The Focus Stone (The Tome of Law Book 1)

by Matthew W. Harrill

  Layric stood up, speechless. “Let it be known that I do not like this at all,” he announced to the remaining members of the caravan. “But I will live by the old law as ever I have.” He bent to one knee in front of Mavra. She had seen this done but once in her life, and could not believe it was happening to her, not now. Layric took her trembling hand in his own, and recited lined that had been passed down since long ago. “We come to thee to ask for guidance. We are but children abroad in the world, who seek others to help and aid them as we may. We need one to set us on the path and to protect us. Will thou be that one?” Layric's eyes shone with unshed tears as he looked up at her. It was clear that Layric had never expected to say those words to anyone other than his wife.

  Mavra herself had long imagined some handsome young traveller asking her the very same question. Instead, she was forced into a situation to do the only thing she could. “I will guide thee, and nurture thee, for thou art all my children,” she replied in the ritual cadences of acceptance. “At least, I will, until Anita wakes up,” she added coyly. Everybody appeared satisfied with the outcome.

  Jaden and Cahal had watched in mute silence, but now they approached her. “We struck our bargain with Venla, girl, not you,” Cahal said. “So we are not bound by the rules she imposed upon us. Though you should know that we would follow you.” Cahal winked at her and walked away. Mavra stood there in mute triumph. Every member of the caravan knew the restrictions that Venla had placed on the two guards. Although happy to accept payment and the charge of guarding the travellers, both men had to refrain from any violence unless completely necessary. Cahal's simple statement gave the obvious implication that they were no longer bound by that rule.

  Mavra smiled inwardly, as she knew Cahal was aware of exactly what she was going to say. As long as she was mistress of the caravan, she was going to take every action she could to get the others back. Mavra cleared her throat, and mustered up the most commanding voice of authority that she could manage. “We will prepare three of the wagons tonight, and leave at daybreak,” she announced in much stronger a voice than she had ever used before. It caught their attention.

  “In what direction will we go?” Gren asked, the look on his face was one of approval. He knew exactly where they were going.

  “We will follow the trail of those men who have just passed us.”

  Layric smiled his approval. “Good, that will take us past plenty of homesteads that will appreciate our skills, however limited they may be.”

  “We will not be stopping,” Mavra announced firmly. “We will follow the men who took our loved ones until we can devise some means to get them back. We have lost too many, Layric. I cannot allow this to happen to us again because we are too meek to do anything about it.”

  Layric's look was one of intense disapproval, and the tone of his voice confirmed this. “This contravenes the Law that we live by. You should not be doing this.”

  Mavra's face took on a flinty look. She felt more able to argue her case than ever before. Steeling herself, she uttered the words she had hoped not to say. “In the last few months I have sat and observed Venla contravene the teachings of the old Law on several occasions. I may not be grown completely, and I may not be as wise in the ways of the world as others, but I know what I saw. The old Law is a good set of rules, but it is rigid. I would hazard a guess that Venla has not been the only mistress to let a few rules slide in order to get something done. Holy Jettiba would disapprove of lives being controlled by those who took my parents, I am sure. I want my parents back. I want everybody back, and as long as I am mistress of the caravan I am going to do everything within my power to get them back. Anita may have a different idea if and when she wakes up, but until then, you have chosen me. That is my decision.”

  Layric just stared at her, stunned by the logic of her argument. Then he nodded almost meekly in acceptance. She looked at them all, her rag-tag of a caravan. They were not much, but she was sure that they were special. Cahal winked, and Jaden smiled broadly. Gren sauntered over to her and spoke quietly. “You did well there, girl. Layric could have been tricky for you. But make sure you always mean what you say in front of him. You are going to have to justify a lot if you mean to carry out what you intend to do.”

  “You agree, Gren, do you not? I know you will stick with me as long as we do this.”

  “Mavra, I love you like a daughter, and I will stick with you as long as these old bones allow me to. Cahal and Jaden both approve. Let us hope that Anita sees it your way if she wakes.”

