Mavra thought for a second, remembering what the Mistress had told her about taking command of a situation. She knew what she must do. “We should go around the back and try to find a way through the complex to the horses and secure them. If there are any problems, then we will need them to continue.”
Cahal nodded, and then Gren came up behind them, looking unusually alert. “A right little mistress she is becoming, wouldn't you say?”
Cahal grinned, and the three of them slipped out into the bitter wind that battered them from the North.
The windward side of the farmstead stretched a good way across the immediate landscape, and it was some time before they traversed the base to reach the other end of the complex. Mavra had hoped for another way, but they had no choice but to go around the end of the building. Luck, it seemed, was against them. The sloping wall deflected the wind easily, but at times it felt as if the three of them were doing the job of the wall. Cahal ranged ahead as they reached the corner, peering cautiously around in his ongoing vigil against whoever it was who pursued them. This process required Mavra to stand still and silent, and her teeth were chattering by the time Cahal declared it safe. As quickly and as quietly as they could, the three travellers moved out of the biting wind and into the protection of the eastern side of the complex.
It was still chilly behind the shielding wall, but without the breeze to drain heat away, Mavra felt positively comfortable. This side of the abandoned house was completely different to the other. There were no warrens of rooms here; instead, only stables and huge storage rooms could be found. It was in here that they had hidden their wagons, and safely locked away the horses. They found their way into one, and it happened to be a back entrance into the stable where Mavra's own caravan and horses had been hidden. She had not seen where they had put everything, as she had been too busy wandering through the house. They had done a good job. The wagon was hidden beneath sheets of tarpaulin, and had crates and other containers stacked up against it. Even the wheels had been made to look like they were just leant up against the side of the pile; old, long ago used attachments to someone's forgotten transport.
A rustle from a nearby room reminded Mavra that they were not alone. She crossed the room and carefully unlatched another door. The horses were calmly standing in their stalls, eyeing her with apparent indifference. They were warm and had plenty to eat, and looked content. One pushed forward, and Mavra placed her hand on his nose, recognising it as one of her two horses. He stood there calmly, looking at her through huge, brown eyes. A couple of the others were asleep. Mavra let them stay that way and quickly retreated from the room.
She went next to her caravan, finding her way in through a trapdoor that was concealed in the back. The cloak was warm enough, but the rest wouldn't do. She stripped to her shift, and then donned stout woollen clothes that would give the biting wind a run for its money. Boots lined with more wool replaced the shoes she had been wearing, and the cloak went back on top. The dagger Cahal had given her was secreted in a pocket on the inside of one of cloak sleeves – obviously intended for such a thing. Mavra wondered what sort of farmer needed a garment such as this. Still, it suited her in more ways than merely keeping her warm, so she didn't worry too much. Satisfied that she would no longer be cold, she made her way back through the trapdoor in the floor of the wagon.
Outside, she found that Gren and Cahal were talking to somebody else in hushed tones. Layric and Jaden had made their way to the horses. She made her way over, and stood unobtrusively nearby.
“They came from nowhere, and before we knew it we were down on the floor, our hands pinned behind our backs.” Layric sounded worried as he said this. Even Jaden, so big and strong, looked confused by the whole thing, as if there was something that simply eluded his comprehension.
“And you didn't get a look at any of them, not one at all?” Cahal asked incredulously.
Jaden pursed his lips and shook his head. “There was no sound, man. They were not the same people who started breaking every damned window to get at us. Those lot were making enough noise to wake the dead.” Layric spotted Mavra then, and came and hugged her. Pushing her back to arms length, he looked gravely at her. The look in his eyes made her heart pound with worry instantly. The husband of the mistress had rarely looked at anybody that way. “I am so sorry that I have to tell you this, Mavra. Your parents were found and taken by the men who crashed in to the lower level of the house. They are alive, but they have been captured.”
