The Focus Stone E-Book

Matthew W. Harrill

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The life of a traveler was all Zya S'Vedai had ever known.

People often told Zya she was special, but she never knew why, suspecting only that the visions in her dreams would one day become clear. Her simple life changes when a series of events forces her to leave her family - and face her destiny head on.

Elsewhere, three guildsmen are dismissed from the coveted Order of Law. Thrown out into the world with nothing but their wits and the guidance of an elderly benefactor, they decide to find out what was really behind the notorious Night of Spears twenty years ago.

As Zya travels across The Nine Duchies, new friends and old enemies all seek to tip the balance of power in their favour. What connects Zya's destiny and the guildsmen, despite them being worlds apart?

And why are they all in the sights of the maniacal Garias Gibden - the Witch Finder - and his minions?

Leseprobe

The Focus Stone

The Tome of Law Book 1

Matthew W. Harrill

Copyright (C) 2018 Matthew W. Harrill

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For Tricia and Benjamin.

Acknowledgements

I have worked on The Focus Stone for more than three years now, and have many people to thank for assisting with its evolution and completion:

Firstly, to my family and close friends, thank you for backing me and reminding me that there is more to a story than a person typing at a computer.

I would also like to thank my friends at the Runelords forum, especially Pauline, for showing so much enthusiasm, and Dave Wolverton, for his invaluable advice and continued friendship.

As this book reached final production, I discovered that a team effort is so much stronger, and for that I would especially like to thank Neil and Thea, Tom, and finally Brett for all of their efforts.

Matt Harrill

Chipping Sodbury, England

Original map design by M. Harrill, artwork by Brett Pedersen

Prologue

Sharic, the initiate guildsman of the Eskenberg Law Guild, hurried through the dirty streets, sparing a furtive glance for possible pursuers. In the light of the full moon, rubbish on the streets combined with the lingering results of a downpour to create a jeweled effect on the cobbled road. He stuck to the shadows, which was not difficult in this area, the worst for thievery. There were streetlamps, but owing to the neglect of the guilds, many were in ill repair. The result was an occasional light, but many streets were completely dark. In the moonlight, the faces of buildings were transformed again, stark against the subtle tones of the ground. These streets he avoided, preferring the back alleyways, dancing from one pool of inky blackness to the next.

It seemed Sharic had been in a hurry all his life, keeping up with the demands of his training. Coupled with his private dealings, most of the day and night were occupied. His mornings were spent in contemplation of philosophy. The afternoons were spent with the guilds; each apprentice had to learn a craft as well as the arts he trained in.

As he reached an intersection, Sharic slowed. Beads of sweat had formed on a forehead that had not even seen twenty-five years, though looked twice that age from the worry lines that creased it. His breathing came in rapid gasps, and he forced himself to walk slowly, forced his breathing to slow, and forced an unconcerned air of privacy about himself. The jackals of this area were likely to smell fear as well as any dog. A confident man had an instant advantage over one who let fear control his wits. His only weapon was a focus stone. This was an egg-shaped piece of rare, golden marble that was said to have been formed by the hands of Gods and polished by one of the orders, though he suspected it was the orders that made them. However, they served their purpose. An apprentice could focus his talents on the stone and they would magnify. The stone's only other use might be as a bludgeoning weapon. He could take someone by surprise, but anyone out at this time of night would have at least a dagger. Although stone blunted dagger in a game he played as a child, he knew that it was of no defense in the adult world. The back alleys suited his purpose, and Sharic was soon hidden again. The overhanging first floors of the older buildings prevented all but the thinnest slivers of moonlight from reaching the ground. Coupled with the fact that there were no street torches - a torch here would more than likely set a house on fire than provide any decent light - it made ideal conditions for his dance of obscurity. Part of him was bemused with all the events occurring in his recent life. Why was he out here alone when he could have been concluding some shady deal in a warm tavern on the other side of town? Few were about at this time of night. Those who had passed him had been too busy keeping to themselves to worry about what an apprentice mage was doing here. It would never occur to them that a mage could be as good a thief as anybody else. Still, he told himself, it would never do to be worrying about others. The last person he had seen was along one of the major roads passing east. Just the presence of someone had frightened him almost enough to wet his britches. There were none about in this part of town - the sensible all barricaded in their homes at this time of night.

He shivered. “Why did I suddenly change my mind?” he asked himself. He had stolen some books at the request of a client. “Client” his bitter bark emitted in just the slightest of coughs. In truth his client was one who had caught him stealing, and blackmailed him into stealing yet more instead of turning him over to the authorities. He was caught in so many snares he felt that rabbits had it easy. His accustomed stress had deeply affected him tonight. He was on his way to deliver the desired tome to his client when he had been struck dumb. He had suddenly cursed himself for even thinking of delivering the books to this man. He had realized with time that the book was one desired by the master of Raessa, far to the North, and that he could make a handsome profit from the transaction should he but miss out the middleman, but there was a member of his own guild that could use this book so much more.

Without a second thought for himself, or the money he would make out of this night's work, Sharic started to make his way toward him. There was no chance of anyone finding him in these deserted alleyways, he thought. The docks on the river were a maze of back alleyways. The labyrinth many had called it, for people had been known to enter, and re-emerge weeks later, never able to accurately recall where they had wandered, and yet he knew the layout.