  Mavra caught the hint of warning in the old man's voice. “What do you mean 'if'?” she asked in a near whisper.

  Gren shrugged, his bony old shoulders hunching up like a vulture roosting. “I cannot lie to you, mother, I have no idea what her condition is. The man who hit her knocked her senseless, and it may be that only a wizard can sort out the jumbled mess her mind will become if she does not wake soon. You are acting upon personal feelings at the moment, and as long as they coincide with the needs of the caravan, that is acceptable. But you must learn to take a step back and look at the bigger picture. Getting the others back might not always be the best option.” Gren left her to be alone with her thoughts. It was certainly a daunting task, but it was a task that she felt had to be accomplished. It was also a task that she was making up as she was going along, and the old man knew exactly that.

  The night passed quickly, with little or no time for sleep. Mavra found that as soon as she started to feel drowsy, yet another matter would be brought up for her attention. The main problem hinged around which wagons to take. It was obvious right from the start that taking all four was useless, and since the guards were of more use roaming between the wagons, they would be of no use driving teams. Mavra made the matter easier by having Anita and Gwyn's property redistributed amongst the other three wagons. Most of it was put into her own, as it was the biggest, but once the decision was made, everybody put in the effort needed. Mavra contemplated how little sleep Venla must have had as a result of overseeing a much bigger group. Still, she reasoned that sleep would be at a premium if they were going to keep on the trail of their captive kin. They borrowed a few of the supplies that had been left in the storeroom across in the east wing, but only to top up what they had.

  It came to be that in the early dawn of the next day, Mavra found herself now at the head of the reduced column of wagons, riding south-west along the trail that had been significantly widened by the passage of so many the previous day. The breeze had lessened to a gentle, almost unnoticeable touch, and the sky was a riot of crimson as the sun crested the mountains far behind them to touch the cloud ahead. In the matter of less than a day, she had lost and gained such a profound amount that it felt bemusing, though that could have been the lack of sleep. She stared along the trail, with the certain knowledge that her parents were out there somewhere, waiting for her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Raoul groaned as he tried to open his eyes, the pain of the light stabbing into his head like a precision-thrown dagger, leaving a dull throbbing that refused to diminish despite him eyes closing again. He rolled over with a grunt, and tried to bury his head beneath the comforter that was sprawled awkwardly over the bed he was lying on. Crawling beneath, he found his way blocked by something lumpy. Risking certain pain by opening his eyes even under the coverlet, he discovered to his amazement and more little shock that he was looking at a leg. Lifting the comforter slightly, he discovered that the leg belonged to an impressive body that was completely unclothed. He jumped straight up in the air with the grace of a startled cat, and clutched his hands to his head, groaning some more as the dull throb set in again.

  He waited for more than a few moments, hands covering his face, as he tried to will the pain away from his head. A new sensation started to creep into his awareness, that of a bitter taste in his mouth. He knew it well. It was the bitterness that came the morning after a hard night's drinking of Orit, that most seemed to call wizard'
s brand, named for the three who made it. The bitter taste was strong, and he tried hard to remember why it was they had drunk so much of it, but his concentration eluded him like a slippery eel. He pulled the drapes shut as quietly as possible, opening his eyes to catch a glimpse of tousled, red hair sticking out from the top end of the bed. He climbed back in, carefully, more from the selfish need to keep his head still than to wake whomever this was besides him. The pillow yielded softly as he lowered his head and he closed his eyes once more. A soft moan from behind him led to an arm slipping around his torso, hugging him from behind. A body, warm and soft, pressed up against him as he struggled to think who in the name of all the six Gods this was behind him.

  “What did you say you put in that drink of yours?” asked a soft and very tired voice that for some reason made his whole being tingle.

  Raoul opened his mouth, and found he had to cough before actually being able to speak. “Umm, various exotic spices, from all over the continent,” he croaked, suddenly wishing that he hadn't said anything. His throat felt as sore as his head. Some of more exotic of the spices tended to have that effect, the very reason they tried to limit themselves to no more than a few drinks.

