The Grey Robe

by Clare Smith

  He turned his mind back to the white stone which had stubbornly remained in its resting position, despite all his efforts. This time, he promised himself, he wouldn’t let his mind wander until the stone had moved at least a hand’s span. He concentrated on the stone and emptied his mind, searching for the blackness which would be the vessel of his power. At least that is what the book he’d found had told him to do. It was an old book with scribbled notes in the margin and rude descriptions of things you could do with local barmaids which had made him blush. It was not as ancient as the books in Maladran’s study which he was forbidden to touch.

  He’d found it one day in a deserted room on the fourth floor whilst Maladran was doing something below the tower with one of the visitors who had arrived that morning with an escort of kingsguards. Garrin had been busy cleaning some fish for dinner so he’d gone exploring. The fourth floor wasn’t actually forbidden to him although Maladran had told him he shouldn’t enter any of the rooms because there were dangerous things inside. He was bored though and thought that just taking a quick look inside without touching anything couldn’t be too dangerous.

  When he stepped inside the room he was disappointed. He thought there would be all sorts of interesting things in there but the room was full of odd bits of furniture, a dozen or so musty looking chests and some old pots and pans which had seen better days. In disappointment he had turned to leave when he spotted Maladran’s scrying stone on a small table. At least it looked like the scrying stone except it was the wrong colour, somehow darker and heavier looking. He walked over to it and stared into its depths and without thinking about the consequences placed his hands on either side of its smooth surface. An image appeared, faint at first and then clearer, pulling him in until he was no longer a small boy in a store room but someone else entirely.

  “No!” he snapped to no one but himself and an empty room. He closed the book in front of him with an irritable snap which disturbed the spider at the edge of the table and the dust on the long unopened bottle of sweet red-root wine.

  “No!” he snapped again, slamming the book down on the pitted wooden table with enough force that would have made any other desk or bench shake but this one was too solid for that. It settled squarely on its six splayed legs, solid weiswald with its perfectly smooth, bleached surface covered in stains. Some were from spilt red wine, some from old blood and more recently shrezbere essence, potent pain-killer, hallucinogen and deadly poison.

  His back cramped and he cursed his dependency on the essence of the delicate red berry and the life he clung to with such tenacity. He knew that when the time came he would no longer be able to resist Federa’s call and he would go to his goddess in the hope she would understand what he had done and why he had become what he had. Perhaps she would forgive him and would let him be her slave, but if not he knew his confinement to the eternal tortures of hellden was no more than he deserved for what he had done and the life he had lived.

  His eyes settled on the volume in front of him, exquisitely bound in burnished red leather with gold lettering and decorated with garish gem stones. On the open market the book would fetch more than most men could earn in a year yet this had cost him nothing, or at least not a drac had changed hands but that was the way of things. He wondered if the giver would have been so generous if he’d known his bribe was wasted on one whose end was so close. Before that day came he had one thing left to do but very little time left in which to do it and after that nothing would matter anyway.

  He turned his attention back to the object in front of him, a history of the six kingdoms, a decade in its writing and a day in its search for truth. In disgust he swept the book from the table as if it were worthless and beneath his attention. Why, he thought, did those who called themselves historians never search for the truth of a matter? Why did they always take things on face value, listening to minstrel’s songs and courier’s tales? Why were the good always so strong and the evil so weak when in reality it was the other way around? Most of all, why were the heroes always noble born? Did coin and privilege and a name given to them at birth give them the right to be glorified for deeds they didn’t commit whilst lowly birth carried no more weight than the honour a man could claim for himself?

  As always his anger burst like a soapwort bubble, disappearing with a sigh of regret. Somehow his guilt always managed to sweep away his feelings of hurt pride. He looked down at the discarded book wishing he’d not been so careless but however much he might wish it, his permanently frozen back and shattered spine would not allow him to pick it up from the polished wooden floor.

  However, his remorse stopped at that point. There was no way he was going to expend his carefully preserved energies on levitating the book back onto the table. It would have to lie where it was on the floor until his man came to move him onto the stone-flagged veranda so he could watch another dawn light the skies over the vine covered hills and green forests beyond. Another day waiting for Federa’s final, irresistible summons.

  He looked at the book and gave a bitter laugh. Perhaps he’d been too hard on Pratalus. After all, the man had taken the trouble to record what had taken place, which was more than could be said for himself, and the man did have a living to make, two villas to keep and six concubines and a fat wife to dress and indulge. He needed to write a bestseller. An account of the truth would hardly have kept him in the luxury he was accustomed to. In fact it was quite likely it would have cost him his head. He could have written the truth of course, not to increase his wealth or fame as Pratalus had done but so that people would know he had tried to do what was right but was as vulnerable as any other to the influence of vengeance and pride.

  Yes, it would be a story worth the writing if he only had the means. He looked down at the two leather pads which covered the stumps where his hands should have been and choked back the bitterness. Of all the things that had been done to his body in Federa’s name, taking his hands had been the worst. He had eventually triumphed over his mutilation, his powers finding a new focus, intensified tenfold by no longer having to be physically manipulated but that didn’t compensate for their loss and having to be fed and dressed and cared for like a helpless child.