It was during this moment of self-congratulation that he heard a noise. As he whirled to look his robes twisted and caught his legs. Remembering to reach out to cushion his fall, he dropped the bundle of books and they tumbled into an unlit alleyway. As the overhanging buildings denied the pure touch of the moon to the street, the offending alleyway was absolutely black. Nothing could penetrate that darkness, and even if Sharic had the wits about him to conjure the simplest of light spells, he felt that it would not have helped. The moment had passed and now the fear, the clarity of purpose, contained him wholly. He did not even notice his scraped shins or the cut on his right hand where he had fallen on glass. He crawled on his hands and knees, searching amongst rubbish for the books he had so desperately held on to for the past half a day. He was so close; it was unthinkable that he could lose them now. Though it was dark in the alley, it was also very warm. It was the first whole moon since midsummer. On such a night it was said that a breeze could reveal secrets to the initiated. There was such a breeze now. Easing its way through the maze of alleyways, its sibilant breath could whisper to those who knew how to listen. It was said that it was the voice of those who were lost, entreating the living to remember them. An initiate of one of the orders could accept, even understand the reasons behind the legends, but the common man knew only what he could see and touch. To them it brought peace to many of their homes, carrying the scent of summer and the promise of a good harvest. The message the breeze brought him was one of presence. Sending a shiver down his back, he felt the ebb of cold, a dire portent. He was not alone in this alley. Someone or something was with him, and he didn't like the fact that he had no idea what accompanied him in this black maze. His thoughts went back to the books. Perhaps if he could retrieve them and be on his way, whatever was in that alley would not be disturbed. He scrabbled in the rubbish.

He decided then and there that this was not the life for him. After he delivered the books to the proper recipient he would give up this life in the shadows. No more would he skulk in search of collectibles for a faceless man who was fortunate to catch him at it. He would pass his initiateship and take vows with one of the orders to live out a life in peace and dedication to a God.

He moved deeper into the alley, convinced the books could not be far. In the pitch black he stumbled, and very nearly fell down, a hole. It felt perfectly round, a palm's-width across, with symbols etched into the cobbles under his hand. It intrigued him that someone had found the time to make a ritual sacrifice site in the middle of the labyrinth. As he was wondering this he heard scratching noises. He thought he saw a flicker of light to his left, and momentarily dismissed such a thought. Then he saw the beginnings of a glow and realised the scratching had actually been the hidden striking of iron on flint. Fear turned to blind panic as he understood why he was not alone in this dread place. A torch spluttered into life, and he looked up to see three figures staring down at him. One carried a wide spear with a razor's edge head, and more of the ritual sacrifice runes along its length. His stomach dropped as he comprehended what was occurring. His skin felt clammy and cold and his hands trembled.

The figures moved toward him. He noted that the spear had a crosspiece about halfway down its length. He had read that a certain tribe of wildmen used these crosspiece spears to impale their enemies. It was also widely known that such a people traded with the town, and came far out of their way to do so. Why would they be after him? He had never had any dealings with them. His gaze travelled up. Flat, unemotional faces. These he surmised were just the foot soldiers. From the look of them they bore no personal malice toward him. Their shadowed faces unremarkable to everyday eyes. The only things to mark them were the almost black pupils, and the small crescent moon tattooed on their throats. Fear paralysed him. This was the mark of guild assassins.

His only hope was to buy his way out of this situation. His hands fumbled for the half purse at his belt. He had been struck dumb for the second time in a day and the best he could manage whilst holding out the gold at arm's length was a few trembling mumbles. The leader examined the purse and stowed it, a transaction that would lead to his freedom. As he relaxed, the two others moved to either side of him, not making a sound. He heard wood scraping against stone behind him, and his momentary relief was replaced with full-blown fear. He let out a cry, a scream of pure terror. Two of the men took him by the arms. He could feel the point of the spear at his back, almost feel the thirst the point had for his blood. He realised he was tensing himself for the spear to be thrust into his back and gazed up at the face of the one who had taken his gold. “Why?”

Unemotional, devoid of all sentiment, the man returned his gaze. “My thanks for the gold.” The dark figure planted a heavy kick on his chest. At the same time the two others hoisted the spear. As he felt it enter his chest, Sharic's scream of terror became a bloodcurdling yell that seemed to go on forever.

Many who heard it would remember that scream for the rest of their lives, but none would act on it that night. What did not involve them could not harm them, or so they thought. To many, it would be a case of just another mug killed in the night. More fool him for being here on his own, many would think. They would be momentarily repulsed by the sight, and then continue skulking about their business in the labyrinth.

In the shadows at the edge of the street a book lay out of sight, untouched by dirt and water, covered by rapidly dissolving parchments, a couple of soggy scrolls bound in red leather, and the scribbled journals of an apprentice. Would that somebody had checked the alley, and found the corpse with a hand stretched towards the shadows, the fate of a people could have been changed forever.

* * *

Old man Wise shuffled across the floor of the office. Worn by life and long past his prime he had nevertheless done well for himself. He felt secure in his enterprise as one of the town's foremost moneylenders. Half the town was in debt to him. Not the untidy, bailiff-bullying fiscal debt that most would assume, but a debt of gratitude. His various enterprises had kept many a family from living in the gutter. His generosity was unequalled. He was not one of those to be suckered into a dishonest deal; most people who came to him with money problems knew that they would stand a chance only if they were genuine. He had the uncanny ability to see beyond any mistruth he happened upon. More fortunate for his generous nature was the fact that most who owed him money found ways to pay him back. He had one rule for them. Any money must be earned through fair means, not foul. A good day's work was not beyond anyone, and he led by example. At a time in his life where his contemporaries had long retired to their country mansions, enjoying the fruits of their labour, he soldiered on with a dogged tenacity.