  “Well it certainly made you spicy last night,” the voice said, followed by a wicked little giggle.

  Raoul groaned, and buried his head in the covers. “I seem to have lost track of several hours,” he whispered, a level of sound that was much more acceptable to his aching head.

  “You and your two friends seemed in great need of a lot of that drink at first. At least, until you felt that something else was more fun,” the voice continued.

  Two friends? Raoul thought to himself. Then a moment of recollection and clarity hit him. “Keldron!” he rasped, and sat bolt upright again, only to find that his stomach had now joined his head and eyes in protest at any sudden movement. Raoul realised he had never felt as sick as he did now. He bolted for the bathroom next to his own small quarters, grabbing his hose and jerkin on the way, and spent the next few moments 'Worshipping at the true altar of the Gods', as some were known to put it.

  When he returned to his room, with a slightly calmer stomach but a headache that rivalled being hit by a war hammer, he took his first look at his companion. She was a lithe, and very attractive figure, with a comely face that made him wonder for a second what she was doing in his room. Seeing him half dressed, she reached to the floor and lifted a woollen dress out from under the bed. Slipping it on easily, she was dressed quicker than he. “I think you had better hurry, lover boy,” she said slyly. “Your friends were insistent on breakfast before you leave.” She eyed him up and down rather provocatively.

  “I think I had better fix a much larger portion for you; you're as thin as a rake.” She giggled, a wicked little laugh and pinched his behind as she walked past without a glance, leaving him still bemused, and without a single clue as to who she was.

  Still unsure where he stood with this woman, Raoul dressed in a hurry, and packed what belongings he had into his leather sack. Opening up the window one last time, he took a look at the snowy peaks around him. Keldron's eyrie never had a view like this, he thought to himself. Closing it with a slight twinge of regret, he hurried down to the common room, where he was sure his friends would be waiting. He entered the room to find one of the maids still clearing up the dregs of what must have been a spectacular party. She glared at him for a second and then moved off, muttering under her breath. Keldron and Joleen were sitting close together at a table near the fire. Raoul deposited his sack against one wall, and then joined them, slumping down on a chair, holding his head in his hands. He still felt quite unwell. There was a quiet chuckle from across the table, and Raoul looked up to see his friends smiling at him. “Bad night, old friend?” asked Keldron with an evil grin.

  Raoul groaned. “I would tell you if I could remember any of it, Kel. Did we not say somewhere that if one of us started drinking too much of the brandy that the others would stop him?”

  Keldron nodded, his face notably thinner than when they had split up in the forest, but still covered with an amused smile. “We tried to, honest to all six Gods we did. But there was no stopping you last night. You were on a mission.”

  Raoul groaned into his hands again. “Sometimes I wish that Belyn had left all of his blasted translocation stones in the cave, or all the liquor somewhere we couldn't touch it.”

  “Well I'm sure there can't be much left,” observed Joleen. “You drank most of the supplies on your own last night.”

  “But I wasn't the only one. You lot also drank. How is it that you don't feel so bad?”

  “I never said I felt great, old pal.” Keldron replied. “I just don't have the flair for the dramatic that you do. If I want to suffer, I will do it quietly, and without overdoing it. You have always been more ostentatious. Ah, here comes breakfast.”

  Raoul went back to a more silent form of private suffering as he leaned forward on his elbows with his head in his hands. The smells that wafted to him as plates and dishes were laid on the table would normally make his stomach rumble. The freshly cooked bacon, the abundance of eggs with their sunny yolks, the fresh bread, all conspired to make him feel even worse than he did before.

  “Here, drink this,” said a voice, and something cold nudged against his arm. Raoul looked between two fingers, his bloodshot eye peering for the source of the cold, and saw a tankard full of what looked like cold gravy. “No thank you, I am not thirsty,” he replied.

  “Oh come now, my lord. This will make you feel better. You need to get some meat on those skinny shanks of yours, and this will help you.”

