The Focus Stone (The Tome of Law Book 1)

by Matthew W. Harrill

  He shook his head. “They will cook some, and we will feast on fish prepared by the best cooks on the steppes. Many will be smoked, or cured in other manners so that they will last longer. Then there will always be an alternative to herd-meat.”

  They wandered away from the heat of the cook fires, strolling along the stream and amongst the tents, noticeably in the opposite direction of the mountains, which were ever-present in Zya's mind. They reached a tent that was apart from the others, but not enough to be noticeably so. It just had an air of aloofness, something the others didn't. The fisherman smiled reassuringly as he indicated to Zya that she should enter.

  “What is in there?” he asked, hesitant to enter.

  “You will see. Do not be worried; just be ready to duck. Not everybody is as tall as you.” He pulled the flap back for her, and Zya entered the tent.

  She had to duck almost immediately. Bunches of feathers, dried herbs and various bunches of unidentifiable objects hung from the roof of the tent. Zya stooped to avoid them, and only then did she see a woman sitting on the rugs in the middle of the tent. The woman, ancient appearing to Zya's first impression, beckoned her to sit down. Zya saw that a place had been prepared opposite her so she did as bidden and crossed her legs underneath as she sat down.

  The woman said nothing, just looking at her without comment. Zya let her eyes wander around the tent, before finally settling back on the woman. Still gazing, the woman had a look about her that Zya had seen in only a few people before. Despite looking ancient, the eyes had a youthful sparkle in them. They also carried a look of command unlike anyone Zya had seen, except perhaps for Venla, whom she realised bore an uncanny resemblance to the old woman.

  The hanging bunches formed a pattern from the floor. Each was delicately arranged to form a multi-pointed star. “The patterns signify all that we believe in and respect. They are formed of the elements of the gods, as are we. The pattern signifies the stars in the heavens, from which we all descend. The eagle feathers are of the wind, which surrounds us always. The root was born of the earth, with which we have our strongest connection. It nourishes us in many ways.” The old woman gazed up at the centre of the room, from which a large bone, pointed at one end, hung. Lastly, the bone you see above you has been taken from a monster of the deep, far out in the ocean where this land is but a rumour. It teaches us to never forget the water, from which all life springs. Life once emerged from the water to take over the land. But that life would be pointless without water to sustain it. You have seen yourself how so much importance has been given to such a small stream. This is but a small measure of the worth of that element. But there is one element that I have not yet mentioned.”

  The woman paused, raising her hand so that Zya could provide the answer. Zya did not have to think long. “Thought. What is existence without thought? Only thought could provide reasoning for the patterns. Only thought could piece it together.”

  The old woman nodded, a small smile creeping to the edges of her wrinkled mouth. “That is most perceptive of you, child. In this room I am the teacher and you are the student. I would teach you. Are you prepared to learn?”

  Zya sensed that she was being asked a very important question here, much more important than just her desire to learn. The implications in the old woman's mannerisms and voice confirmed this. She sat patiently while she considered. Finally, she decided it was time to give an answer. “I would be honoured to learn whatever you would teach me.”

  The old woman nodded. “It is wise that you considered the choice. That shows a level of maturity. Had you answered immediately I would have refused you. Give me your dagger.”

  Confused, Zya reached for her dagger. The sense of fullness – the completion she felt whenever she held it. came to her once again, and when she moved to hand it over she became suddenly hesitant. She felt suddenly that she did not want part of this bargain, and then she looked up into the old woman's eyes.

  “Hand me the dagger now.” The aura of command that suddenly surrounded the tiny old woman was too much, even for Zya, and she moved, reluctantly, depositing the dagger in the her hands. The old woman brought the dagger close to her face, examining it. She looked closely at the blade and inhaled sharply, quickly. Putting it to her side she looked back at Zya, peering closely into her eyes. “You are not damaged, child. I will teach you to prevent yourself ever succumbing to that.”