Mavra bit her lip in an attempt to forestall the tears that came unbidden to her eyes, but it was in vain. She told herself that she had to be brave, and that a mistress never cried, but it was no help to her. Mavra's family had been taken apart piece-by-piece, and now she was the only one left. “We must stop them,” she said in obstinate defiance. “We must get them back!”
“Would that it were that simple, dear,” he replied gently. “We don't know if they are the only ones.”
“Well somebody had better go find out.” Mavra spun on her heel and bolted for the door.
“Mavra, wait!” Layric called, but she had already made it through the room to the door, and only needed to open it slightly.
She slipped through and ran into the maze of buildings in front of her, slamming the door as she did so. A bump, and a string of muffled curses followed her as she ran through the yard to the back of the main house. She could hear somebody following her at a run, but did not look back. A series of small shed-like structures blocked her way round to the front of the house, so she circled them carefully. Cahal edged up to her from behind. He leaned close to her, so that only she could hear what he had to say. “Girl, that was a stupid thing to do.”
“I want my parents back!” Mavra hissed angrily through clenched teeth.
“And how do you plan to get them? There are hundreds of armed men out there, and you have but a dagger. See sense, child. This is not the time.”
Mavra's eyes were threatening to flood with tears again, but she steeled herself courageously. “I will take them all if I have to.”
Cahal sighed in frustration. “Look. There is only one way for you to see the reality of this, and that is to go around these sheds and see what is standing there.” Mavra made to move off, but Cahal prevented her. “Me first,” he whispered fiercely. “I will not let any harm come to you. I may be the hired help, but you lot are as family to me. We will look, but you will listen to me. Okay?”
Mavra nodded eagerly, still full of the righteous fire that filled her with the need to try to rescue her parents. Cahal made her wait until he had checked out the path he intended to take, and then motioned her forward. As they crept around the muddy farmyard, voices began to materialise from the front of the farm. They were low and indistinct, but as they got closer to the end of the shed rows, the voices began to separate. A passage that angled between two of the sheds was ideal for sneaking a look at what was occurring. Mavra looked around Cahal, and could see her parents, Venla, Anita and Gwyn surrounded by large men wielding all manner of weapons. The large man she had seen from before was still there, though most of the riders had passed, and only the occasional wagon now trundled past the farmstead. The dust churned up by the passing of so many horses floated in the air, turning it a sickly yellow-brown. It was clear from this why the cloud was so obvious. Mavra strained to hear what was being said.
One of the armoured men came back from their right, out of the house and saluted. “There are no more, Lord O'Bellah. We have searched the house from top to bottom.”
The fat man looked at him, a perpetual sneer on his face. “It may be as you say is true then, woman,” he said to Venla in a voice so raspy and lisped, it sounded more suited to a giant snake. Without warning, he took three quick strides to the group of them and clubbed Anita to the ground with one of his huge, meaty fists. Venla screamed, Gwyn dived to the ground to try to help his wife, but was quickly restrained by more of the armoured men. Her parents did not move, but Mavra could
clearly see her mother's hand on her father's arm, with an iron-like grip. Mavra would have jumped up herself, but for the restraint of Cahal's hand on her own shoulder.
“But do not ever make the mistake of believing I am stupid, woman,” O'Bellah growled at Venla. “There were more with you when you left the village I was so carefully subverting, so where are they?” Venla's shoulders suddenly slumped in defeat as she watched Anita's prone body lying in the dirt.
For a second, Mavra panicked, thinking that Venla was going to give them all away. “They left us at the next fork in the river, to travel North and search for one of our group who was lost as we travelled.”
Mavra sat back in confusion. The mistress of the caravan, one who was devoutly pledged to the old law and all that it represented, had just told an outright lie.
The large man, however, seemed to take this as gospel. “Bring them with us, and leave that other one for the ghosts,” he commanded of the soldiers. Forced at knife-point, Venla and the others mounted horses and had their hands tied roughly to the pommels. “Welcome to the army of the Merchant Prince,” the fat man announced. “Good people such as yourselves are always needed. In fact, some are desired much more than others.” He grinned cruelly, cackled and led them out of the forecourt of the farmstead.
