The Grey Robe

by Clare Smith

  The boy looked up in surprise and almost smiled but then, as if he suddenly remembered his situation, he bowed his head again.

  “Thank you, master,” he whispered.

  Maladran frowned at the title but let it pass, his charge was at the end of his endurance and the rules of subservience were probably the only anchor which remained to keep his sanity. Carefully, as if those chains might break or disappear beneath his hands, Maladran guided the boy to the log by the fire and pushed him down onto the makeshift bench whilst he ladled out a small bowl of oats and poured golden honey on top. The boy took the proffered bowl hesitantly and then, before his host could offer him a spoon, scooped the meal into his mouth with frantic fingers like a starving animal. Maladran scowled down at him, his patience coming to an end.

  “Steady, steady. I know you are hungry but if you eat at that speed nothing will stay down long enough to do you any good.” He reached out to take the bowl and the boy cringed back with a whimper. “I have told you boy that I will not abuse you, nor will I beat you, but in return you must show a little trust.”

  The boy said nothing but his shoulders straightened slightly. Maladran relaxed a little and smiled to himself as he returned to the pot hanging over the fire. Satisfied at the progress he had made he poured the boy another bowl of hot oats. This time he took the spoon and ate the sweet cereal at half the speed. Maladran left him with a small flask of watered wine and a piece of travel bread whilst he went to saddle his horse. The boy nibbled the bread carefully wondering how long it would be before he was fed again. Furtively he looked around the clearing hoping to find some berries which he could pick now and save for later but all he could see were some greying mushrooms and some old nut shells. He looked back to the fire when the man returned with a rolled bundle of clothing.

  “I burnt the sacking they gave you to wear; it stank of the middin and was full of vermin. Until we can find you something more fitting you can wear these.” He handed the boy a neat bundle bound around by a leather belt, gathered up the dirty dishes and with a tuneless whistle walked away from the clearing towards the ford to wash them.

  For several minutes the boy sat with the bundle on his knee, listening to the man whistling and walking away from him, unable to move. He was confused. He had expected pain or at least to be treated with contempt as he had always been treated for as long as he could remember. Instead the man had shared his food and had now given him his own clothing to wear.

  Cautiously he ran his hand over the fine weave and held the bundle to his nose, it smelt of soapwort and herbs and vaguely of saddle leather and horse. It was a provocative smell and disturbed a memory in the boy which he couldn’t totally recall. The half memory added to his confusion. He was kingsward, to be treated as his masters thought fit and kindness was no part of that treatment. Yet vague feelings, more like a tickle in his mind, told him there had been a time before he became the king’s property when kindness had been a part of his life but he wasn’t sure, he couldn’t quite remember.

  The sound of the man’s returning footfalls made him jump and he scrambled out of the cloak to do his new master’s bidding. He pulled the soft grey shirt over his head but it was far too large for him, reaching to his knees and trailing the long arms far beyond the end of his finger tips. Quickly he rolled back the sleeves as best as he could and concentrated on the fastenings which seemed small and intricate and completely unmanageable with the man’s eyes boring into his back. He fumbled the fastenings completely and his sleeves unrolled and swamped his hands. When Maladran’s laughter surprised him he looked up in annoyance and caught the man’s eye before remembering his place and returning to his habitual subservient pose. Maladran was not displeased with the response; it seemed the boy still had some spirit left after all.

  “You look like the ancient father of time in that shroud,” laughed Maladran, surprised at his own humour which rarely surfaced. He picked through the bundle of clothing and discarded the breeches and leather jerkin which would have been too large to serve any useful purpose but extracted the soft leather belt. Kneeling by the boy he drew his knife and instantly felt the boys alarm penetrate the barrier which shielded him from the feelings and emotions of others.

  “Trust,” he commanded, taking hold of a trailing sleeve and cutting it to length and then dealing with the other sleeve in the same manner. That complete, he concentrated on the intricate fastenings whilst he tried to come to terms with what had just happened. Once again his barrier had dropped and his emotions had seemed to have escaped from his iron control only this time there was no response from the metal collar he wore. It was something he would have to consider further. Needing to move away from the boy Maladran stood abruptly and handed him the two pieces of sleeve and the belt.

  “I assume you know how to make a covering for your loins?” The boy nodded. “Good. The belt will turn the shirt into a reasonable tunic which will have to do for the rest of the journey. When you are ready we’ll leave and be quick about it, I need to make up the time you have lost me and I am ready to go.”

  “Yes, master,” replied the boy in practised tones, bowing his head. The response annoyed Maladran but he couldn’t think why.

  He still felt annoyed and assailed by mixed feelings several hours later as the bay gelding confidently made its way along the hard packed road that separated the forest from the fields of tall grass. The sky was overcast but the air was warm and insects buzzed around the yellow flowers growing amongst the grass. His horse was strong and fresh from its day’s rest and the weight of its extra passenger had no effect on the sureness of its step. If the boy had no effect on the horse the opposite was true for Maladran who became more and more irritable.