  “Is the dagger bad?” Zya took nothing for granted, but to think that she had held on to something that might have been dangerous, and would draw such a strange reaction from a person she had never met was disturbing indeed.

  “The dagger has a type of magic that you will come to understand, child. You shall have it back, so do not worry yourself. But you shall have a different outlook on life when you wield that weapon once again. Now, ask me the questions that burn within you most.”

  Zya thought long and hard about what she should open with; the old woman was difficult to impress, and Zya did not want to seem naive in front of her. She started with one that mattered, but perhaps not as much as others. “I would learn of the orders that serve the Gods. What can you teach me of them?”

  The woman snorted. “That they are not needed, like so many things. They serve their purpose in their own way, but there is more to the worship of the Gods than becoming a member of an order. I serve the gods as well as any guildsman, and yet I am not confined by a building.” That was the beginning of a long explanation into the workings of the Gods and the place that the Guilds had in the greater scheme of things. The old woman was a fountain of knowledge and Zya listened intently to every word.

  Outside, the fisherman wandered back to the cook fires, listening to the idle chat of the old women as they worked merrily at converting fresh fish into something more durable. He was lost in his thoughts over Zya when he bumped into something small. Looking down, he found himself staring at the sprawled form of the boy Juatin. He smiled, aware that the boy did not trust him for some reason that was unfathomable. Ju scrambled up.

  “Greetings, young sir,” The fisherman said, bowing with a flourish. “Please forgive the collision, I was quite lost in my thoughts.”

  Ju glared at him as a reply. “Where is my sister?” he demanded.

  “If you refer to Zya, she has begun her training and cannot be disturbed,” the fisherman replied patiently, aware that with regards to what others did and wanted, the young seldom saw past their own noses.

  “I want to see her and you cannot stop me,” the boy announced defiantly. “True, I cannot, but Zya will, and so will her teacher. They would not appreciate you disturbing what Zya has come so far to hear…but did you enjoy the fishing?” he asked, quickly changing the subject”

  Ju's face brightened at the thought of the fishing. “I loved it!” he squealed, the pleasure of the event totally replacing any thoughts he had of seeing Zya. “I would do it again if they would only let me.”

  In the distance, the fishing continued. “But you know why that it is, don't you? What I mean is, you do understand?”

  Ju looked unsure as he answered. “Father says that you have come a long way for this, and that it is special to you. He says I am lucky to have had my turn, as there are some who will not.” The fisherman was about to reply but Ju continued on. “You know he is not really my father, and Zya is not really my sister, but I like to think that they are. I used to live in the stables behind an inn, and they gave me the chance to leave with them. I have never been happier than when I am with them. That is why I want to see Zya, so that I know she is not going to leave.” The boy seemed concerned.

  “Do not worry yourself, young sir. Your sister needs to learn, but that does not mean that she will leave you. When we leave this place, as we will do soon, she will come with us. When your sister has learnt what she needs to know, she will come out. Now, what to do with you?” The fisherman put his hand to his chin, bringing out a comic pose of someone lost in thought, and a laugh from the boy. “I know what
to do with you, but first, we need to visit a couple of people.”

  The fisherman strolled through the dense maze of tents, Ju at his heels. He would have surely lost the boy had he not stayed with him. The tents opened out to an area packed with horses and huge, docile cattle that were almost dripping with fur, their huge horns making them look like a menacing pile of rags.

  “What are those?” asked Ju, as curious a boy as the fisherman had met in a long time.

  “Musk ox; one of many types of animal that roam the steppes with the tribes. We keep some for pulling the carts and others are used for food.” One of the beasts snorted at them with complete disinterest as it chewed slowly, black eyes peeking out from underneath a shaggy brow. Ju reached out tentatively. “It is all right, you can touch this one,” the fisherman said reassuringly. “She has been with us since she was a calf, and has no fear of man.”

  Ju touched the fur, but the ox barely seemed to notice. “It is so thick.”