The last of today's clients had left the offices several hours back during the deep twilight. Now, the only light in the offices was that of the splendid full moon.

It passed through the translucent windows to cause a milky white glow on the floor. The polished oak panels were illuminated, and the reflection caused the whole room to light up and no-one would have been able to tell where the source was. He enjoyed this time of night. The rooms were warm, protected from any outside breezes by a legacy of excellent masonry and tight-fitting windows. He had had a special blend of pitch imported that secured the edges of the windows to the walls, preventing any airflow. Such a room, though snug in the winter, would be stifling in the warmer seasons. So he had opening windows installed, a rarity in most parts of the city. The doors were firmly bolted, his clerks having returned to the various amusements their young families provided. He knew he worked them hard, but in return they were amongst the highest-paid clerks in town. Out of respect they were all willing to put maximum effort into their work. During his life he had experienced many years with an empty pocket and nothing more than his wits to use to his advantage. He had found it difficult to get by, and was determined now to see that it didn't happen to anyone in his employ. It was his privilege to give back whenever he could.

He stopped in front of the huge oak door that marked the entrance to the lending house. From here, his shadow didn't affect the pristine phosphorescence of the moon. The heavy door, reinforced with steel and several bolts, had no windows; the glow emanated from the windows on either side. But he remained a shadow; the only shadow in a room bathed white in the perfection of a full moon. He resumed the slow, measured walk of his daily routine. After dark when all the clerks had gone, he would wander the lower office, checking locks to be certain that everything was secure. He had stated for a long time now that he would not have got through life without a certain amount of close inspection. People in his position were often preyed upon by the less scrupled in this world. Many less honest than him had succumbed to the occasional stray dagger, or poison slipped into a fine glass of liquor. A more subtle approach such as a minor clause in a contract had often leached the money away from rivals of his. He had never used such an approach, and encouraged others to follow his example. He refused to give in to such approaches, determined with such force that his life's earnings would not be wasted so easily. He inspected the main door once more. Satisfied that his offices were secured, he relished the thought of relaxing with a glass of his rare Kimarullian brandy.

He climbed the stairs to his private offices with measured effort, for though he was still very active for his age, the years had not been good to him. Rather, food and fine wine had been no good to him; too big a temptation in these more recent years. The private offices on the first floor were much more opulent. Whereas the clerks' offices were functional - plenty of desks for ledgers and bookshelves for records - the private offices were for show, to entertain the influential. It was here the rare brandies were kept, though another part of the show, they were situated for convenience halfway on his journey upstairs and he felt better braced with a shot for his continuing journey. He poured himself a significant measure as he was in a very good mood this evening, and the dreamlike scene he had just witnessed was something to be celebrated. He clasped the cut crystal between thumb and middle finger almost nonchalantly as he prepared to climb the further flights to his living quarters. He paused at the level of the kitchens. Truly the bane of his current existence, he was compelled to stop and help himself to whatever tidbits the cook had prepared for the next day. One of his few indulgences, he reasoned that since he paid for all of this, it was okay to help take what he wanted. This had begun long ago, and the cooks had learnt to prepare extra or leave some of the day's wares behind in case the master came. The lingering scents of the day's meals were usually too tantalizing for him to pass by. The fact that the pantry was situated so near the door, with priceless treasures contained therein, was a major contributor to his portliness.

Many had suggested that he should have someone else on the premises at his age, but he refused all offers of help. He had always needed time to himself, to be able to do what he wanted in his home with nobody to gainsay him. Even the most public of figures had a private side, and he was no different. He had always been self-sufficient and he was too set in his ways to reform now. He maintained he had the willpower to do so, and would not admit to himself that help would be useful, even if he needed it. His reasoning stemmed from the fact that the large amounts of money he dealt with were never kept on the premises. He had it stored in safe houses to be called upon when needed, and only a couple of the senior clerks knew the locations. If someone were to break into his home, they would find more than enough of value in the private office, but these material possessions were worth next to nothing to him. If he died, he had people who would disperse the money according to his will. People would find debts paid off, and several friends would find their pockets greatly enhanced, but no one would be looting his house.

He went out onto the balcony overlooking his plentiful gardens. The night air was warm and humid, bringing the promise of thunder. He could almost smell the lightning in the air, but the storm would not come for a while. For now, he could see the full extent of the full moon's spectral glow. It was truly a night for wonders. The summer night produced a gentle breeze across the rooftops, almost unnoticeable. Although the breeze was mildly refreshing, it left him with a vague sense of unease, as if he were not alone on the balcony. Feeling this, he closed the doors behind him, securing them. Doing so lessened the growing sense of alarm that had developed in his chest. The scene outside was obscured by the moonlight now reflecting off of the windows in the balcony doors. He could not fathom why he had felt so uneasy. The brandy in the crystal goblet on the side table drew him, and he settled down in his favorite lounging chair to enjoy what was left of a most unusual evening. The chair was close to the hearth so in winter it was warm and cosy. The tattered old leatherback needed replacing, but he assured himself it was only just broken in. Like a pair of old shoes, it was comfy and fitted him well.

