The Focus Stone (The Tome of Law Book 1) Read online

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.