The Grey Robe

by Clare Smith

  Hurriedly he pulled the man’s possessions closer to the circle of stones and untied the small leather bucket from the saddle so he could fetch water from the stream. He crouched down on the smooth stones by the stream’s edge letting the cold water run over his fingers, sooth his dirty, aching hands and looked around him as the bucket filled. On the far side of the stream he could just make out the grassy knoll where the horse had stopped. The stand of trees in between looked dark and ominous with the last of the daylight reaching only as far as the nearest trunks. Behind him on the other side of the clearing the woods looked even darker. He needed to gather wood for the fire and that meant he needed to go further into the dark woods where there would be fallen branches.

  He shuddered; he was afraid of the dark. In the kingsward compound darkness had been a time of danger and fear when long tailed gnawers would scurry around where he lay, some of them running over his feet if he kept too still. It was in the dark that the warders came into the compound and he would hide in a small crevice between two stone walls whilst the men took the older boys away. Only a few ever returned, bruised and bloody. The darkness of the trees held the same kind of fear but like the terrors of the compound he knew they couldn’t be avoided. With another shudder of apprehension he took the full bucket back to the clearing and then stepped back into the darkness and began the task of collecting fallen branches for the fire.

  The fearful journey into the dark wood was made six times. Each time he returned clutching a small armful of wood until the call of a sly hunter made him stop and look around the darkening camp in alarm. The call came from the right in the direction of the road and was close enough to make the bay gelding move restlessly at its hobble. It whickered nervously as another howl came from the left, answered by one even closer by.

  He knew nothing about the ways of sly hunters although he had once seen the marks of their fangs on two of the High Lord’s dead hounds after a hunting party. He thought they must be something like the scavengers which roamed the alleyways of the poor quarter at night and prowled outside the kingsward compound. Sometimes one would get in and then there would be screams and blood until someone came with a firebrand to chase the creature away. The memory made him whimper in fear; he needed to have a fire desperately but had no idea how to start it.

  His hands shook as he stacked twigs and branches in the fire circle in a close heap. He didn’t want to touch the man’s possessions in case he thought he was a thief but he was so desperate he started to search in the leather pouches for anything which might start a blaze but nothing seemed familiar or suitable. More sly hunters joined the pack and called eagerly at the edge of the camp, close enough for the horse to whinny and stamp in fear. His panic grew as he tried to remember the little he knew about fire but he was sure he had never seen one lit except once when dried grass was ignited by the strike of a stallion’s hoof against stone cobbles.

  Perhaps that’s what he needed, iron and stone. He rummaged frantically through the man’s belongings, his desperate fingers untying the pouches and scattering the contents across the ground until he found a small black object which felt like metal. Desperately he scurried back to the fire circle and pounded the metal against a grey river stone but nothing happened. He tried again with the same result and once again as the shape of a sly hunters became visible, slinking through the trees.

  “Please light,” he cried frantically, tears of frustration and anguish blurring his vision. “Please!” He struck the two objects again, distraught by his failure as the horse screamed and danced away from the grey creatures which closed in around it.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER THREE

  Namesake

  With a loud crash the fireball exploded in a flash of brilliance which sent the pack of sly hunters scuttling away in confusion. The boy cried out in surprise and staggered backwards, tripping on a branch poking out of the circle of stones and sitting down hard on the loamy soil. A glowing ball of flame rose in the air in front of him and slowly descended towards the piled wood. He scuttled back nearly as hastily as the pack had done and watched in awe as the ball of fire nestled in the centre of the fire circle and instantly ignited the wood he had so desperately tried to light.

  Confused by what he had seen the boy wiped away the tears of panic with the back of his grubby hand, trying to understand what had happened. He looked up and his confusion changed to terror as he cringed back with a startled cry. Across the fire, his face tinged red from the dancing, scarlet flames, stood the magician, his eyes deep set and the black pupils alight with the reflection from the flames. His dark cloak mingled with the shadows, making him appear part of them and only the glowing rubies in the gold torc at his throat separated him from the darkness beyond.

  “You should have called me, boy,” Maladran said in a stern, accusing voice.

  “I didn’t want to wake you, master.” The boy paused for a moment gathering his courage, “and I thought I could be of some service to you and then you .......” His voice trailed away to a whisper. He had been foolish; how could he think that a small boy like him could be of use to such a powerful lord?

  Maladran looked around him, impressed by the boy’s determination. After being curtly dismissed and walking all day on bare feet the preparation of the camp must have pressed him to the limits of his endurance. Maladran repressed a smile and felt an unaccountable pride in the boy’s achievements.

  “You have done well enough boy, only next time don’t try and start a fire with a whetstone; they are for sharpening swords and knives and not for making sparks.” He walked around the fire to take the stone from the boy’s hand and then dropped it amongst his scattered belongings. “And never rifle through another man’s possessions in case he thinks you are a thief and runs you through with his newly sharpened sword.”

  “No, master.”

  The man turned on the boy savagely, his annoyance at his use of the hated title spilling over into anger. “And don’t ever call me that again. I am a slave to no man and no man belongs to me and that includes you, boy.”

