall die.”
“She mentioned your other student. Was it wise to take a second pupil?”
“My first had no knowledge of our plans. She progressed too quickly for her own good. Do not worry. Guild politics will have her bogged down for years to come, especially with Sparan to stir things up. If she ever came to primacy that would be bad, but the guild will be forced to war or disbanded long before that ever happens.”
“Then she is a force to be reckoned with?” The eagerness in his voice alerted Zya to the fact that this was a very, very dangerous place to be, not just the Guild, but also the entire city. She suddenly wished that she were not here, but something was forcing her to witness all of these events and she could not help but follow the path laid out for her.
“She is strong, but too independently minded for our needs. She has a streak of self-righteousness a league wide, and believes strongly in the Old Law.”
“Old Law!” O'Bellah spat. “Their time is at an end, Ralnor. They will be part of the new order, the merchant order, or they will cease to exist. Sparan will see to that.”
Zya had decided that she had heard enough, and silently left her perch behind the window. Making her way back to her room through the dark kitchens and d
imly lit hallways, she avoided sound wherever she thought that she heard it. She did not want to be explaining herself to anybody at this time of the evening. Fortunately, Zya reached her room without incident and quietly let herself in, locking the door behind her. She had so much to think about, but the events of the day caught up with her and before she knew it she was fighting to keep her eyes open. Curling up on her bed with her dagger in her hand for comfort, she fell quickly asleep.
It did not end there. Zya found herself suddenly wandering through a deep valley, the path surrounded on both sides by thick, dense pine trees going up as far as the eye could see. The path sloped down in front of her, and she followed it without knowing why. She never once looked back, mainly because she knew that in this dream, she was destined to go ever forward, deeper and deeper. The forest was not cold, moreover the density of the trees made it comforting. The comfort took away some of the underlying chill created by the knowledge that this forest was in fact extremely dangerous. What made it so was not apparent, but she kept going forwards and down. It was gradually getting darker, much as it had in the kitchens. This did not seem relevant somehow for there was a subtle, unearthly glow coming from somewhere ahead. Down she went, and in the distance she could see her path crossing with another path to her right. The ground was firm, and the steep descent was easy for her in her tribal shoes. The path suddenly bottomed out, and Zya found herself at the join of the two paths in the gloom. In front of her, there was a high fence resting on a raised wall of dirt. It made a statement that said as pure as the driven snow, 'Do not cross here'. She looked around, and noticed a small figure walking down the path. It was a boy just on the edge of becoming a man, an impressive bow slung across his back in such a way as to almost render it invisible. He wore the nondescript brown clothing she had last seen him in, a little more soiled in the real world, she presumed. For his part the boy grinned back, and jauntily strolled down the remainder of the path through the dimness of the trees. The sky above did not seem real, so far away was it, and more of a lid on the bowl of the valley than the deepening infinity that it actually was. There was a glow from above, beyond the trees, but it was as indescribable as it was indiscriminate, shining through in dim patches where the trees thinned. She reassessed her perceptions of the valley. It was not so much as the trees thinned, but more that they allowed light to pass through their branches. He finished his walk down the path, ending up to her left as she looked up at the two paths.
The Path of Dreams (The Tome of Law Book 2) Page 51