by Clare Smith
This afternoon, however, was not the usual happy meeting with a mixture of light conversation and an exchange of news and laughter over the latest gossip. Instead it had centred completely around Jonderill and his heated argument with Animus.
“Animus wouldn’t listen to anything I said in fact I’ve never seen him so angry.” Jonderill put the nibbled bread to one side, it felt as dry as sand and stuck in his throat.
“What did he say?”
“He said magicians had better things to do with their time than waving bits of metal around in the air and that if I didn’t have enough to do I could spend extra time each day scribing for him.”
“Didn’t you explain to him that it’s important to learn how to use a sword so you could defend yourself?”
Jonderill nodded. “That’s what finally sent him over the top. He threw the book at me he was studying and told me if I practised magic harder I wouldn’t need to defend myself with a weapon.”
“Animus actually threw a book at you?” Barrin echoed in amusement.
“And then a jug of wine. Then he told me if I wanted to be a soldier I had better leave right away before he wasted any more time on me.”
“I don’t believe this. What happened then?”
“He opened the door and threw me out.”
“Oh Jonderill, I’m really sorry. When I suggested you came to sword practice sometimes I didn’t mean to get you into trouble. What are you going to do now? I mean you have to go back, you’re not like the rest of us who can just pack up and go elsewhere, you sort of belong to them.”
Jonderill looked at his friend with real hurt in his eyes, not because of what the observation implied but because his only friend still thought of him as someone else’s property. However he was right, he had no options, he had to go back.
“What about Plantagenet?” asked Barrin, realising what he had said and trying to move the subject away from Jonderill’s status. “Couldn’t you ask him?”
“Plantagenet’s worse than Animus. He spends all his time buried in ancient books or in a trance. If I ever persuaded him to listen to me long enough to explain to him what I want to do he would have apoplexy at the thought of a magician holding a sword, you know how he reacted when I suggested I cut my hair.
Jonderill ran his fingers through his shoulder length hair to emphasise the point that Plantagenet had refused to allow him to cut it short like other boys did and Barrin nodded in sympathy.
“Poor Jonderill, I wish there was something I could do to help but every time I suggest something it seems to get you into more trouble.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Jonderill with a bitter laugh. “I’m used to trouble but at the moment it’s not me who’s in trouble, it’s you.” Barrin looked at him quizzically. “What time did you say you had to be back with the Cadetmaster?”
“Damn it! It can’t be that late.”
As if to confirm it was that late, the Knight’s bell tolled out the third candle length passed noon. Barrin leapt to his feet and made a grab for his shirt, jerkin and sword belt and was running back to the city gate without bothering to put them on. For three strides he turned and ran nimbly backwards, waving his sword in the air in a gesture of farewell.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night if you can make it, Dad’s got Tavlon the minstrel coming and the place is sure to be full.” He turned around and ran as fast as he could over the rough ground in the direction of the Soldiers Gate.
Jonderill leant back against the city wall enjoying the sun on his face and the peace. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift, filling it with a pale yellow light which felt as natural as breathing. Leaning against the wall he could feel the ancient stone pressing against his back, not as large jagged lumps but as delicate crystals made up of different, multi-coloured elements. The grass beneath his hand tickled his fingers and he could feel the scratch-scratch of a beetle as it made its way down his booted leg.
Above him the skysoarers sang their pairing song with such clarity he could hear every note but more, he could hear the sigh of air beneath their wings and the rustle of feathers as they executed each glide and turn. He knew then that if he reached out the power would be his. Slowly he opened his eyes and moved his hand to where his wand lay and instantly the feeling of being filled with the power was gone, as if somebody had pricked a soapwort bubble and only the memory of its warmth and colour remained.
He sighed in disappointment and picked up the golden weiswald stick which Plantagenet had told him would one day be his wand but which now felt like any other piece of wood. He studied it impatiently. Maladran had told him the focus of a magician’s power was in his mind but Plantagenet had said it was in a magician’s wand. Wherever it was, he didn’t seem to have one. Without thinking further on the subject he pushed the stick into his pack along with the empty wine flask and the half eaten food and started making his way back to the palace and the magician’s tower.
The city streets passed by unnoticed as he thought about his apology to Animus. He wasn’t sure how he was going to apologise for just asking a question but he would have to swallow his pride, remember what he was and do it. He owed that much to the magicians for the new life they had given him, even if it wasn’t quite the same life as other boys had. That he would have to apologise and accept whatever penance Animus set him would mean that a request to visit the Soldier’s Rest the following night would be out of the question. He wouldn’t even dare ask. It was a pity though, he would have liked to have heard some of the witty songs that Tavlon the minstrel sang.
Jonderill was so deep in thought that he failed to hear the commotion around him until he collided with the back of a bulky man in a woollen shirt, wide trousers and a striped apron. The man swung around in obvious annoyance and Jonderill jumped back, muttering an apology and half expecting a sharp reprimand but instead the man just looked distraught. For a moment the two stared at each other, Jonderill recognising him as a fruit vendor who sold his produce to the palace and usually a man of little emotion. The man took longer to recognise Jonderill but when he did his frown disappeared and a look of both hope and relief crossed his face.