  The boy’s lip trembled and his shoulders drooped at the clear rejection. The magician felt the emotion as much as he saw it and was torn between ending the disturbing, tenuous link between them or praising the boy for his initiative. He settled on something in between.

  “My name is Maladran.”

  The boy gave a small cry and looked from the unnaturally started fire back to the tall man, his rekindled fear touching the magician like small pointed knives. So, even the lowest dregs of society knew his name and feared his powers. Somehow the confirmation of this fact didn’t please him as he thought it should and he realised he wanted this small grubby boy to like him. He pushed the unwanted and worrisome thought from his mind.

  “See, boy, now you know who I am you will be eager to be free of me. The sooner we can clear up this mess the sooner we can eat and sleep. Tomorrow we will reach my tower and the following day the city of Tarmin, then you will be free of me. Now pack these things away whilst I see to the horse and some food.”

  Maladran turned away from the boy determined not to notice his tears and pulled down every mental shutter he had against the boy’s emotions. The magician threw himself into the task of preparing a meal from the dried meat and vegetables he took from his saddlebag but still the boy’s confused feelings intruded on his thoughts. He put the old battered cooking pot over the burning logs, filled it half way with the water from the leather bucket that the boy had filled and then unsaddled the horse and finished the work that the boy had started.

  It had been a long time since there had been somebody to help him when he travelled on the king’s business or in his tower. He chuckled to himself; volunteers to travel with him from the kingsguard or the people of Tarmin were hard to find. With a final pat on his horse’s neck he returned to the fire and ladled out two dishes of not very appetising stew for the boy and himself.

  By the time the boy’s head nodded forward o
nto his chest and the plate he had been holding slid slowly from his fingers Maladran had made a decision. The boy was so thin and vulnerable and had felt so much pain and fear in his few years of life that he couldn’t help feeling pity for him. He knew what it was like to be alone but he had always had the love of the goddess and his magic to protect him, even as a small child. This one had no one to protect him from the horrors of the kingsward compound where he had planned to return him. If he left him there alone he would more than likely die of starvation or end up the property of some fat merchant which would be even worse. The simple solution would be to arrange for the boy to be passed to another for training, someone who would be too scared of his retribution to carry out their duty with the Stablemaster’s harsh hand.

  Satisfied with his decision he collected the horse blanket from his pile of belongings and placed it at the far side of the fire by the boy and then carefully rolled him over and laid him on the blanket. The boy’s weight was nothing and his exhaustion so deep that he failed to stir, even when Maladran placed the depleted sack of oats under the boy’s head and his own cloak over his thin body. The night was cold but he wouldn’t miss his cloak that much. With the good supply of wood the boy had gathered it would be easy to keep a natural fire burning and later he had work to do which would provide its own heat. He picked up the dishes and cooking pot and rinsed them in the stream. There was no sign of the sly hunters returning so he pulled up some flour roots which always grew near fresh running water and buried them in the ashes at the edge of the fire for tomorrow’s breakfast. Listening to the boy’s gentle breathing he waited for the moon to rise above the trees.

  For most of the day he had been in a deep trance cutting off the world around him and finding the peace which often eluded him in the rare moments he slept. In his tranced state there was no one to make demands of him, his power was quiescent and the dark side of his nature, which became more dominant as his powers grew, was stilled. The escape had refreshed his mind and had let him forget the price that he had paid so he could wear the demon-engraved torc. The trance had renewed his powers but it had robbed him of a day of living. In a trance he could not hear the birds sing, or see the green leaves outlined against the sky or feel the touch of the cool wind on his skin. He could not taste the sweetness of cold spring water or smell the fragrance of the fresh grass, crushed beneath his horse’s hooves. In fact he might as well have been dead.

  However the respite had been necessary even if it was only to clear his mind of the smell of burning flesh that he had left behind in High Lord Coledran’s Grand Hall. It had been an unpleasant way for his son to die but necessary. He had also needed to regain his strength to resist the demands of the powerful artefact he wore which whispered to him to abandon his humanity in exchange for its power. The increased frequency with which he needed to escape into a trance worried him as it became harder to completely quell the torc’s seduction. He touched the metal band and wondered how its previous owner had come to master the demon within and what words of wisdom he would have for his student now. They were likely to be harsh words considering he had murdered the old man.

  The light of the full moon slanting between the trees cut through his sombre thoughts and he looked to see if it was high enough in the sky to start his night’s work. He sighed knowing that tomorrow he would probably need to go into his tranced state again but he put the thought out of his mind as he began to concentrate on the task ahead of him. Scrying had never been one of his better skills, particularly an undetected scrying of a residue image but it had to be done that way or the subject’s interfering and doddering old guardians would detect his presence and might even attempt to block his sight. With his plans for the future that would never do.

  Carefully he removed a small silver globe, no bigger than a breakfast egg from his saddle bag and held it at arm’s length as he concentrated on the fire. He felt its flames burn against the back of his eyes and the light sear the delicate nerves. When his mind was consumed by the burning red light he closed his eyes slowly, dousing the flames in his mind until not even the afterimage of the glowing coals remained. He opened his eyes again to a blackness lit only by the silver light of the moon’s brilliance.

