The Focus Stone (The Tome of Law Book 1)

by Matthew W. Harrill

  Wandering aimlessly, she took a pattern of lefts and rights, hoping to find something. The wooden panels that made the walls of the maze looked like they could be broken easily, so rotten were they, but to the touch they were cold and unyielding. Finding no obvious route out of the maze, Zya went to wandering without purpose. Everything seemed tinted pink, as if some source of light were infecting all around it. Nothing changed; the light, not even the lengths of the corridors, until she suddenly came upon a roughly carved wooden door in one of the panels.

  The door was not obvious, no more than a series of faint lines in the panel of the wall, but as soon as Zya passed it, she knew that she had to enter it. Reaching out slowly, she searched for some sort of handle. As her hands travelled over the surface, the door opened of its own accord, swinging silently inwards. Stepping through, she found herself in a room that appeared to be an old study. The wooden shelves and cupboards were deep brown, at least they looked that colour; the pink from outside had grown to such a deep colour that it was like a sunset she remembered from when the sky was said to be full of ash. The pink was so deep that everybody stopped to just stare at the wonders of the Gods.

  Zya looked around. It was quite spacious, and had a large desk with a chair not fit for anybody but a Duke of the Kingdom behind it. Looking towards the window, she sought to understand where she was, but could not. The buildings outside were as monotonous as the maze had been. Looking back to where she had entered, she saw that there was a large cupboard where the door had been. Slightly disorientated, but unafraid, she approached the cupboard. Something told her to look inside, thought she didn't know where the idea came from.

  As Zya fiddled with the catch on the cupboard door, she heard what she thought was a clicking noise coming from outside another large door, which was the only obvious exit from the room. More urgently, Zya pulled at the doors of the cupboard, which seemed to be stuck. Everything looked wonderfully surreal in the deep pink light, but even so, she began to panic. Something told her urgently that she needed to get the doors open before whomever was outside gained access to the room.

  A lock clicked in the other door, and screaming with silent frustration, Zya yanked with all her strength at the cupboard, which appeared to swell and flex momentarily. She looked towards the other door: it swung open on silent hinges and time appeared to slow. As the door opened further, she saw the figure of a man, powerful but frail. He stood there, glowing a deep pink, staring at her. Desperate to escape, she yanked at the cupboard door in a panicked frenzy, but still it would do no more than bulge. Looking around desperately for a way out of the room, Zya realised the only other exit was through the window, with a straight drop to the road below.

  The figure stepped into the room, oozing menace from every pore. Facing him, she clenched her left fist around the looped brass handle and concentrated, and in so doing discovered that she was suddenly calm. The cupboard door seemed to suck inward, and then burst open with such force that Zya was thrown clear against the far wall under the window. A keening wail echoed around the room as something escaped from within the cupboard. Zya might have been dazed, but she swore that all the angles of the room had altered – everything was not quite as straight as before and the cupboard appeared to have tilted back. The flow of matter continued, appearing now to take on some sort of form. It burst into the centre of the room – a wind, full of tiny black specks – and spread from that point filling the space within its walls. Zya was paralysed and stuck fast to the wall. Of the man, there was no sign; he had disappeared altogether.

  As the room continue to fill with the unearthly presence, Zya felt some sort of recognition. A sibilant whisper began to fill her mind beneath the howling of the 'wind'. “West,” something said to her, and she tried to peer beyond the wind and into the cupboard. Regaining some measure of movement, she craned her neck towards the gap behind the doors. As if in response, the air grew suddenly thick, and the force of it pushed her, not urgently, but firmly back to the wall.

  Thinking she could take no more, a voice, breathy and distinct cried out. “RELEASE ME.” The wailing grew to a peak, as did the rush of air, then something happened. The direction of the wind changed as it sucked back in on itself and into the cupboard, the doors slamming behind it. The colour of the room altered again, as if returning to normal, and a faint scuffling made Zya look toward the door. The old man rushed her.

  Putting her hands up to shield herself, she realised she had woken up in the early dawn. Her hands were in exactly the same position that they had been in what was obviously a dream. Anita said that many people mimicked the movements of their dreams in reality; in fact, Anita herself had been guilty of whacking Gwyn awake on several occasions herself.

  Zya looked about her. The camp was silent and still. The embers of last night's fire produced wraith like wisps of smoke, dancing their way up into the clear grey of the early dawn. Zya realised that all of a sudden she had a purpose. She knew she had to leave now, and she knew that if she delayed it would bring ruin to the caravan. Searching through her pack, she found quickly what she sought – ink, a quill and a scrap of parchment. As she began to pen a note to Venla, she smirked at what she herself had said; haste being tempered with wisdom – well she hoped they would believe that she had her reasons.

  Folding the scrap of parchment twice, Zya packed her things as quickly and as quietly as possible. There would be no chance to get any food without waking Gren, so she resigned herself to foraging along the way. Fortunately, her way of life had not become one with that of the travellers, so she had few possessions. Some simple jewellery and her father's dagger were all that she valued, and those were safe. Getting up to work her muscles, which were still protesting from sleeping so awkwardly, Zya got a better view of the camp. Something wasn't right, but she couldn't put her finger on what it was. Moving as stealthily as she could, she crept past Layric's hounds as they slept huddled in a great red mass. Pausing only to wedge the parchment where it would later be found, she made her way to the horses.