  Not that his man treated him like a child. If he asked he would take down his words but he was no great scholar and progress would be uncomfortably slow for both of them. What was more, there wouldn’t be time. Soon he would face the goddess’s justice one last time, and whatever the outcome, he would die.

  The man closed his eyes and as he did so the image slowly faded away releasing the boy from its grip. Jonderill stepped back and blinked as if he had been in a dream. For a moment he wondered who the man was and then he turned away, the memory of what he had seen forgotten as he looked for something else to take his interest. As he looked around his eyes rested on the book. It had been left unopened on a table, covered with dust and obviously forgotten. He knew he was forbidden to touch any of the books of magic but this one had an irresistible lure and apart from that, if it had been there long enough to be layered in dust, it could hardly be important.

  Now he knew his assumption had been correct. Despite reading the boring and stuffy epistle from cover to cover, quite an achievement for someone with only four summers book learning, he still knew nothing about magic. Maladran would help him if he asked, of that he was sure, but after his one and only abortive attempt to try and use the power, Maladran had smiled kindly, ruffled his hair and had never mentioned magic again. Yes, he could have asked his guardian but he wanted it to be a surprise, like a gift to thank the magician for all that he had done for him.

  Still the stone hadn’t moved and Jonderill berated himself for having let his mind wander yet again but it was so difficult to concentrate on blackness and silence when the sun shone from a brilliant blue sky and sky singers sang with piercing clarity. Perhaps the book was right all along, it had warned that levitation was of a second level magic, whatever that was, and unsuitable for apprentices. He m
ight have had some success if he’d started with something easier.

  He thought of the number of times he’d tried to make elemental fire, the simplest of all magic but even that was beyond him. A slight tremor of anxiety passed through him as he thought of Maladran. The magician had never once expressed disappointment with his inability to use even the simplest, basic arcane skills but surely one day he would lose patience with him and what would happen to an unwanted kingsward then?

  With more determination than ever, Jonderill returned to the search for a darkness to contain his power, closing his eyes to block out the sunlight but instead of darkness all he could find was a soft yellow glow which spread from the corners of his mind in gentle peace. It was a wonderful warm feeling, just like drifting into sleep. Only he didn’t want to sleep so he opened his eyes, marvelling at the sudden clarity of everything around him. The panorama seemed to sweep on forever but instead of a blend of subtle colours he could see each field in stark detail right out to the far edge of the desert.

  He could see which crops grew where and how many sheep grazed the hillside and when he breathed deeply he could smell the newly cut hay from the distant fields. Startled by the unusual clarity, he looked to where his hands rested on the ground, each blade of grass like a miniature upturned dagger between his fingers.

  Jonderill lifted his hand towards his eyes as if he had never seen it before. He studied the small silver hairs which shimmered along its surface and the shadow of blue veins just below the skin. For the first time he noticed his fingers were long and thin and remarkably flexible and when he turned his hand palm upwards, each finger could reach below the base of his thumb. The concentrated movement of his fingers made him feel different, almost restless as if he had an itch he couldn’t scratch and as light-headed as the time he had drunk unwatered wine. He flexed his fingers again, stretching the small one to touch his Venus mound and a creamy yellow light flowed from his mind to form a flickering ball of fire a finger’s breadth from his open palm.

  For a moment he stared at the wavering light in shock and then jumped to his feet with a shriek of alarm, shaking his hand as if he were trying to dislodge pinching crabs. The ball of fire shot from his hand and bounced on the grass before disappearing without leaving a trace of its existence behind. Jonderill trembled with the shock of what had happened and stood rooted to the spot, it was what he’d wanted to happen but it had happened all wrong. There had been light inside his mind instead of darkness, movement instead of stillness and all his senses had been dramatically attuned to the life around him. Nervelessly he slumped onto the ground and it was several minutes before he dare bring his hands up level with his eyes again. Nothing had changed; they were still as they were before, brown and a bit wrinkled, grubby from playing six-stones and scraped across two knuckles. How then could such hands produce elemental fire?”

  He held out his hands again and turned them over, palms up, backs up, and then the palms up again but nothing happened. He moved his fingers one by one and then in sequence and then all together and still nothing happened. In frustration he waved them in the air and then clapped them together but all he felt was stupid so he dropped them onto his lap. Perhaps he hadn’t created elemental fire after all; perhaps he had been day-dreaming. In fact he remembered feeling warm and peaceful as if he was drifting off to sleep. He thought of the golden glow which had washed over him and felt a tremor of excitement as the pale light once again filled his mind. Carefully he held out his hands and worked almost in a trance as each long finger moved in turn. When the smallest one came into position a round ball of elemental fire shimmered into existence, coalesced and then was gone as his growing excitement pushed the yellow glow out of his mind.