  Slowly he raised his head to study the shining body and felt its touch in his mind. When his mind was full of the white glare he pulled his eyes away from the moon and fixed them on his own metal globe held at an arm’s span away and pushed the light from his mind. The silver ball, a miniature of the one which hung in the sky and his own, floated in the air above his outstretched hands, steady except for the slightest quiver. Maladran adjusted his position as coloured images wrapped around the silver globe before being absorbed into its structure.

  “Daun,” he whispered in a voice cold with malice.

  The silver globe vibrated and grew, its surface stretching to become a swirl of white and greys, splitting into random colours which formed and reformed until the moiling surface stabilised into an image of perfect clarity. It was a room of considerable luxury. Delicate blanchwald furniture, polished to a sheen with intricate carvings filled the sunlit room. Delicately woven drapes of wine and peach were pulled open to reveal a long crystal-paned door with a colourful garden beyond. A deep blue carpet of soft wool covered the entire floor, giving the room an air of comfort and warmth. Bright pictures hung on the walls in guilt frames and a small glass chandelier caught the sunlight sending rainbow colours across the walls. But it was not the room’s contents which interested the magician.

  In the centre of the room, on the deep blue carpet sat a small child in a carefully embroidered robe of white silk and lace frills. The tiny flowers of brilliant sky blue seemed dull compared to the child’s sparkling eyes and the sunlight which slanted through the crystal doors appeared tarnished next to the gold of her curly, shoulder-length hair. Pink cheeks, as delicate as passion fruit, glowed against creamy skin and her parted lips would shame the deepest red berry in the forest. Her features were fine and delicate and although she was only in her fourth summer, there was no mistaking the graceful and beautiful woman she would grow to be.

  “She’s beautiful,” said the boy in awe and wonder.

  For a moment the image wavered as the magician cast a brief glance at the boy who sat up wrapped in his cloak. He turned his attention back to the image, steadying it and studying it intently.

  “Who is she?”

  Maladran struggled to hold the image steady. It was difficult to focus his sight on what had taken place hours previously and converse at the same time in the present. “Her name is Daun but her beauty is deceptive. Watch.”

  A small grey kittling, soft and fluffy and with a plaited red leather collar lay curled asleep in her lap. The little girl looked around to make sure nobody was watching and gave an impish grin before hooking her fingers beneath the red collar and quickly jumping to her feet, allowing the kittling to dangle by its noose only inches from the ground. The unfortunate creature gave a startled yowl, cut short as its tormentor swung it from side to side, laughing with a perverse joy as the yowl turned into a choking splutter.

  As if realising she was strangling the poor creature she let it regain its feet but only long enough for it to gasp a breath before she yanked it into the air again, laughing delightedly at its terrified squeal. After her third repetition of this game the girl became bored and still dangling the choking kitlling by its collar she walked purposely through the open doors and into the sunlit garden beyond. She looked around to see who else was in the confines of the garden and then set off again, her destination obvious.

  “No!” cried the boy, staring at the image in horror. “The kittling will drown.”

  “Wait and watch,” warned Maladran.

  The little girl skipped brightly to the edge of a large decorative pond where water lilies bloomed at the centre and turquoise dragon-flies skimmed its surface and with a mighty swing flung the kittling as far into the centre of the pond as she could manage. The unfortun
ate creature hit a water lily pad with a thwack and stayed afloat long enough to gasp a much needed breath before it disappeared beneath the surface. It bobbed up again showing a small wet head with terrified eyes and a soundlessly gaping mouth. Daun screamed in frustration at the creature’s audacity which immediately brought the attentions of the garden boy who was tending a nearby flower bed. He ran to her side and on seeing the drowning kittling pulled off his sandals to wade in to save the drowning animal.

  Her scream had brought others to the scene as well and she stepped back from the wall around the pond once she had given the garden boy long enough to take a few paces through the water. Picking her moment to perfection she burst into tears just as a burly man in dark breaches and leather jerkin reached her. From her crying and tear stained face he immediately concluded what had taken place.

  Without hesitation or caring for his fine leather boots he waded into the pond and fished the bedraggled kittling out with a large callused hand. When he turned back his face was scarlet with anger and in three strides his other hand had clasped the startled garden boy around his arm and dragged him out of the water. The kittling was dead, his young mistress was crying broken-heartedly and his boots were ruined. In his mind there was no doubt who the culprit was. In cold fury the man withdrew his thick leather belt and lay into the garden boy with a ferocity which was savage.

  “No, that’s not fair, he didn’t do anything,” cried the boy as the image faded from the globe, leaving him with the final glimpse of the beautiful child’s satisfied smile.

  “Beauty is never fair,” said Maladran, “and people are always taken in by it without seeing what is beneath. They prefer it to the ugly truth of life and reality. Remember that as you do your next master’s bidding and you may yet live long enough to reach manhood. Now sleep, we both have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”