The Focus Stone (The Tome of Law Book 1)

by Matthew W. Harrill

  Obrett turned his attention to that of the creature. It was obviously the same creature that had abducted him at the guild house. He had no further recollection of any memory before waking up here. He was not naive enough to believe that he had been locked up somewhere close to home. Except for the temperature, there were no signs at all betraying his location. He reasoned that he could be much further north, or he could be in a deep dungeon. The effect on temperature was the same, but until he got out of this cell, he would not know. He had hardly seen the creature to start with. He had been fed and watered by the guards, who never spoke to him, and wore hoods to conceal their identity. The creature was hardly around then. But as time wore on, it appeared more frequently at the other side of the cell door. It would just stand there, staring at him. Why he was so fascinating to the creature he had no idea. As it stared, so he could make out certain features beneath the hood it wore in imitation of the guards.

  It was definitely human to some extent, for Obrett made out some semblance of a nose and mouth. It was a dark grey though, and concealed underneath the hood, that was the limit of his vision. Sometimes a flicker of a lamp or torch would show up coal-black eyes, but as to the extent of intelligence there, Obrett could not begin to guess. The rest of the creature's appearance was a mystery to him, but it bulked massively around the other side of the door when it hunched to gaze at him. Little light would enter the cell as long as it was there. Obrett welcomed this, trying to imagine it was the briefest of nights. It was yet another break in the monotony that was his life in its current state. He tried to look on the bright side; at least none of his sour-faced muttering ancient colleagues were there. The silence was welcome at any time if it meant the rubbish they came out with was being spoken somewhere else. It was thoughts like this that led to him battling the downwards spiral into depression that might have affected most people. He had to admit to himself it was all rather intriguing; the creature, and the silent guards. It was almost as if after all his life of study and contemplation he was finally having an adventure, even if the adventure involved being chained up in some nameless place.

  The creature was there now, staring. It seemed expectant, shuffling in its own massive way from what Obrett assumed was foot to foot. He had never witnessed this before. Normally, the creature would be immobile as it watched him, as if in a trance. Now he could pick out the light reflected in its eyes as it moved slightly before turning abruptly and moving away, to the Gods only knew where. Obrett listened to the deep boom of footsteps as the creature slowly shuffled away. He sighed, slumping to hang flaccidly off of his chains; his wrists had long gone numb. If not for the agony of blood bringing feeling back into his hands he could almost forget himself entirely.

  From somewhere distant Obrett heard shouting echoing back down the corridor. It was the only sound aside from footsteps that he had heard in this place. It confirmed in his mind that he was deep within this place. The shouts ended abruptly when a loud 'whump' that made the door rattle. This was followed by a bellow of such abject misery that Obrett's eyes watered just to hear it. The noise could only have come from the creature; nothing else could have made a noise like that, he thought.

  The noise saddened him, but at the same time relieved him. He had no idea as to the creature's intentions, but it was the nearest thing he had to a companion in this place. The fact that it bellowed so indicated that even if it had been the target of the concussion that had echoed through the halls, it had nevertheless survived. With no warning at all, the cell door burst open, groaning on its hinges. Opening his eyes expecting to see the creature looming over him, he instead saw a man. He mast have been of a similar age, for his grey beard was shot with patches of ice white, and he had an all too familiar look about him. The man sneered at him, and immediately Obrett was hit with a recollection of where he had seen him before.

  “You!” he hissed at the man.

  If it were possible for a sneer so deep to increase so, his captor laid bare the depths of his soul in the expression on his face. “You are going to tell me where it is,” he said in a deep, slow voice while his eyes seemed to flash. “You are going to tell me it all!”

  Obrett had no idea what the man was talking about, but from the presence of the piece of filth before him, he knew that things had drastically taken a turn for the worse.

  * * *

  Zya mopped her brow with a sooty piece of rag as she helped bank the fire that Jani used for heating up metal in need of repair. Silently cursing the fact that Erilee had suddenly found needlework to be so appealing when faced with the prospect with yet another day helping her father, she reasoned that at least she was outside. The past two weeks or so had been hectic to say the least, for there was much more work that the people of the town were prepared to pay for than the travellers could actually take on board. Initially people had wanted their horses re -shod, so while Zya and her father were taking care of the horses, with a lot of help from the young boy, Ju, Jani put his skill towards making horseshoes. Most of the horses they had catered for were simply dealt with, as their owners were pretty careful about their property. More than a few, to Zya's great dismay, had to be put down because they were lame, or ill. One poor beast even had a broken leg, his owner forcing him in with no regard for the obvious wound.

  That had angered Zya more than most things ever had. When Tarim pronounced the horse unfit for anything, the owner, a fat balding man who seemed more concerned with the finer things in life, exploded in anger demanding money back from them. Tarim endured his tirade a lot more calmly than Zya felt she would have, and pointed out that since the horse's leg was obviously recently broken and not done in this paddock, none would be forthcoming. The man dragged the horse off in the direction of the butcher's house, muttering about being owed money, and glaring at the travellers as he did so. Zya really felt for the poor animal; it was not fair that it should end up with an owner that treated it so badly. Zya did what she did for all those she could help, and worried about the rest. Tarim pointed out to her that her empathy was a great quality to be admired, but there was simply not enough time to worry about solving all the problems of the world. Secretly, Zya vowed to herself that if she ever found a way, she would take it.