  His excitement was too much to contain. Now he knew how to call on the power, not like the book said or how Maladran had explained it to him but with light and warmth and peace. Jumping from one foot to another he tried again but the soft glow wouldn’t come into his mind, only a liquid orange light streaked with bright flashes. He stopped jumping around and sat back down quietly on the grass until his heart ceased racing and his hands were still, then he tried again.

  The elemental fire formed instantly, wavered and then steadied. Slowly Jonderill lowered his hand leaving the fire to burn in the air and then with a movement of his fingers he moved the fireball up and down and from side to side. It was his whoop of joy which finally extinguished the fire, that and the wind as he raced towards the tower with his wonderful news.

  Maladran looked up from the chart he had been studying with a look of annoyance and surprise. It was the strictest of rules that when he was working in the upper most room of the tower he was not to be disturbed and none had ever dared to break that rule. Whatever had brought that person to stand in front of the forbidden door and tap with such haste on its warded timbers must have been of the utmost urgency and importance. With no effort he lifted the warding and snapped a command to enter which was unnecessary as Jonderill had already thrown the door open wide and stood on the threshold of Maladran’s private chamber.

  What he expected to see there is difficult to guess but the room was certainly nothing like he thought a magician’s workroom should look like. For a start it was neat and tidy and well ordered with books stacked by size on wooden shelves instead of lying open on desks and tables. Jars of all sizes were carefully labelled and neatly stored and there wasn’t one skeleton in sight. Only the walls were different, being completely circular and decorated with star maps of the constellations as they would appear from the top of the tower. Jonderill glanced upwards as if his eyes were being drawn towards the centre of the conical roof. Complex mechanisms for drawing back the roof, which would allow starlight to flood down onto the obsidian chart table below, were fastened to cross beams and had the appearance of being well used.

  The only other remarkable aspect of the room were the strange creatures with horns and snouts and long tusks which stood along one wall. Each was slightly shorter than a man but massively built with large, powerful arms and muscular legs. They looked to be carved out of pale stone with intricate care and would have normally fascinated Jonderill but today he took no notice of them, he had eyes only for his guardian.

  If it had been any other person, Maladran’s response would have been pure acid followed by curt dismissal from his service but the boy was different, he had changed his life, showing him light and laughter again. He could deny him nothing. With an effort he looked stern, ready to chastise but Jonderill’s obvious excitement and infectious smile disarmed him completely. He sat in his chair happily defeated.

  “This had better be good,” he warned gently, waiting for an explanation.

  “It is,” replied Jonderill excitedly, hopping from foot to foot and then, as if realising where he was, he added in a serious voice, “I’ve something to show you, it’s something I’ve done for you.”

  Maladran gave a nod of acquiescence and sat back waiting for Jonderill to begin. The boy had grown considerably in the four summers since he had become Maladran’s property and if he remembered any of the depravations of his previous existence it didn’t show in his ready smile and sparkling eyes. After the difficult early days when Jonderill had cowered at the slightest sharp word or raised hand, Maladran had been amazed at the quickness of his mind and the speed with which he learnt things other boys of his age already knew. In all truth he was as proud of Jonderill as if he had been his own son, which he would be if he could persuade Sarrat to allow him to legally adopt the bound kingsward.

  “Watch,” said the boy, pulling the magician from his contented thoughts.

  Maladran watched as Jonderill held out his hand and concentrated hard, a slight smile on his lips at the boy’s intensity. He knew the boy practised the power in secret but there was no likelihood of him ever obtaining it, such power was not in his blood and his testing had shown that he had no aptitude for magic. However he let the boy continue. It obviously meant something to him although M
aladran wished he would have chosen a more appropriate time and place for his games. He was working on a problem for Sarrat and he knew the king was impatient for a solution.

  The magician felt the tingle of arcane power a fraction of a second before the boy’s pale green eyes darkened slightly. He shifted in his seat, consumed by a terrible apprehension and watched as the boy moved his fingers. The first ball of elemental fire appeared from the air and hovered above Jonderill’s open palm. Mesmerised by the wavering light, Maladran rose from the chair in parallel with the fireball and stared transfixed as the boy produced another and another. All the strength seemed to drain from his legs and the warmth from his body, leaving behind a fearful cold. Jonderill looked into Maladran’s eyes and saw something there which made him immediately release the elemental fire and the mind glow which produced it. Released from the vision, Maladran collapsed back into his chair, his heart pounding and his mind stunned. For a moment the boy stood in silence, unsure of himself and bewildered by the look in Maladran’s eyes.

  “Aren’t you pleased?” he asked hesitantly. “I only did it for you”.

  “Yes. Yes of course I’m pleased, it’s just come as a surprise, that’s all.” He smiled fondly at the boy. “It’s a different kind of talent to mine and it will need careful nurturing if it’s to blossom into full power. For now only use it sparingly and in private until we have the chance to investigate it properly.”

  Jonderill waited for the magician to say more but the man had closed his eyes and withdrawn into himself. He suddenly became aware that Maladran had his charts spread across the table and open books on his desk. Perhaps he had chosen a bad moment to interrupt the magician. Quietly he turned around and slipped from the room, the warded door closing silently behind him.