  Behind him he could feel the boy’s presence like a shadow imitating his movements although only the boy’s hand touched Maladran’s cloak. The boy’s closeness was warm and disturbing and although the waves of fear had ceased battering him, other emotions emanated from him pricking at his senses. There was always the feeling of something which went much deeper, something which sought for relief but which he couldn’t touch.

  Maladran’s years of training, enhanced by the collar he wore, had equipped him with infinite control over his own emotions, indulging only those which were useful on a particular occasion but for most of the time he felt nothing. With such mastery it was simple to block the emotions of others, an essential attribute when using his arcane power. Teaching High Lord Coledran a lesson he would not forget for a long time had drained him and he needed to rest and recoup his powers before returning to Sarrat’s side. It would not be wise to show any weakness in front of his master but now his control had slipped so that both his own and the boy’s feelings intruded into his consciousness when all he sought was emptiness. Such feelings would have to be expunged if they were not to interfere with carrying out the king’s wishes.

  “What’s your name, boy?” he asked suddenly. Naming your subject was the primary step to controlling them; it was the first lesson any apprentice magician learnt.

  “I don’t know, master,” replied the boy, his voice muffled from behind the dark cloak.

  Maladran was taken aback, how could he control that which he could not name? “What do you mean you don’t know? Everyone has a name. What name did your parents give to you?”

  The boy’s voice became very small and a deep sense of loss and loneliness invaded Maladran’s consciousness.

  “I don’t know master, I can’t remember my parents.”

  “Then what did they call you as kingsward? You must have a name to be identified on your bonding papers.” A sudden spear of remembered pain burnt across the magician’s mind reminding him of the number he had seen seared by hot iron into the boys forearm. “The Stablemaster must have called you something?”

  “Yes, master, they named me Middin.”

  Maladran could almost feel the boy slump in shame, the little spark of spirit which had started to grow cringing further back inside the
boy at the humiliating label. Middin was no more a name than his kingsward number and it was important that he knew the boy’s name. Perhaps a different path of enquiry would loosen the boy’s obstinate tongue.

  “How old are you, boy?”

  “I don’t know, master. The Stablemaster told me I had seen eight summers and was old enough to be whipped but I can only remember my last days as kingsward and then my time as the middin boy”

  Maladran’s annoyance grew. “I don’t suppose you remember the crimes your father was executed for either?” he asked cruelly but the boy didn’t reply. The situation angered him beyond reason; nobody ever defied Maladran and especially not a cringing slip of a boy. “So you don’t recall your name, your age or your parentage. Is there anything you do remember about yourself or have you conveniently forgotten everything?”

  “No, master,” replied the boy, too scared now by the man’s anger to add anything else.

  “Then perhaps some exercise will jog your memory and loosen your tongue.”

  He turned in the saddle and grabbed the boy’s arm, swinging him from the back of the horse and depositing him roughly on the ground without the horse once breaking pace. The boy stumbled and cut his knee on the sharp stones of the flint and gravel road. He picked himself up, confused as to what he was meant to do. Around him was forest and grassland and in the distance the grey haze of a low line of hills stretched as far as he could see.

  The horse had not stopped moving so he fell in behind it, stumbling when the roadway became more uneven and running every so often to catch up with the tall gelding. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be disturbed the Magician ignored the boy, the horse and everything else around him and pulled the hood of his dark robe across his head blocking out all sight and sound. He pulled the cloak tightly around his shoulders and withdrew into himself cutting himself off from all feelings.

  The boy followed behind close to tears, blood ran down his shin from the cut on his knee and small stones scraped at the soles of his bare feet. For a short time his hopes had risen and he had dared to dream that his new master would care for him and give him a chance to show he was not lazy or as bad as he had been told by others for as long as he could remember. He wanted to please the man who had fed him and clothed him and let him ride his fine horse but instead he had angered him by not being able to remember all those simple things that any other boy could.

  Of course he could remember some things like the hunger and the cold. He could remember being continually afraid in the kingsward compound where the older boys would beat you if they thought you had hidden a stale crust and warders would beat you for the sheer pleasure of doing it. His hopes had risen when he had been sent to the High Lord’s estate but that had ended in hours of toil under Tarris’s cruel hands. He could have told his new master what it was like to be without hope but no master wanted to hear about those things. The man thought he had lied and had pushed him away, not caring if he followed or not but he wouldn’t give up. He had made himself a promise that he wouldn’t give in so he would show him, he would still be there when the man stopped.

  The noon day sun broke through the overcast sky and then fell away towards the horizon, falling behind the distant hills turning them from grey to ochre and gold and then just a dark smudge as the light faded behind them. Eventually the horse came to a stop on a grassy sward at the edge of the road and dropped its head to nibble at the tender grass but the man didn’t dismount or move. The boy stumbled to the horse’s side and waited with his head bowed for the man to tell him what to do. His bare feet were bruised and cut from the road and he shivered where an afternoon rain shower had soaked him through. Despite that he felt proud that he had stuck to his resolve and kept up with the horse so he could stand at his master’s side. He waited for a word, good or bad or even the sharpness of the master’s hand would have done but the man neither spoke nor moved.