Drowsy as he was due to the lateness of the hour, and the effects of a large shot of brandy, Wise gazed around. Someone had moved a very large flagstone onto the hearth. It measured the sum total of the stones already there, and would have gone unnoticed, except there was a large circle cut out of its centre. It measured perhaps a hand-span across, and had strange sigils drawn around its circumference. The colour was the same as the hearth. He judged that it weighed enough for several men to struggle while carrying it. Intrigued, he wondered how and why anyone would have moved it there for him. It was certainly an interesting piece, especially with those etchings, but why bring it all the way up here? He assumed that it had been moved here while he was out of the office on business in the morning. Slightly unnerved by the strange events occurring, he glanced around the room. It was then he noticed that all the shadows of the room were not as they should be. Though deeply folded, the curtains to either side still betrayed the statue presence of three figures. As his stomach dropped and his heart spasmed, the three figures moved away from the walls with a wraith-like glide. One was carrying a spear with what seemed to be some sort of crosspiece halfway down it. It looked designed for some sinister purpose, as if it had been formed in the bowels of something evil. They were silent. This was what really scared him. How was he supposed to get rid of them if they made not a sound? These were unlike any thieves he had encountered before, and he did not know how to cope.

Blind panic caused a rush of adrenaline in his old body, and he bolted for the door with great speed for one so long decrepit. It did not last long. Unused to such rapid movement, his body laboured to keep up with his intentions. For a man of his size, he did move rapidly, but as fast as he moved, one of the shadow men reached the doorway ahead of him. The man who appeared in front of him held the spear at waist height across the opening to the door. Before he realised what was happening, the crosspiece of the spear's shaft had jammed into his belly, winding him completely. He groaned and folded as he fell to the floor, gasping for whatever air his body would allow his lungs to take in. As he led there with tears streaming down his red face, blood spread around his midriff. The warm feeling through the pain indicated that the crosspiece had not just winded him. He managed to open his eyes, and was confronted by the neat octagonal pattern arranged on the fringe of the carpet - he had been so close to escaping. That was the limit of his vision, he could not move so much as a finger lest the agony increase. He had no idea where the men were. While the old man was rolling in agony, the two other silent shapes materialised into men, who seemed more used to the trials of life. Their lean bodies and sure stance betrayed a competent fitness. The unemotional faces were a contrast - nothing was betrayed there. They dragged the banker from the doorway to the fireplace and lifted him as a father would lift a newborn child. Even though he was stunned and therefore unable to move, his dead weight was still no burden to the silent ones. He managed to open his eyes, the agony spreading up to his chest. He found himself standing, propped up by a solid grip on either side. Even had he been at the peak of fitness, he would not have been able to move from where he stood now. His head hung as he gasped for air, strands of a once fine head of hair hanging loose from the sides of his head. He found it so very hard to breathe. The agony was subsiding, but one of his arms had started to tingle. Though he was upright, he felt as if there was a great weight upon his chest. He knew he was sweating, as the salt stung his eyes, but he felt so cold, so very cold.

His lungs would permit only the tiniest breath of air. It was not enough to sustain him. He would have still been panicking about his predicament, could he only spare a thought for it. The wood scraping against stone was a mere noise in the background as he felt the throbbing in his chest. He was dimly aware of a pain in his back, but it was so mingled with other pains in his body, it did not give him a warning. He managed to raise his head a little, the wisps of hair falling out of his eyes as he moved. He recognised one man as a merchant he had dealt with in the recent past but could not place exactly where. The man had never looked like this, he thought with a clarity that spoke through his pain. He understood why such a thought had suddenly come to him. He didn't have a lot of time left in this world. His body was losing its fight. Such damnable luck for he had so much more he wanted to do. He lowered his head with a groan, and felt something hit him hard in the chest. Had his failing body the will, he would have felt the eruption of pain as he passed on to the spear. As it was, he died the moment he was kicked by the man with the crescent moon on his throat; another victim to be found in the morning.

* * *

Arnel was walking in her garden, bathing in the midnight luminescence of the full moon. She followed the same path that she had followed for years uncounted, the trail worn by careful steps. Even the plants that grew between some footprints were priceless to one who knew herb lore.

She felt safe in the company of her plants. They didn't have emotions; they couldn't inflict harm through malice and cruelty. She pondered the thought that they knew one thing - to grow toward the light. She would spend many days amongst them, nurturing them, encouraging them to grow strong. She felt an affinity with them, for they could be used for such good for so many. She felt it was her duty to see the seed spread and the plants put to good use. Her reputation preceded her wherever she went. She was known throughout the town as 'the herbalist', a crude title given by a crude people, but the name suited her. Herbs brought ease to many. They all came from this garden. The rich scents merged to create an aroma of contentment in an area of peace. It had been a habit for her to collect herbs by moonlight for many years now. It was widely written in the books of the orders that herbs collected as such were much more potent than if gathered at other times. If fresh buds were collected during a full moon, the effect was said to be a concentrated level of potency. So she had begun her nightly sojourns into her herb garden. It had been difficult at first. Though her eyesight was as good as any, especially for her age, walking through a garden of wild plants in the dead of night had still been difficult.