Mavra watched them go in a state of pure anguish. Her parents were within shouting distance, almost within touching distance, yet were she to make a single noise or movement, she would surely join them tied to horses. Heartbroken, she sat there with Cahal, his grip on her shoulder no longer as tight as it had been, but now with the solid assuredness of someone consoling her and perhaps offering hope. But then something amazing happened; something so bitter and defeatist and yet tinged with courage of fortitude unimagined, that Mavra would never forget it as long as she lived.
At the end of the line of tied horses, and surrounded by the fewest guards, her father looked up from his supplicant state. In the cold autumn air on the plains of Ciaharr, Jani looked straight at his daughter, mouth set grimly, and winked. They had spotted her where the guards had not, and they had sacrificed themselves so that the others would not be found. In the years that followed, Mavra would rarely see a gesture so noble again. With a glance back for the still form of Anita, Jani D'Voss rode, tied to the saddle of an enemy's horse, out of the farmstead, and out of Mavra's life.
Stunned by what she had witnessed, Mavra could only sit there, the picture of her father looking directly at here playing over and over inside her head. It was only when Cahal jumped past her did she realise that so much time had elapsed. There was no sign of the horses and the mass of men. The yellow stain that was the dust cloud had dissipated entirely. Mavra suddenly remembered Anita, and how hard she had been hit by this man they called O'Bellah. She charged through the muddy yard to where Cahal leaned over her unmoving form and knelt down carefully on the opposite side; worried at first that Anita was dead. A huge purple welt covered half of her face, but she was breathing evenly.
“Quickly,” said Cahal, already covering Anita with his tunic, “Get Layric and some blankets.” The ground was cold, and as Mavra tentatively touched one of Anita's hands, they too were as cold as ice.
Unwilling to sacrifice time for the chance that something bad might happen, Mavra offered an alternative. She removed her cloak and spread it out on the ground next to Anita. “Let us instead move Anita onto this and carry her back.”
Cahal frowned for a second, and then nodded. “It shall be as you say, young mistress.” As carefully as they could, the traveller and the guard moved the inert form of Anita onto the robe, and gathered the corners, Cahal preferring to hold Anita under her arms. The walk back to the barn proved almost too much for the two of them. Strong as he was, Cahal was forced to burden most of the weight because of the way he had picked Anita up. Although Mavra had played with Erilee as a child and lifted her up, she had never been required to lift a heavy dead-weight before.
The corners of the cape threatened to sag and tear, and Mavra was forced to grab bigger and bigger handfuls of the cloth to keep Anita's feet off of the floor. She hadn't remembered it being this far before, but when she thought about it, she realised she'd been in quite a different state of mind.
They rounded the end of the sheds, and the barn could be seen off back a ways. They redoubled their efforts with the relief of seeing the barn. It would have been easier for Cahal to have hoisted Anita over his shoulder. When Mavra mentioned this to him through agonised breaths, Cahal replied in a strained voice that the whole point of this was so to ensure that no more damage was done. The door opened, and Gren and Jaden ran out and took over, Cahal bent over, panting as he fought to get his breath back. Mavra just dropped to the ground in exhaustion. After a moment, a hand appeared in her field of vision, and she took it, Cahal carefully pulling her to her feet. “You may be young, girl, but never sit on the ground when you could be in danger, even if you are exhausted. That is when an enemy will strike. Never give them the chance.” Still breathing deeply, the pair entered the barn and closed the door.
Layric and Jaden had been busy in the time that she had been gone. They had cleared the wagon of all the rubbish that had been used to hide it, and by the time Mavra had closed the door, they already had Anita secreted in one of the bunks within the wagon. Gren had already set the smallest of cook-fires going in the dirt in the centre of the barn, and was rapidly crushing up herbs with a pestle and mortar he always had with him.
“Is she all right?” Mavra asked nobody in particular.