  After a while the boy decided that the man must be waiting for him to say something so he found enough courage to look up. The man wasn’t looking at him or anything else as far as he could see as his features were hidden inside his hood. His hands were limp on the horse’s reins so that only the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders showed that he was alive and breathing. Swallowing his trepidation the boy stepped closer to study the man’s face, hoping that his attention would attract his master’s notice and he would be told what to do. Even with his eyes closed the magician had something about him which commanded respect, although it was a respect born of fear rather than admiration.

  His features were sharp and chiselled but without being gaunt. Straight, raven-black hair framed his face which was tanned and not as pale as he had first thought. His lips were red as if he had been eating berries and the boy was startled when he realised that the man’s lips were moving as if he spoke to himself. Yet for all that, he made no sound. He wasn’t sure if the man was asleep or in some sort of trance; he looked so different from when he had first dared to look into his dark eyes and now the red stones in the torc around his throat glowed like two baleful eyes.

  The boy shifted his weight from one aching leg to the other, not knowing what to do. It was starting to get dark and a cool breeze was rustling the leaves on the trees sounding as if the forest edge was alive. If he remained at the man’s side until he woke he would undoubtedly think him lazy and would beat him, or worse send him away, but if he woke the man his reaction was likely to be the same. Perhaps that was what the man wanted when he had pushed him from his horse that morning.

  Despite being pushed roughly from the horse and then being ignored he didn’t want to be sent away, even if staying did mean a beating. If he was to live he needed to belong somewhere and at least this man had shown him more kindness than anyone else had for as long as he could ever remember. A sudden resolve made him straighten his shoulders and take notice of his surroundings. He would show the man he could be useful, he would make camp and cook a meal and then the man might want to keep him after all.

  Dark days in the squalid confines of the kingsward compound where food had been thrown into a trough and fires had been strictly forbidden, had done nothing to prepare the boy for setting up a camp in the middle of the wilds. Neither had his experience of shovelling dung as a middin boy been of much use although he’d watched the stable hands caring for the horses and caring for a man couldn’t be that much different. Somewhere at the back of his mind he knew he should know more but like so many other things they lay hidden just beneath the surface, tantalisingly close but untouchable. What he did know was that the Stablemaster always insisted the horses should be seen to first, which seemed to him to be a good place to start.

  Approaching the horse carefully as it continued to nibble at the roadside grass he nervously took hold of the horse’s bridle and slipped the reins from the man’s hand. When the horse raised its head he was pleased to find the towering animal followed him without resistance. Carefully he led the horse across the road to a grassy knoll backed by a thick stand of everleaf trees. He’d heard the sound of running water from the road and with some difficulty he pulled the horse through the trees to where a small stream tumbled over a jumble of rocks. A small pool formed at one edge where a tree had fallen at which the horse obligingly drank until it had taken its fill. The boy stood ankle deep in the water letting its coolness soothe his bruises and abrasions until the horse became restless. It started to move across the stream and further into the woods and the boy followed until he found a clearing with spindly woodland grass and enough room to move freely.

  He looked around him, not sure if it would be best to sleep in the woods or by the roadside. The horse seemed content enough so he rummaged in the saddlebags until he found the hobble which he had seen tethering the animal before and with some difficulty attached it to the horse and removed its bridle. Being careful not to disturb the man, he lifted down the saddle bags and pouches containing food and cooking equipment and placed them in a neat pile.

  As the middi
n boy he’d watched the stable hands rubbing horses down when they came back from exercise with hay but there was none in the small clearing so he pushed his way back through the trees until he came to the roadway where he could pull up handfuls of dried grass. The grass was tough and cut into his hands. He started to worry about leaving the horse alone for so long so he took what he had and returned to the clearing. The horse hadn’t moved and the boy gave a sigh of relief as he rubbed down the parts of the horse he could reach. He knew it was not as good as using hay but the horse seemed to like the attention and rubbed its nose against his shoulder almost knocking him over.

  By the time he’d finished his back ached and his arms burnt with the effort but the bay horse looked contented as it munched at the oats he had spread on the ground for it. Now he had to concentrate on the rest of the camp which was becoming darker as the sun disappeared completely behind the distant hills. He looked up from the pile of belongings and jumped as somewhere nearby a sly hunter howled and a huge black sky flyer cawed raucously as it settled down to roost. With a flash of panic the boy realised he had been foolish and that the clearing would very quickly be in total darkness. He knew he should have made a fire first and then dealt with the horse later but now there was only a little time left and still so much for him to do. In desperation he looked at the man still sitting, unmoving on his horse and a part of him wished that he would wake up and tell him what to do whilst the other part hoped he would stay asleep and not see how foolish he had been.

  He put his tiredness to one aside and began the task of building a fire circle of stones just as he had seen at the last camp. Stones were plentiful by the stream side but he had to prise each one out of its embedded position and then carry them to the clearing. His thin arms ached and his tired legs shook as he put the last stone in place. He knew that the fire circle had to be cleared of grass before he could light the fire but he didn’t have a knife and he was afraid to take the one from the man’s belt in case he woke him. Instead he did the only thing he could and stripped the turf away with his bare hands. By the time he had finished his hands were bleeding and in the distance more than one sly hunter was calling into the fast approaching night.