  Her feeling of unease grew as she approached Red. Something was definitely wrong. He should have been dozing, legs locked in that classic equine pose, but he was alert, as was her father's stallion. Watching her quietly, Red's eyes flickered as he betrayed movement behind her. Spinning on her heel and simultaneously drawing her dagger from its sheath at her side, Zya crouched ready to fight, only to find her father and Ju creeping as she had just done. “What are you doing here?”

  Tarim's only response was to hand Zya a small, wrapped package, and then imply through the gestures of his hands that they should saddle the horses. The light saddle Zya used was simple to attach, and for once, Red did not hold in air to make the cinch fit loosely. Ju stood silently, occasionally grinning at Zya. She wondered what he had to be so excited about – this was hardly the most sensible decision she had made in her life.

  Leading the horses out through the rope barrier, they delayed mounting until they were out of earshot of the camp. Walking the horses along the side of the track where the earth was deep and muffled the sound of hooves, Zya thought they were away free, until Cahal popped up from nowhere. “So, it is now?” he whispered to Tarim, getting a nod in return. He looked at Zya. “Luck to you, girl. Remember how I taught you to use that dagger, and remember what I said about finishing what you begin. Commitment is everything.” Cahal left it at that, and with a ruffle of Ju's hair, he went back to guarding the camp.

  Moving swiftly once again, Tarim indicated when it was time to mount by climbing atop Night, as Ju had named him. Pulling Ju up behind her, Zya followed her father, who led the horses at a distance-eating trot into the early morning. Looking back upon the distant camp, she regretted having to leave, still seeing the sentinel form of Cahal, watching over them all as the sun crested the mountains beyond and replaced the sight of the camp with the blaze of golden fire.

  As the dazzling light forced her to look forward again, Zya's thoughts went back to why she was w
ith her father and Ju in the first place. Bringing red up alongside Night, she matched pace. “So, do you suppose you could tell me why you are still here?”

  Not looking at her, but continuing to stare ahead, Tarim answered. “I came with you because I am the only family you have. I know we are strongly linked to the travellers, and this was a decision not made lightly.”

  “Father, you didn't have to come at all, this was my decision alone!”

  Tarim turned his head and stared straight at her. A tribe of emotions struck Zya like a well-trained arrow; fear, sadness, hope, determination. All were evident in her father's eyes. “Zya, I know I have not told you much about your mother, and I am sorry for that. But suffice it to say that I will NOT lose you as well. What ever your fate may be, I can protect you along the way.” Tarim turned back to his view of the land ahead. It was becoming hilly, with patches of trees all dotting the vista ahead. Wild birds flew through the air, trilling their songs of joy.

  Zya looked back over her shoulder at Ju. “So what's your excuse? Along for the adventure?” The boy just beamed a grin back at her.

  “There's no point leaving him behind, though he would have been safer there,” interjected her father. “But if the was left there, then he would have gradually lost his interest in the bow, and he is becoming moderately skilled at it.” Ju grinned yet again at the complement. “In fact, he actually managed to hit something the other day!” Tarim continued wickedly, drawing a laugh from his daughter, and an embarrassed pout from Ju. “Zya, do not worry about those we have left behind.”

  Zya didn't know how, but her father had hit the very core of her thinking. “I left them a letter. I stuck it on the front of Layric's wagon.”

  Tarim nodded. “I am sure they will give it due consideration, but it does not matter. They already knew of this.” This surprised Zya, and the shock was plainly visible on her face. Seeing this, Tarim continued. “We had been wondering when you would finally 'take the plunge', so to speak. Anita has long suspected that there was something about you that was beyond us, but until recently she could not be sure that you would ever act upon it.”

  The fact that Anita had always found something different in her was no surprise to Zya, but the fact that others knew Anita's thoughts on the matter could well have been judged as an invasion of privacy, of something purely personal. Zya realised those particular thoughts were of no consequence – they would all have had her best interests at heart. “What did she say, father? What does Anita know about me?”

  “Not a great deal,” Tarim replied honestly. “She said that you are beyond the teaching of any one person within the caravan, and that you needed to explore other opportunities, whatever they may be.”

  Zya thought back to the previous night's conversation. “Anita was talking to me about the orders – those who serve the Gods in their various ways. She said I might have some capacity along those lines.”

  Tarim dwelled upon this for a while. “It is a possibility, for sure, but what do you think about it?”

  “I don't believe I know enough about them to form an opinion. Do you?” “Probably not any more than Anita did,” replied Tarim. Zya felt pressure from behind, and realised Ju had dropped off. Unwilling to wake him for the sake of a better position on the saddle, Zya endured. Seeing her discomfort, Tarim pulled Night in close and pulled the boy over to rest, still half asleep in front of him.

  Zya whispered her thanks. “I told them to go back East and look for Erilee in my letter. I know she did not come here ahead of us, but that she may one day tread this path.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Zya shrugged. “I do not know that father, and couldn't tell you if I did. Something just reaches out to me and lets me know.”