“You’re a magician aint yer? Surely you can do somethin’?”
Before Jonderill had chance to say that he was only an apprentice magician and not a very good one at that the man had grabbed him by the arm and had pushed a way through the crowd until he and Jonderill stood on the very edge of the bridge which spanned the moat. Usually the black waters around the moat bridge remained undisturbed except for the swirl of waste emptying from the palace. Occasionally a visiting water bird might land, unaware of the long pike fish which hunted the weed choked depths of the dark water but it rarely stayed long. Now several men swam in the water, occasionally ducking their heads beneath its surface but never completely disappearing.
Where they stood on the bridge was above the deepest part of the moat and legend had it that once an entire invading army had been swallowed into its depths when the moat bridge collapsed under the pounding hooves of so many horses. What had happened here was less dramatic but equally as tragic. A part of the bridge railing had been torn away and fresh gouges across the wooden planking suggested a small wagon or carriage had skidded sideways and toppled over the side of the bridge and into the water below.
“The ‘orse was startled by some ‘ounds an’ bolted an’ then the ‘ole lot went over the side,” said the fruit vendor. “The driver jumped clear an’ swam owt but the coach went under wiv its passenger trapped inside. Can’t yer use yer magic to bring it up?”
Jonderill knew he couldn’t, however much he wanted to but neither could he stand by and let someone drown without trying to save them. Hesitantly he pulled off his jerkin and boots and handed them to the man along with his pack. Others looked on in amazement, not believing that anybody would be brave or daft enough to purposely jump into the black, haunted waters.
Carefully he stepped to the splintered edge of the bridge and star
ed into the cold, weed ridden moat. Garrin had taught him to dive and swim and he was a strong swimmer but that had been in clean, clear water. For a moment he hesitated and then, estimating where the carriage had sunk beneath the surface, he executed a perfect dive which seemed as natural to him as walking or jumping. His arms slid through the weed-green water and an icy cold wrapped around his body as he plummeted downwards.
Before he left the bridge he knew he would have only the one chance to reach the depths where the coach would have settled and so he kept his body spear straight to slide passed the weeds and anything else which might bar his way. The water was freezing cold and so black he could barely see his hands stretched out in front of him. When the momentum of his dive stopped taking him downwards he kicked hard, feeling the weeds tangle around his ankles and clutch at his arms.
He kept going, intent only on reaching the bottom where he knew the coach must be. Something long and sleek darted across his vision and he caught a glimpse of a dead marble eye but in an instant it had gone, hopefully to hunt smaller prey. Jonderill powered down again, almost amazing himself at how natural his strokes felt. If it wasn’t for the aching in his lungs and the pressure against his ears he felt as if he could swim for ever but the discomfort in his chest was starting to bother him as the need to breathe became more urgent.
He kicked down once more and his fingers touched soft slime, burying his hands to his wrists. Quickly he shook his hands free, sending up a dark cloud to further obscure his vision and tried not to think of what the slime might have contained. Now the ache in his chest was starting to become a burning pain as he searched through the murk for some sign of the coach but the water was too dark for him to see far. Using the trailing weeds to pull himself along he moved forward hand over hand, hoping he was going in the right direction, knowing only seconds remained before he would have to surface.
In desperation he closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind but instead of the light he hoped to find there his thoughts were filled with the images of screaming men fighting to be free of heavy armour as black waters closed around them. Their arms flailed wildly and their eyes glazed as bubbles erupted from gaping mouths. He reached out for them but their armour disintegrated beneath his touch, leaving behind white skeletal ribs, obscene against the black mud.
Jonderill touched one of the white ribs and felt splintered wood jag into his hand. It was new wood, firm and unsodden. He pulled himself forward over the spokes of the broken wheel and ran his hand along the smooth lacquered wood which he knew had to be the body of the coach lying on its side. Ignoring the searing ache in his chest and the threatening blackness in his mind, he followed the side of the coach along until he felt an opening which he hoped was the window. He dived through and almost immediately felt a softness which was neither mud nor fabric but cold flesh.
Up until that moment he hadn’t thought about what he would do when he found the trapped passenger, especially if that person was larger and heavier than himself and for a moment he despaired at the impossibility of getting the person back out through the window. Resolutely he pushed the despair out of his mind; he had come too close to success to be defeated now. He wrapped his arm around the limp figure and called on unknown reserves of strength to drag the person through the opening.
Once he stood on the coach’s solid side he thrust upwards with the last of his strength with the limp figure entwined in his arms. He kicked towards the light once and then once more, feeling the pressure on him lessen. Now the burning pain in his chest and the need to breathe was unbearable and before he could break through the surface of the moat his vision darkened and total blackness wrapped itself around him.
*
Jonderill pushed the small rear door of the magician’s tower slowly open, hoping that for once it wouldn’t creak or, if it did, the noise wouldn’t attract the magicians’ attention. He was in enough trouble as it was but if either of his masters saw him looking like this he would have no chance to apologise for the morning’s fracas before they would be berating him again. If he could just wash the slime off and put on his other shirt it would help but luck wasn’t on his side, the door groaned loudly and both magicians looked up from what they were doing.