  Raoul looked up, peering through eyes blurred by his hands, and saw the face of the woman he had obviously slept with. She was dressed in one of the kitchen girl's outfits. He groaned, and buried his face again.

  “Oh come now,” she said reprovingly. “You can do better than this. This tonic will help you wake up some, that you might have a bit more of the energy you seemed to have last night, if it is possible that you have any left at all.” She patted his cheek gently, and walked off, a throaty chuckle emanating from her direction as she walked away.

  “More of that energy, eh Raoul?” Keldron asked wickedly. “I had better leave that tonic if I were you, Lord Raoul Za. You never know what has been put in it.”

  In a moment of sheer contrariness, Raoul picked up the tankard and drained it, making a face like he had just sucked on a raw lemon. Whatever it was, the liquid was surprisingly fizzy, and without meaning to, he belched thunderously. Keldron and Joleen rocked back in their seats laughing, while Raoul hid his head in shame.

  “What's all this?” asked Belyn's voice from behind Raoul. He looked up to see Yerdu trailing closely behind his huge red-headed friend.

  Keldron wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “Our old friend here is still suffering from the brandy, Bel. But he just drank something that may well have settled his stomach.” As he was saying this, Keldron mimed patting someone on the back. Belyn took the hint and approached Raoul.

  “Well old son,” he said in mock sympathy. “You know what happens when you drink too much. That stuff is robust.” He patted Raoul on the back, just a little too hard for consolation and brought up another thunderous burp. This time, their corner of the room erupted with laughter, with everybody caught up in the moment, except of course for the suffering Raoul. Then he looked up.

  “Are you all right mate?” Belyn asked, noticing the sudden change in Raoul's demeanour.

  Raoul looked around at his friends. “I feel fine. I do not feel at all ill. By all the six Gods, we have to get that recipe!” he exclaimed and then made to get up, but Belyn held him back.

  “Not quite yet, Lord Raoul Za. I think my lord needs to finish his breakfast first. We have a long way to travel.

  Raoul looked at his friends in pure anguish. “Would you please stop calling me lord. I never called myself that in the first place.”

  “Ah, b
ut you never discouraged it, old friend,” replied Keldron. “We have all heard of Lord Raoul Za, the wizard of Law. The tribesmen call you it, and you do not discourage it.”

  Raoul sighed, even though he really did feel better. “I think it gives them more hope to call me that. My beliefs are the very same as theirs, or I should say, yours.” He glanced at Joleen and Yerdu who both acknowledged him with smiles. “It is just that the others do not know me as well, and so they do not see that maybe I lack all the qualities of a lord,” he said wryly.

  “They compare what they see in you to those few Lords we met whilst trading back home,” Joleen replied.

  Raoul laughed. “I do not mean to offend you, but those who you met were probably puffed-up merchants too full of themselves. I would hazard any titles they had were self-bestowed and intended to impress.”

  Belyn chuckled, a deep grumble of a sound coming from behind his red beard. “Makes you wonder why they compare him to a Lord then, doesn't it?” he said, receiving a chuckle from everybody, and a black look from Raoul.

  They took their time at breakfast, lingering over every morsel. It had been a long time since they had all been together, and despite the constant fun poked at Raoul, it was obvious to see that the three guildsmen were much happier now that they were back together again. Raoul ate perhaps more that was good for him, and the tonic he had been given by the kitchen girl seemed to be working as well as ever.

  Belyn, to Raoul's relief, managed to quickly change the subject to what had happened to Keldron and Joleen since they had split up in the valley several months before. Belyn could usually get a story out of just about anything living and breathing, but Keldron and Joleen sketched over most things, preferring the most evasive of answers. Raoul left them in search of the recipe to the 'wonder-tonic' as he put it, though the others thought there was more than one reason for him to be searching out the maid that had presented him with it. Feeling decidedly better all round, the group of travellers bent their minds towards packing their belongings in preparation for leaving.