  Tarim chuckled. “The sooner we see what your secret is, the sooner everything becomes clear.” Tarim let the conversation drop at that, if only for the sake of Ju getting some rest, and the horses trotted off Westwards into the morning.

  * * *

  Further back East, the campers awoke to find that their numbers had dwindled. Amid the ensuing confusion, Gren rued the loss of the young boy, and the others who were also missing. Of course, he understood their reasons for leaving, and he knew it was inevitable, but the thing that upset him the most was the departure of the boy. He was clever, inventive and seemed to have a way with cooking that most never had – at least from the little he had prepared for Gren. Juatin took an active interest in the herbs, and one day, Gren had hoped he could pass on his stories to the boy. That was the crux of the matter, and the thing that Gren just could not express with words to the others.

  His stories had been passed down through the generations, and Gren himself had learnt them when he was but a child. But he was no longer young, and he knew that this would probably be his final chance to pass on the knowledge contained within the ageless tales. Fate had robbed him of the chance to bestow a fantastic legacy upon the boy, and he cursed that fate with every vile word he could think of. To the others, Gren appeared maybe a little more sullen than usual, his curses becoming an everyday happening. They would not pick up on the emotion contained within the words muttered under his breath, nor would they ever discover the truth behind the stories. That truth was the key to remembering, and only those of the story knew it. Gren wished them all well, knowing that one less teller meant one less chance for the Gods.

  The rest of the caravan took the trio's departure with some surprise, and a lot of understanding. Layric, Venla and Anita knew of Zya's intention, and when Venla read the letter to the rest of them, they all dutifully promised they would not think badly of her. The main point of discussion was their direction of travel. Zya had urged them to go East in search of Erilee, though this was contradicted by her own choice of West. Ramaji suggested they follow Zya's direction, seconded very vocally by the usually reserved Jani. Anita and Gwyn, who believed in Zya, argued this until the matter was finally settled to everyone's grumbling satisfaction. Venla announced that as they couldn't travel where there was no track, they would have to head west before they could take the north-east road to the mountain passes from the next village. The matter settled, the normal routines of daily life in the caravan were free to resume. Horses were hitched, fires hidden, and the slow-moving procession, more stark for its lack of members, followed the road west.

  From a viewpoint well out of sight of the guards, three figures watched the procession like hawks eyeing a tasty mouse in a field. During the weeks spent with the shady couple, Erilee had adapted to their ways, more out of necessity than choice, but she had soon realised that the way they moved, as with everything else, was done with the greatest of economy. What she picked up from them soon became natural to her, and she was a far cry from the pampered little traveller she had been. Her hair tied back with a leather thong, the young woman had cut her clothes so they provided economy of movement. A more nondescript hose, and a cloak that was so dark as to be similar to the clothes her 'assailants' wore, though still lacking something, had replaced the elaborate dress she had been so fond of.

  Erilee found herself staring yet again at the couple, trying to understand them. Moreover, she was trying to understand the hooded figure. The man was easy; there was not much to hide about him, but the other character never once spoke – leaving it to the man to tell her all she needed to know and do. If the other figure had ever spoken, Erilee had certainly not heard it.

  A swift movement, and the hooded face regarded her, the features not quite visible, as if hidden by a shadow, despite the strong morning sun. The man paused, as if listening for something. Erilee strained to listen too, but all she caught was the faint whisper of the wind through the tall grass they were hidden in. Having found the sound that Erilee could not, the man turned to her, looking as imposing as ever he had. His dark face and eyes reminded her of Tarim in many ways, but there was a twist of something else mixed there – something that left her feeling scared. “Girl, you are permitted to know this. My n
ame is Maolsechlan, my companion is Maolmordha.”

  Erilee was used to his abrupt way of talk. Like everything else, his speech was the essence of economy. And, as after everything he said to her, she tried to learn more. “I have never heard those types of names before, where are they from?”

  The man frowned at her; his piercing eyes glaring at her from under the dark, narrow eyebrows. “Nothing more will be revealed to you now.”

  Every time he had let a titbit of information slip, Erilee had asked a question. And every time he had replied with the same answer. Still, she had learnt a lot from him. The only bad lesson had been when Erilee had a moment of madness and ran from them. She had gone but five paces when something grabbed her by the legs and threw her to the ground. The figure she now knew as Maolmordha ran up to check on her, while the man Maolsechlan had carried on spinning a bolus – three weights on lengths of rope – the same type of thing Maolmordha had used to bring her down. Thinking back to it, Erilee did not know why she had even tried to run from them – after all, it had been her intention to be with them all along.

  She returned her gaze to the tiny procession far off down the slope. They had suddenly changed course during the night, and were now following the caravan, but at a great distance. All Erilee had heard on the subject was that something was different now and they were to follow the travellers. It was only in brief moments that Erilee ever thought of herself as a traveller any more. The way of life she had unwittingly adapted to was a lot harsher, yet she felt it a lot more fulfilling. When the caravan eventually disappeared, all three set off at a distance-eating pace. Erilee had learnt the secret of their movement more through copying than anything else, and she could now keep pace with them.