“She will be, just as soon as I can get some of this into her,” Gren replied without taking his eyes off of the pulp of herbs that he was mashing. “That must have been one hell of a blow she took. By the look of her I am amazed she still has her head on her shoulders.”
The smell coming from Gren's pot was so aromatic that it was almost pungent. Mavra looked closer. “What is in there?”
Gren pointed at the discarded remains of a few husks and leaves. “Garlic, comfrey, valerian, sage. Anything that I have that will keep the blood flowing smoothly, and ensure a good amount of rest. When Anita wakes up she is going to have the mother of all headaches.” Gren may have said 'when', but by the uncharacteristic nature of the old man's voice, it sounded more as though he meant 'if'.
Layric climbed down out of the wagon, handing a water skin to Gren, who nodded with silent thanks. “Are you all right?” he asked of Mavra. When she responded with a silent nod, still looking at Anita, Layric gently shut the door to the wagon. “Suppose you tell us what you saw then.”
Mavra spoke hesitantly at first, and then as she remembered more and more, with growing confidence, she spoke with great detail about what she saw, especially the man who called himself O'Bellah, and the look that her father had given her, though this last memory brought fresh tears to her eyes. Tears of grief mixing now with tears of joy.
Layric and the others stood there in silent shock while the tale unfolded. A look of reverence passed over his face as it dawned on him what his wife had done. He sat down, and looked at the ground. “She sacrificed herself that we may continue the journey,” he said quietly.
“But a journey to do what, Layric?” Countered Gren. “We have been losing members of the caravan left and right for months now. First Tarim, Zya and the boy, then Erilee. Now we lose four more members, including your wife. Honestly Layric, there will not be much of a point continuing the journey if we have nobody left to with.”
“Nevertheless, we must continue, old friend,” Layric argued reasonably. “It is what Venla would want.”
The old man barked out a sound that could only be described as disgust. “The old law recognises the life of sacrifice that we serve and the way that we live. It does not say that we should go about feeling happy that our loved ones have been just taken from right under our noses, to have the Gods only know what forced upon them. Do you not feel the loss that Mavra here does for her parents? Do you not feel the panic and loss of you
r own wife? Anita lies unconscious in the wagon because of such mere acceptance. I promise you that she would not agree.” Gren pounded the paste of herbs harder and harder as he was saying this. Cahal and Jaden had stopped what they were doing and were listening intently.
Layric persisted in his reasonable tone. “Gren, old friend. We are people of peace. We do not live by the ways of those who have taken our loved ones; it is not our way. The mistress would be saying exactly the same.”
“The mistress is not here, Layric, or hadn't you noticed,” Gren replied acidly while he dumped the contents of the herb mix into the simmering water. “If we are to be a new caravan, we need a new mistress. Until then, we can go nowhere, and even if we do, our skills are limited. What does the old law say about that?”
Layric thought for a minute, and then nodded. “You are right indeed, old friend; each caravan needs a mistress. Anita is still with us, and I am sure she would be more than happy to assume the role. She has been trained for it.”
“She can't make decisions while she is unconscious. Who knows when she will wake, and we need to make some decisions right now.”
Mavra sat quietly with a growing feeling of dread. She wasn't sure what Gren had meant earlier, but now she was beginning to frame a picture in her mind. Nervously, she toyed with the hem of her woollen jumper, twining the strands around her fingers. The implication of what Gren had said sank into Layric like water into a sponge. He looked blankly at Mavra for a second and then turned back to the cook. “Surely you are not serious?” he said in a near whisper. “She is but a girl, not even a woman. You know the Law, old friend. If you intend to honour it, then you must honour it fully and without reservation. There is no female, be it grown or otherwise, in this group of able skill and sound mind other than Mavra here. If we are to continue any sort of journey, the right kind of journey, or any other kind, then it should be Mavra who leads it, and Mavra who makes the decisions.”
The Focus Stone (The Tome of Law Book 1) Page 40