She had persevered and learned to gather herbs in the dark, knowing by smell and touch which parts to gather. The results had been phenomenal. Her tisanes and poultices worked cures of an almost miraculous nature. She was not exclusive in any way to the townsfolk. Arnel would treat anyone, and charge a more than fair price. She was by no means rich, but could afford to live comfortably.

Tonight's full moon was an enjoyable experience. The light was so bright it was almost as day, but the effect of the white moon was stunning. The night sky brought an added element to her protected garden, making the treasures she was gathering truly priceless.

Slender mugwort, growing in between some of the footsteps, had delicate, almost feathery leaves. It was considered a protection against evil, demons and the like. She smiled as she caressed the plant. Normally she would dismiss such a statement, but tonight one could almost believe it were true. Whatever the magical value, the leaves would, when chewed, clear the head and eyes of fatigue. Perhaps after tonight only one leaf would be needed. Many travellers purchased her mugwort, for her reputation had spread far beyond this town. She laid it with humble reverence alongside the thyme already in her herb basket as she moved swift and sure on to the next patch. Here she knelt to gather sage. It was used in conjunction with a tincture of myrrh to make a tisane old men could gargle to soothe their aching mouths, packed full of ulcers as a result of lifelong bad eating.

Arnel rose from the sea of crowns, moving deeper into the vegetation. Garden was not an accurate term for this area. Gardens would have been closer to the truth. One could easily lose sight of the house from many points. She headed toward the Willow Grove on the side of the stream, the marked boundary of her lands, and was hidden from view by the grove of willows that swayed in the slight breeze that usually accompanied the summer nights. She was after willow bark that could be combined with rosemary in a tisane that was well known to ease headaches. An old lady in Market Street had chronic head pains, and she knew the plants gathered tonight would be of especial help. It would be difficult to gather the willow bark in the dark. Years of practice and the especially bright moonlight would be enough aid for her practised hands. The breeze that had enhanced the aroma of her gardens felt different in the Willow Grove. It was the same breeze as before, it had not lessened to any extent. But now it brought an air of expectancy, almost of unease. She began, for the first time in this place, to feel that something was not right, that maybe she was not alone. Naturally, she assumed, suddenly clearer in her mind, it would be her cat.

The cat was usually hunting at this time of night, but was very much given to following his mistress. The company on these nighttime sojourns was very much welcome, especially now. She moved yet deeper into the grove calling the cat's name, expecting to feel him brush against the side of her leg. She was in the process of parting the slender willow stalks when she felt something poke into her back. She froze. No branch could feel like that she thought. Suddenly she found herself gagged. Before she knew it, two dark figures had moved to each side of her, clamping her arms in steel grips, leaving her unable to move or fight. A figure she surmised was behind her, moved the point back and she heard sounds of digging. A fourth appeared in front of her. A dread shock paralysed her; she knew these men, knew their tribe. With the black eyes and crescent moon on their throats this could only mean one conclusion to her sojourn. She had never quite forgotten, but with time her fear had faded. She had hoped when she was younger that they could not catch her, and had thought herself safe for many years now. Her hands were forced behind her back; she felt the length of the spear she knew to be there, the runes she knew to be engraved on it. As she gripped the crosspiece she knew her life had already ended and her next life was beginning. This was a ritual to force people into the next life before time. It was meant to happen to the enemies of the flat-faced, unemotional men who now stood around her. This was not how it was done. She knew the kick would come - it was the way of the ritual. The face of the man opposite her was passive, but there was a glint of malice in his eye. He was going to enjoy this. This ritual was not meant for personal satisfaction, but her last thought before she descended in to blatant panic was something was wrong. As he kicked her, lower than he should have, she never had time to get winded. The dark man kicked so hard that she still passed right onto the spear, her back arching as she did so. She let out a muffled scream as the spear was planted vertically in the soil and she slid down its length to rest twisted against the crosspiece. Her blood spilled everywhere as it pulsed from two gaping wounds, staunched only by the length of wood inside her. No-one would find her until tomorrow. The grove was furthest removed from the house, out of sight and well out of hearing distance. Her last thought as she lapsed in to unconsciousness was of her family, praying to the gods that they would be spared. In the full moonlight of that summer night, a child's cry rang out.

* * *

While the events transpired in the town so far away, a man stood on a podium, the focal point of a large cavern, deep beneath the surface of the earth. The weather outside threatened to chill the blood, with a blistering gale buffeting the surface of the land, doing its best to erode any semblance of life in this harsh land. The mountains directed the winds to keep intruders away; few knew the secret of traversing them. The temperature in the cavern was an anomaly though; the freezing of the outside world was offset by the presence of lava below the podium. The lava itself was enough to persuade many to leave the cavern, but it did not faze the old man. His presence was required at this time. He could feel the future echoes of pain, the senseless slaughter being committed by one people in the name of another. He could feel it calling him.

Their pain was an emotion so acute he ached for them. It would leave him pallid and sweating, grasping in the darkness of his room for a person who had long ago left him. Despite the years that had aged his frail body, despite the seething lava, he stood there, upright and calm, certain in his authority, proud in the knowledge that the people he had looked after were decent and just.

As he waited, two younger people entered the cavern from the same tunnel he had used earlier this night. There would be no others at this time. The two came of age tonight, which made it a very special night. In history, such events did not coincide. The pair separated to walk around opposite sides of the cavern, their shadows bouncing off the uneven walls, darkening the ruby glow that emanated from the pit in the centre of the cavern, as they crossed to two smaller podiums that were across the pit from him.