He had regained consciousness on the grassy bank on the side of the moat with his head buried in wet grass and his shoulders and back bruised and aching where someone had pulled him out and pummelled his back to force the water out of his lungs. By the wetness of the grass beneath his mouth he guessed that he had already coughed up any water he had breathed in, although he couldn’t remember doing so. He had shakily pulled himself onto hands and knees, feeling bruised both inside and out and with pains in his chest like sharp knives. It had taken him some time to stand but when he did the pains shifted and his stomach churned leaving him with a foul taste in his mouth.
Once he was certain he was not going to fall over he looked around for the person he had pulled from the coach at the bottom of the moat, not certain if they had survived or not. A large crowd stood in a quiet circle further down the bank, their heads bowed and barely a whisper amongst them. Jonderill’s heart sank, he had obviously been too late and his rescue attempt had been in vain.
Tears sprang to his eyes and he suddenly felt both foolish and useless. He rubbed the wetness away with the back of his hand and quickly moved away from the crowd, not wanting the ridicule which would surely be aimed at him for his failure. When he reached the end of the bridge his stomach finally revolted at the filth he had swallowed and he retched before he had chance to prepare himself. Brown vomit splattered his wet shirt whilst most of it puddled around his bare feet. He clutched hold of the bridge railing whilst his stomach settled and looked for the fruit vendor who had his pack, jerkin and boots but he was nowhere to be seen.
If he was with the crowd Jonderill couldn’t see him but it was more likely the man had left, taking Jonderill’s belongings with him. He could have gone to where the vendor had his stall but it was a long walk and he didn’t think his legs would get him that far so he despondently set off towards the tower. Explaining to Plantagenet and Animus how he had lost his jerkin and boots would be bad enough but he had lost his wand as well and for that he would not be forgiven for a very long time.
“So you have decided to come back at last have you?” asked Animus in a voice which seemed far too severe to go with the fat magician’s cheery features. “And what have you to say for yourself then?”
Jonderill stopped where he was by the tower door and looked at the floor feeling totally miserable. “I’m sorry about this morning when I spoke out of turn and upset you, I will try to remember my place in future.” Animus gave a loud grunt which clearly indicated that the apology was unacceptable and he wanted more. Jonderill sighed wearily and continued. “I will accept any chastisement you think fit to remind me of what I am.”
Animus made a more satisfied noise whilst Plantagenet looked at them both quizzically. Obviously Animus hadn’t told him of their heated words that morning and for that small reprieve Jonderill was grateful.
“Whilst we are on the subject of apologies and chastisement,” began Plantagenet, looking sternly at Jonderill, “Perhaps you would like to say something about your appearance, you look as if you have drunk too much ale and have been in a tavern brawl.”
“Smells like it too,” interrupted Animus. “It’s that boy Barrin, I’ve said all along he was a bad influence on Jonderill and now just look at the boy, stinking drunk and filthy from rolling in the gutter.”
Jonderill wanted to say something in his defence but his stomach was churning again and he needed all his concentration not to be sick where he stood.
“Where are your boots, boy and your jerkin?”
“I lost them,” mumbled Jonderill from behind his hand.
“No doubt you were gambling or some other such immoral waste of time.” Plantagenet shook his head in dismay, his brows furrowing, hooding his eyes to give him the appearance of a predato
ry flyer. “You are a great disappointment to us, boy. This is not what we expected from you when we took you in as our apprentice. Now go to your room and clean yourself up whilst we decide what is to be done with you.”
Jonderill didn’t say a word or even look up but obeyed instantly, praying that he could make it to the privy before his protesting stomach made matters worse.
*
He’d been sentenced without further trial but at least his punishment hadn’t been as severe as he thought it might. They could have sent him back to the Housecharge or, worse still, to the stables but instead they had decided extra work and a strict regime would deter any further occurrence of drunkenness. Animus imposed two days of starvation and then a week on bread and water, the worst possible punishment he could imagine. Plantagenet had set him the task of copying a treatise on morality in the solitude of his own room each evening until it was complete, a task which would take at least two cycles of the moon.
It wasn’t that bad, he had been cold, hungry and alone before, so neither punishment caused him that much anguish but the magicians’ refusal to replace his boots did. When he’d been a kingsward in the High Lord’s stables he’d gone bare footed as all his kind did, so it hadn’t mattered so much but to go without footwear on the streets of Alewinder like some beggar now he was close to becoming a man would shame him, as he knew it was intended to.
Of course he could have explained the reason for the state of his appearance and the loss of his boots and jerkin but there didn’t seem to be any point. If they’d decided to send him away he might have spoken out in his defence but only if they were sending him to the stables where his life would be of little value. Anyway, he felt that the punishment was justified, he’d failed to find his focus of power, he had failed to create magic when he needed it most and he’d failed to save the passenger’s life. All in all the sanctions were light and he deserved much worse. In fact he had already decided to add his own discipline, although he hadn’t yet decided what that was to be.