  As the rich with their poorly shod horses eventually dwindled, the normal people of the town emerged to present the travellers with a plethora of different things to do. Several times her father took Layric and Gren to help raise fences for particularly troublesome cattle. The beasts had a habit of breaking through anything blocking their way. Before long Gren had come up with a way of interlocking wood and buttressing it so that no matter what the cattle did, they could not move the fencing. As the idea took hold, they were able to make quite a lot from farmers who suddenly saw an escape from letting their cattle wander far.

  Not that a lot of the people had a lot to pay, but they paid whatever they could. Often was the night Zya would see the men of the Travellers a little bit odd after coming out of the inn, swaying around as if they lost their sense of direction. The villagers were appreciative of such simple but inventive ideas, and tried to show their appreciation in any way they could. The travellers took it all in good stead, though after one frowning look from Zya at the men, they mysteriously avoided the inn as much as possible. Venla said at one point she thought they might need another wagon for the money. That was a shallow boast though, as most of it would go back into supplies and when they came across it, a new wagon and team. Layric was determined to see Tarim and her actually sitting on a wagon rather than riding every day. He saw it as more practical, and comfortable for her. Zya was not about to tell Layric that they preferred it on horseback, but whenever a suitable wagon was found for sale, the S'Vedai family suddenly became very choosy about what they considered a home.

  So the people had horses that were properly shod, and groomed for once in their lives, and they had fences so that their cattle would remain where they left them of a night. After these 'emergencies' had been s
orted, the more normal requests surfaced. The pots and pans that had been broken, or the furniture that required some creative thinking to attach a cover to it. A lot of the ladies of the town even came to discuss the advantages of different stitches to Ramaji. This was the time that Zya, and more to the point, Mavra and the ever -silent Erilee, learnt a lot about stitching. As they put all their collective efforts into darning whatever had to be done, she found that the practising had its benefits after all. There were few stitches she didn't know, and her learning curve jumped greatly during these quiet sessions with the occasional spinster or even the man who had no wife and was learning to do things himself. He casually asked if one of the young ladies had ever thought of settling down, his eye on Zya as he asked. She had laughed with the rest of them, but warily looked out for the man, lest he try to come back and ask again. She never let on how uncomfortable it made her feel, but she trusted in Cahal, and asked him to keep an eye out for him. Anita tried to judge the needy from the blatantly lazy. So a fat, rich old woman who just wanted her stockings darned because she couldn't be bothered to do them herself got put right down on the list. But eventually the work there became less, to the point where not all of the girls were needed.

  It was at that point that the sisters' real enthusiasm for stitching kicked in. Zya was more then happy to volunteer to work outside; it got her that one step closer to nature and she was glad for the chance to be outside. For her part, the work was not hard. Keeping the fires ablaze and at a temperature hot enough to heat the metal without melting it was sometimes a little tricky, but she learnt the signs easily enough. It helped that Jani always knew the correct amount of time something should be heated. Just when Zya felt that a piece of metal was going to melt away into a meaningless pool of bubbling liquid, Jani would whisk the metal out of the heat, and reshape it, or mend a hole, or whatever needed doing. Even though they were outside, the humidity caused by the steam produced from the constant quenching of hot metal forced Zya to change her clothes to something more suitable. She ended up in a tight linen top and her travelling trousers. With her long, dark hair tied back, and the top with no sleeves that fitted quite snugly, she began to draw a small following from the young men of the town.

  They suddenly started appearing with all sorts of broken bits in order just to give her a smile. Though this type of attention was no less daunting for her, she appreciated this much more than that of the older gentleman. Being on the road so much, she had had little contact with anyone of her own age, the nearest being the two younger girls. So a large village full of people her age made for an interesting situation. The larger of the young men tried to impress her with looks and charm, but their blatant lack of anything resembling the merest spark of intelligence did nothing for her. In fact, after the boast of one particularly muscular young man that he could have any girl in the village, and that included her, she replied with a particularly cutting remark about the prize bull being a pretty creature, but generally useless in most areas. He must have understood at least, for he never bothered her again. This endeared her to her peers, particularly the more timid ones, who she took time to chat with. She found that they could actually hold a conversation, unlike the local 'stallions' who could barely string two sentences together.

  After one particular chat, where a couple of the local boys and girls were enquiring about horse riding, a smiling Venla greeted her. “You have made friends I see, daughter.”

  Zya looked to where they had walked off and waved as one of the boys turned back briefly. “Yes mistress, I suppose friends they could be called. Though I don't think we will be around long enough for them to remember me as more than a passer by.”