The lesser podiums were of the same ancient construction, an art that had long ago been lost. Their stone gleamed white, despite the russet tones of the cavern, unaffected by the intense heat of the lava, impervious to its need to consume and destroy. They were linked to the path around the cavern by narrow bridges of similar construction; bridges, that like the podiums, shielded those crossing them from any damaging heat. So, it had come to this. Below the old man stood one man and one woman, equidistant from each other, and from him. They were a picture of geometric precision, forming a perfect triangle. Both their faces were as impassive as his. He understood from what had happened to him that they were not completely aware of what was occurring. They would come to remember, eventually, what had transpired this night, and would accept the consequences with no question. The people here were so committed to the earth, so in tune with it, that they knew there were more important things than individuals. As a breeze blew across the surface of a faraway land, a rumble resonated deep within the bowels of the earth. None but those present here could feel it, and none but the old man knew its meaning. If sound could become light, then that is what happened in the cavern. Gradually, the rumbling increased, but all within the cavern remained still, the three beings within waiting patiently for the ordained event.

The rumble increased in magnitude, bringing to all within the cave a feeling of distress, of pain unending. If the sound could take on a form, then so appeared to do. The rumbling increased yet, and a glow began to fill the room, appearing in flecks out of the lava and on the walls of the cavern. The chamber reacted to the consequence as sound became light, changing from the sullen red of the lava to a soft pink, and then gradually, to the crystal tones of pure, white light. The old man smiled in elation at what he beheld. One was lucky to remember the ordeal. To see it a second time was beyond the limits of pleasure. He pointed to the lava below, and then raised his hands above his head. As the sleeves of his robe slipped back along his arms, a ball of lava surged to the point directly in the middle of the room. It hung there, a stewing ball of molten rock, alive as any of the people present. The white light intensified, and as it did it gathered into the ball of lava, creating a pulsing sphere of light and earth. The glowing ball matched its pulses with the beat of the old man's heart; strong and steady despite advanced years.

He knew what he must do - the ritual was ingrained in to the hearts of all his people. He raised his hands higher still, and let out a scream of triumph that belied his years. As he did so, a beam of energy passed from his body in to the pulsing sphere. A second passed and another beam of energy shot from the sphere in to the body of the woman. The faint echo of an infant wailing passed round the room.

She had been chosen with the cry of a child.

Chapter One

The morning brought with it the promise of a good day. The first rays of sunshine cresting the distant mountain ridge brought together the contrast of light and dark in a unified blaze of colour. Zya was normally up with the rise of the sun, before nearly all of the camp. It was a time when she could think clearly, free from the distraction of the warm hearted caring folk around her. She cared for all members of the caravan deeply, but every person needed their own time, and now was hers. She gazed at the distant ridge, and the resplendent globe rising behind it. She had never seen a vision so stark and yet so beautiful all at once. With the slight wisps of cloud having dispersed at the touch of solar heat, the sky became a deep blue, the crystal clarity pronouncing that the rest of the day would bring weather as good as it was now. A slight breeze raised the hairs on her neck, the early morning chill refreshing as a swim in a mountain stream. It was good to be here at this time she decided. Everything was perfect, from the meadow flowers at the side of the track to the cry of a single hawk as it proclaimed its dominance to an empty sky.

Zya's only companion at this time was Cahal the caravan guard. The grizzled old man had seen his fair share of fights during his life, and despite his advancing middle years he was still one of the toughest men Zya could remember meeting. He stood a short distance away from the camp, the chill morning breeze ruffling his hair, the only sign of movement from a man who could have been carved from one of the distant peaks. There was no real need for a lookout in the high lands, but Cahal maintained his post with a stoic commitment for a hired guard. He was one who had earned the fee paid a dozen times over. He had been with the caravan as long as Zya could remember, and despite his aloofness, was a warm caring man; he was as an uncle to her. He winked at her as she strolled past, bringing a smile to her young face. There would be no harm in her walking across the nearby meadow to the stream beyond. Otherwise Cahal would have accompanied her, calling the other guard out from his state of slumber.

The meadow felt soft, yet firm underfoot as Zya strolled, lost in her thoughts. The meadow flowers, tiny sunbursts of yellow surrounded by delicate fringes of white bounced back as her feet lifted. It was as if there was a vitality so pure, so concentrated that it gave the inhabitants of this area a boost beyond what sun and water could do for most. Even the weeds, sparse as they were seemed healthy and full of life, content with their lot in this wonderful place. The meadow rolled down a gently sloping hill towards the headwaters of the stream, and Zya found herself following the contours of the incline as she made her way towards what could well have been the source of the vitality in the region. Zya glanced uphill; she could see that Cahal had followed slightly, just enough to keep her in sight while keeping an eye on the rest of the camp. Stepping around a burrow that seemed as perfect as creation, she approached the stream. The vibrant sound added to the pleasure of the dawn. The sun pierced the distant crest of mountains and sent shafts of light past her and into the trees opposite. 'Miracles' her father called them. For when one single beam was said to touch someone deserving, something miraculous would happen to them. People scoffed at the things her father used to say, but scepticism was not part of her nature.