  “There is a reason for that – they survive where it is very cold and where many other things choose not to live. They need to keep warm and this is their way of doing so.” They rounded the pen, all the while Ju asking about the beasts within, and came upon a hastily erected forge. They also found Tarim, deep in conversation with a man who could have been Tarim's father to Ju's eyes, but who was probably about the same age. Tarim turned, smiling warmly as he saw the pair approaching. He bowed to the fisherman, and thinking it was appropriate, Ju followed suit by bowing to everybody, and getting laughed at in response. Not seeing the joke, Ju started to frown, until he saw what was leaning up against the side of the small forge. “Arrow,” he breathed in awe. “Arrows with proper tips and with flights on them as well. May I hold one?”

  The old-looking man bent down and picked up the bundle of arrows, depositing them in the outstretched arms of Ju. “You may do more than that, young Juatin. If you learn to be as good a shot as your father here says you might one day be, you can keep them all.”

  “I am a good shot already,” Ju replied.

  The old man nodded. “True as that may be, you still need practice. Give me one of your arrows.” Ju pulled one of the arrows Tarim had made for him from the sack he used as his makeshift quiver and handed it over to the man at the forge. It was crude and roughly fashioned, compared to the new arrow, which was perfectly straight and flawless in its design. “Remember, Juatin. These arrows were made with what was available. We have more materials from which to make them here, young man, and so the arrows are better. But I digress, try pulling the arrow on your bow.”

  “I don't have it with me,” Ju answered.

  Tarim pulled an oilskin from behind his back, passing it to Ju. “A gift,” his 'father' said simply.

  “What is it for?”

  “It will protect your bow in the cold moist weather of the North,” Tarim replied.

  There then followed a session of showing the boy how to attach the oilskin with fastenings and straps to Ju's small frame. While the smith and Tarim pondered how best to go about it, Ju stood there like a dejected mannequin dressed up in all sorts of straps and harnesses, while the fisherman looked on, grinning broadly. Finally they came up with a harness that reached across his shoulders, leaving the oilskin to hang loosely behind him, where the bow could be easily reached. Ju tested it, and found that everything dragged on the ground. “I can't wear this, it drags,” he complained.

  Tarim put a soothing hand on his shoulder. “Do not forget, Ju that the nomads do not hunt on foot on the plains, but on horseback. The skin will hang just fine as soon as we get you a mount of your own.”

  “A horse of my own?” Ju exclaimed. The rest nodded.

  “Come. Let us put the young one out of his misery,” the fisherman interjected. “Not quite yet, young Lord,” replied the smith. “He has not yet taken possession of everything I would have him take.” With that, the smith brought out a quiver full of arrows, the same arrows that Ju had just seen, but slightly shorter. The quiver was made from the softest leather, pliable and yet tough. Ju cradled it like a mother would a newborn; he had never been given anything, and all of a sudden he felt quite overwhelmed. That much was obvious to the three others, who smiled broadly.

  The smith hung the quiver over Ju's shoulder, and it too drooped low. “Remember, young Juatin that you are yet small. You will grow and these will not be a burden to you. But because you are small now does not mean that you cannot do anything on horse that others can. Now, why don't we find you a horse? Any recommendations?”

  “Something young, fairly placid to let him get used to shooting astride a horse,” Tarim replied. Ju was about to complain when Tarim added. “If he shows himself to be adept we will look for something bigger, but not before. That gives you something to aim for, Ju.” The smith led the boy and his collection of dragging objects off in search of a horse that would be suitable for him.

  “Thank you for that, Tarim,” said the fisherman as they watched the other pair wandering in search of a horse. “He did not trust me for some reason, but this seems to have brought him round somewhat.”

  “Ju is a bit of an enigma,” the tall man replied. “A lot of the time he is mature far beyond his years. Catch him out though, or upset him, and he reverts to the age he actually is, say ten or eleven seasons. So, explain the 'young Lord' to me.”