  Venla smiled, brushing a loose wisp of Zya's hair back from where it had fallen to the side of her face. “Do you not wish you could stay with them?”

  “No, not at all,” Zya replied with utmost sincerity in her voice. “You are my family, and this is my life. I would not give up the life we live for anything. To be able to see the sun rise over a mountain chain, or to ride for days with nobody but the whispering wind for company, I would not be prepared to give that up. Not for anybody.” Zya paused, mulling over what she had just said. She looked sheepishly up at Venla. “Oh but that was selfish. Forgive me mistress, I spoke from the heart and did not take time to think about what I said.”

  Venla smiled the mothering smile she seemed to give all but Layric, and put her arm around Zya's shoulders, leading her to the wash barrels. “Don't ever let anybody make you talk otherwise, my daughter. You should value the fact that you can speak with such sincerity. That is the way of the old Law, and that is the way we try to live.”

  So it came, eventually, to a point where the work was only a mere trickle. Everyone had worked as hard as they could remember, and Venla was well pleased with the stores they had been able to replenish at the market. Zya had visited the market frequently, and although she was not given to impulsive purchases, she had bought a few things. Mostly clothes, though she had spent a lot on a pendant. The vendor was a dark haired man who reminded her of her father. He had not tried to haggle, insisting that his prices were fair, but saying little beyond that. The stone on the pendant was jet black, but Zya swore that if she concentrated hard enough, she could see through the surface of the stone and into countless depths beneath. It was on a black leather cord, which she immediately hung around her neck. Having the pendant there made her feel somehow right, but she could not explain why.

  When Venla announced to various people that they travellers would be leaving, some of the councillors expressed regret, for they had come to know them well. A few of the younger generation wished Zya well, though she did catch the 'prize bull' glaring at her, still upset by her blatant rejection. For the most part, people were indifferent about their leaving, and would only come to miss them when they found some other problem they were too lazy to solve themselves. Zya had seen it before, and was used to it. Many a person would have been insulted by the indifference, but it was the way of things.

  The big exception, aside from the councillors, was Ju. He was distraught at the fact that Zya and her father were going to leave. He had come to know them very well, spending more and more time at the travellers' camp as the weeks rolled by. He had even stayed one night with Gwyn and Anita, when they had found him curled up asleep by the wheel of their wagon, and had made a bed for him inside. He had helped them much with the horses, and in return, Tarim had given him a short bow. It was somewhat big for him at the moment, but Tarim assured Ju he would grow into it. When Zya asked where he had found it, Tarim had replied that it was from the same place as her dagger. Ju treasured the weapon, and Zya could see why. The bow was made of a dark polished wood unlike any she had seen, and was tipped with re-curved horns of some creature Zya could not identify. It almost gleamed in the sunlight, but never seemed to actually reflect any light. With the feeling Zya had had about the dagger when she had been given it, she would not have been surprised if Ju had been affected in much the same way.

  So it came to a day when they actually started packing, and Zya was tending to Red. She was brushing his coat, and he loved it, almost quivering with pleasure. Ju sat with his legs under him on the edge of a nearby wagon, shooting pretend arrows from his bow at unseen ghosts. He had started to practice with some soft wood arrows that Tarim had found time to carve, but they were safely packed away when near the animals. “When I am older, I am going to learn to be a guard with my bow and arrows. Then I will travel the land to find you all and protect you like Jaden and Cahal.”

  Zya smiled. “We will not have much to fear of then, with such a mighty warrior to protect us.”

  Ju beamed at what he perceived to be a complement, and then blushed as he realised what Zya had meant. He was clever for his age, and could usually see past Zya's subtle jests. He didn't mind really, and it had become a source of merriment between the two of them, despite the age gap. “I am serious,” insisted Ju. “I want to go with you, but if
I cannot, then I will just have to find you when I am old enough to leave.”

  Zya carried on brushing Red for a moment, then stopped and looked at Ju. “If you really want something, it is never beyond your reach. I think anybody would be hard pressed to stop you should that be your heart's true desire. Just keep that bow of yours from general view. I am sure that even in such a quiet place as this there would be those who would want what is not theirs, and would covet it more than they would care about harming a little boy.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Ju insisted stubbornly, brandishing the bow as if this was his evidence of his future survival amongst the jackals of the land.

  “And what a fine addition to our family you would make, young warrior,” said Venla's voice from beyond the corner of the wagon. She stepped around carefully, avoiding the horse dung on the ground, looking nothing less than regal.

  Venla carried herself with an air of authority; to Zya she was as much a mistress of the caravan as any she had heard tales about, almost regal in bearing. Behind her came Layric with one of his red hounds, and with them Alander and Melgar. The hound sniffed at Ju for a second, then licked his hand. The two had become friends over the weeks of the travellers' stay. Alander bent down to speak to Ju, who had stood at the sight of the councillor's appearance. The kindly old man smiled at the boy, bringing a smile in return; it was hard to find a fault with Alander, as he didn't have a harsh bone in his frail old body. “I hear you want to become a guard to the travellers, boy.”