Zya crouched on the bank, trailing her fingers in the crystalline perfection of the babbling brook. As with everything else in this spot it seemed almost alive, as if the enthusiastic bubbling were the pulse of the river laid bare for her alone to see. The water was icy cold, and when she lifted a handful to her lips it tasted as sweet as morning dew, refreshing as a mountain breeze. The taste only served to enlighten the pleasure of the private moment she had stolen. She gazed at her reflection on the rippling surface. Her hair, long and dark framed a face with high, pretty cheekbones and dark, luminous eyes. As she gazed, her eyes looked deeper into the stream. It was as if she was seeing beyond the surface of herself, a feeling she had had several times during her life. The feeling passed and Zya found she was gazing at the bottom of the stream, the bed full of broken rock not yet worn smooth by the flow of the river. Amongst the rock she noticed the eggs of some creature laid long past, and imagined that the effort was worth it to reach such a place. Whatever hatched from the eggs would receive a beneficial start in life, she was sure of it. She lay back on the riverbank full of blissful contentment. A day would rarely start so positively for many, and she felt blessed for her experience. There were not many places like this and as she shut her eyes to soak in as much of the feeling as she could, Zya vowed this was a place for beginnings and endings, one she would return to. She lay there for a time, enjoying the peace, until she became aware that she would shortly be joined. How she knew she could never tell, but Zya had a knack of knowing when someone was coming.

The man stopped a few paces away from her, and she knew who it was without opening her eyes.

“Beautiful isn't it?”

“You picked a perfect moment to go for a stroll,” her father replied, “I have rarely seen such a day in twenty years. It makes you want to freeze the instant and live a lifetime in it.”

Zya smiled, her father had always had a prophetic way with words. She opened her eyes to see him gazing at the distant mountains with the early morning sun blazing slightly above.

“A shame I missed it. A beautiful sight for a beautiful day.”

“There will be others,” Zya replied. “We see so many sunrises in places like this that we are bound to see another.”

Her father sighed ruefully, “But they will not be like this, there is something special here; a quality indefinable. Still, we must move on. Up with you lass, they will be missing us already, despite Cahal's assurances.”

Zya rose gracefully, standing nearly as tall as her father did. She shared some of his looks. The arch of her brow and her assured stance were learnt from her father, traits that were natural to both. The major differences were the eyes and hair. While he was fair in both, she was dark. They were so different and yet so alike. Yet they stood out from the people they accompanied, as they were both taller than the rest.

Father and Daughter ascended the rise with an ease that resulted from many miles walked over the years. The sun blazed in the azure heavens, and the riot of colour that resulted from such a fine day was enough to move anyone. The regret was plain in the face of both father and daughter, and as they walked back to the camp they talked about nothing else. It was as if they felt they belonged to that moment, a moment of utter contentment.

As they crested the rise, Cahal returned to his spot just outside the camp. From the crest, the whole camp could be seen, for it was not big. Four brightly painted wagons that doubled as homes were drawn up in a semicircle around the remains of last nights cook fire. The draft horses were picketed where the food was plentiful, and even they seemed full of spirit as if the grass they had eaten had rejuvenated them somehow. This was a normal camp for the travellers. Best known to the commoners as the tinkers, they would travel from village to village repairing and mending for payment. The payment was not high, and the quality always good. Through this the travellers gained a good reputation, and were generally accepted anywhere in the land. Though pots and pans was the normal type of ware to be fixed, Zya had heard that her father had joined the group in return for him aiding them through his knowledge of carpentry. He had never told her why he had chosen this way of life, and she never asked. Zya had always assumed that he would tell her in his own good time. Besides, the work in this group was not difficult and the group had benefited greatly as a result of Tarim's skills. She decided that she was content.

A few people had risen to prepare for their departure, among them the other guard Jaden. He was so similar to Cahal that they could have been twins were it not for the fact that his skin was as akin to night as Cahal's was to day. He grinned as Zya and her father approached; a big, white grin that was completely in contrast to the rest of him.

“Greetings to you on this glorious morn,” he remarked with a flourish of a bow. “It is one I hope never ends.”

“We were remarking on the same thought as we walked back,” replied Zya. “It's as if the world were trying to tell us that there's more to life than this.”

“Speaking of this life, Tarim, you had better find our glorious caravan mistress before she finds you.” Jaden nodded at one of the wagons. “It seems your services as a carpenter extend beyond the villages.”

Tarim sighed. “It's a shame such a perfect moment can't last longer. Still, the sooner we are under way, the sooner we can find another spot like this.”

“And the sooner you help Layric with the axle the sooner we can find such a spot young Tarim S'Vedai,” commented a voice in the doorway of the nearest wagon. Tarim, Zya and the guard all turned toward the woman who stood slightly above them and bowed.

As one, they intoned, “Greetings to you on this summer morn mistress. May the sky guide you.”

“And may the earth show you the way,” she replied, completing the ritual greeting. Tarim grinned, seeming almost boyish in front of the older woman.

“Be assured Venla, the problem is almost fixed.”

Venla smiled back, “Well it's not fixing itself with you stood there; be off with you.”

Tarim moved away to one of the other wagons, Jaden following him with a small bow to the mistress. The title of Mistress was an honorary title given to the matriarch of each group of travellers. The title fitted Venla Chemani well. However the men argued, the decision always ended up hers. However they cajoled, if she had her mind set upon a certain path, they would always end up following it. Venla was more than that though; she was like a mother to Zya and the other two girls who were younger than she was. She had always been there for her, and was one of a few people, her father included, who would always be totally frank with her. A trait Zya had always respected in others. Zya noted Venla's gaze, and followed it after her father.