  Tarim caught the fisherman off guard with the sudden change in the direction of the conversation, and for a moment, he knew exactly what Ju felt like. “It is nothing much. My father was the man who met me when we came out of the caves by the pool. He is the tribal chief. One day I will be chief and everybody in the tribe knows this.”

  “So maybe I should bow to you then?” Tarim replied slyly.

  The fisherman frowned and shook his head, pursing his lips. “I do not like the attention. Until my father passes into the hands of the Gods, I will remain just another member of the tribe. Well I would if I had it my way. The other tribes are always sending gifts to curry favour. Weapons, women; most of them are for my father, but sometimes those with foresight enough to know that some day he will not be around send them my way. I can honestly do without the attentions of a woman twice my age following me around whilst trying to present me with a sword I would not use for chopping wood. Give me the simple life as a choice and I would take it.”

  “Sometimes we must just accept the role in life we are given,” Tarim mused as he watched Ju astride a horse that was way too big for him. The smith looked his way and Tarim shook his head, barely a movement but enough for the smith. “It seems that yours could be much worse than you make out.”

  “You know why they call me the fisherman? It is because I spend every possible chance here alone by the pool. If there was ever cause to come here, I was the rider who came. If someone went missing, I came looking. The freedom was great. My name, sir, is Lorn, of the South Steppe tribe. My father is Hern. From this point on, I think people will stop referring to me as the fisherman. I think that I will never see this place again as I will be too busy.”

  Tarim clasped hands with the young man, as if they were greeting for the first time. “Well, Lorn of the South Steppe tribe, my name is Tarim S'Vedai, and I'll be damned if you ever call me sir again,” Tarim said with a grin.

  Chapter Eleven

  The time came when the tribe was ready to set off. Things moved at a slow pace, although the desire to move after the herds was almost tangible. The fact that they had arrived at the pool within days of the travellers' arrival was terrific fortune for them, but not for Maolsechlan. From his vantage point on a hillock far south from Tarim and his daughter, he could see the dust stir as things readied for the departure. The tribe would be easy to track.

  They moved slowly, leaving massive tracks that were hard to erase. True, time and the elements would have some effect, but the movement of the nomads was well documented from within the city. Maolsechlan imagined it from the hillock he was crouched upon. The bleak towers, the dark stone of t
he battlements. It called to him, whispering his name upon the wind. He longed to be back there. It had been too long this time. He needed to be within its walls. Yet when he looked for it, seeking it amongst the peaks to the North, it was not visible. He tried to dismiss the calling, to push it into the back of his mind and force himself to believe that it was not real but it was too hard. Once he had set foot within the city it had forever trapped his soul. The fact that he was even able to leave was only due to his ironclad will. But it seemed that was starting to rust. He knew that he must follow the tribe, try somehow to get close to the girl. She was too well guarded though. The more he became wracked with indecision, the more he felt he needed to return to clear his mind. It would be easy to find them.

  He jogged back to where the pair were waiting; easy loping strides that were economical and most useful for covering great distance quickly. They also had the advantage of being completely silent if one had the right footwear and knew how to place the feet. It had been one of the many things he had taught the girl. Completely incompetent and dependent on others, she had been useless when she had come to them. She had adopted their ways quickly though, and had learned quickly when she knew exactly what was at stake – her survival. He had his doubts that she would stay with them. It looked like she would bolt like a startled rabbit given any opportunity, and yet Maolmordha had assured him it would not be so. The girl would stay with them, no matter what. He returned to find the two of them sat apart, Maolmordha covered in shroud and cloak and the girl facing the other way.

  “They move, towards the west if the signs are accurate. We will go East, to the city.” The sudden rise of his partner indicated to him that Maolmordha was not in agreement on this matter. Erilee was about to speak when a piercing presence shot through her mind, almost causing her to go weak at the knees. 'Has the fire taken hold of you? Are you so weak that you cannot continue that which the master decrees? Must you go crawling back?'