“Ah, if I were only twenty years younger and not married,” Venla sighed.

If there was any evidence that Venla was past the sixty seasons she claimed, Zya could find no evidence of it on her face. To all outward appearances, the caravan mistress appeared a beautiful middle-aged woman with only a few laughter lines marring her ageless face. Her dark hair hung in the traditional traveller fashion – three small braids, braided together – and her green eyes sparkled as if they were full of mischief, even when she was angry. It was no wonder she had respect from all who travelled with her. Now these eyes were fixed on Zya.

“And I believe you had a couple of chores before we set off too, child.” Knowing her immediate fate was sealed to the joys of the seamstress, Zya nodded with a quick, “Yes, Mother,” and headed towards another of the wagons. Tarim approached a figure bent almost double around the front of one of the wagons. The figure was trying to lift a wheel onto a supported axle, by himself, and almost killing himself in the process. If not for this fact, Tarim would have laughed.

“Layric, tell me when you are finished killing yourself so we can get this done and enjoy the morning.”

The figure grunted once more, let the wheel drop, and then stood up. Layric grinned. “Well if some of us were not off gallivanting with their pretty daughters enjoying the meadows and the streams we might have got this task finished!” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Though you found a mighty fine place and time to do it,” he added thoughtfully, gazing at the young horizon with the contrast of gold on deep blue.

“Well, what say you?” asked Tarim. “Shall we finish the job before they find us?”

“Aye, lad,” replied the older man.

The two men worked on lifting the wheel into place. It had taken several of them to lift it off the night before so that the axle could be propped up, but now two men were sufficient. Tall, lean Tarim S'Vedai lifted the wheel, while the broader Layric Chemani guided it on.

Layric was a man who had enjoyed the fruits of his wives' cooking through the years, but despite his appearance was very fit and strong, the legacy of years of outdoor experience. He was of a similar age to his wife, but like her did not show it. If one could see past the sheer contentment with life in his eyes, only then would one see the age that rested there. He was determined not to become a 'revered' elder for many seasons yet. He looked the part though. He wore a beard – most uncommon in the active travellers, though much less so with the elders. For this reason, he was often the butt of a joke including the word 'elder'. He showed nothing of his 'elder' side now though. Guiding the wheel onto the axle with Tarim's help, Layric soon had it firmly in place, the wide wooden spokes and broad iron treading looking like they had always been a part of the wagon, never apart from it.

“There, lad,” said Layric with more than a hint of satisfaction. “We got that job sorted easily enough. Why don't you go and check on the horses while I finish up here?”

Breathing heavily, Tarim moved off to where the horses were picketed. “We!” he thought, “Next time he can take the weight.”

Zya frowned, concentrating on the stitching in front of her. Anita, generally acknowledged as the seamstress of the caravan, had been teaching her, and the others her age, the arts of stitching for a few years now. Erilee and Mavra, although younger, had picked up the art as if it were in their blood, whereas Zya needed to concentrate a bit more. The current stitch they were learning was so complex and yet subtle that it could not be seen once completed, even on a tear across fabric. Although not a natural like the younger girls – Erilee was only sixteen seasons – Zya stuck to the task with a dogged determination, and was nearly as successful.

Anita turned over a piece of fabric. “You see?” she held up the cloth to the girls. A while back she had torn it in half but now it seemed whole again, appearing completely repaired. “This is the one that they like the most. No villager has any idea of how we stitch it; well no villager I know of anyway.”

“Isn't it just a case of unravelling the stitching to see how it is done?” asked Mavra.

“Absolutely not,” replied the seamstress.

“If they unravel the stitching at any point it will all come apart. The secret is in how we stitch in the first place. Always remember, knowledge comes from creation, not destruction. It is not the natural way to learn by tearing things apart.”

As usual, Zya kept quiet during these conversations. The small plump old lady had a lot to teach people, and many of her standards had been set by what she had learnt from Anita. She did not have her heart in her work today. Her early sojourn had left her with the feeling that a day like today was special One that should not be missed by chores inside.

It seemed to Zya that fortune had smiled upon her when her father poked his head inside the bright drapes that served as a door on such a warm day. “Honourable seamstress, may I have permission to take your girls out into the glorious morning to assist them with the chores of horse saddling?”

Tarim grinned, an infectious grin that had had everybody smiling back for nearly twenty years.

“It is nearly time to be moving, and the girls will have plenty of time to learn as we move today” Anita replied with a resigned look on her face. It seemed Tarim had won again, for now.

“My thanks, pretty,” Tarim added. With a flush creeping around her neck, the seamstress shooed them all out into the brilliant sunshine of the morning.

The three young women followed Tarim to where the horses were picketed. Zya was relieved to once again be out in the open where she felt that she belonged. She glanced at the other two. Both Mavra and Erilee were travellers to the bone. They preferred to ride in the wagons, but the mistress had insisted that they learn the skills Tarim could teach them. It was the skill of riding that Zya excelled in. For years now, she and her father had ridden alongside the wagons on horses they received in payment for their work. The two horses, both roan stallions, were not suitable as draught horses, and so Tarim had taught his daughter how to ride.