The Grey Robe

by Clare Smith

  Without any enthusiasm and with his mind on tomorrow's ceremony he swept the workroom floor, moving stools out of the way and sweeping around the many strange objects and containers which cluttered the room but which he dared not disturb. Normally he would leave this room until last, tending to his masters’ sleeping quarters first and then the living area on the floor below but he had wanted to try the broom spell one last time before he admitted failure to himself. He didn’t know why he kept trying, the broom had never moved but he’d hoped that something might have changed at the last moment. It hadn’t.

  Perhaps he could have done better if his masters hadn’t been so old and decrepit but Animus would get half way through explaining a spell and would suddenly remember he’d lost something and the rest of the day would be spent looking for it. Plantagenet was little better, with his mind drifting away almost as soon as lessons began. He supposed he should have been annoyed at them but they were always so sorry and apologetic afterwards that all he could do was smile and put water on to boil for tea. Putting the pan of water on to boil seemed to be his prime responsibility, that and making the huge jugs of herb tea which the three of them consumed each day.

  During the past few weeks, with the test looming closer, he had thought of telling them about his past relationship with Maladran but the memory was still too painful and he’d never found the courage. He’d even thought about running away but he had nowhere to go and in any case his masters would only worry themselves sick about him. His only hope was that King Sarrat would refuse to allow Maladran to preside at an apprentice's presentation, in which case he needn’t even attend.

  He heard the outside door creek open and Animus laugh at one of Plantagenet’s dry witticisms so he placed the broom against the wall and put the water back on the fire to heat. When Animus opened the door fully the little pile of sweepings he had carefully gathered were once again scattered around the room. He scowled at the wasted effort just as Animus turned to talk to him. The rotund magician blushed, stuttered and then launched into a catalogue of profuse apologies. Jonderill poured the boiling water into the prepared pot of herbs and smiled to himself; if he didn’t stop Animus soon the small magician would give himself a sore throat.

  "It's all right, there's no harm done," interrupted Jonderill, "I've nearly finished anyway so I can easily sweep the floor again."

  "No, no, my dear boy, I wouldn't dream of it after you've worked so hard to get the place ready for our exalted visitor. After all, we don't want to tire you out when it's your big day tomorrow."

  Animus took his wand from his belt and with the merest flick sent the broom scurrying around the floor to sweep up every speck of dust and dirt. Jonderill turned away, disheartened by the ease with which even the old, inept magician had controlled the broom. He didn’t have to touch it to feel magic pulsating through every fibre of the brush.

  Plantagenet peered over the rim of his tea bowl and gave the broom a disparaging look. "You really shouldn't do that you know, using your power on such a trivial matter is a waste of effort."

  "It was no effort," replied Animus brightly and then looked guiltily as he caught the look on Jonderill's face. "Don't worry my dear boy, tomorrow will be fine. I am sure Maladran will be very patient and he won’t expect too much from your first apprenticeship presentation so don't be nervous."

  "I remember my first apprenticeship presentation," put in Plantagenet. "I was so nervous I turned my assessor's black hat into a bat instead of a cat and it flew away over the market place never to be seen again. It cost me six months’ allowance to buy him a new one but he passed me all right."

  "I remember mine too," continued Animus but the glazed look in Plantagenet’s eye told him his mind was travelling far from his body again. He turned his attentions back to Jonderill. "I turned the king's favourite slyhound into a goat and then couldn't turn him back again. The king was furious and my master had to rescue me the following day from the public stocks. Fortunately the king became quite proud of his sly hunting goat and forgave me. Still I hope your presentation is going to be less dramatic than either Plantagenet’s or mine were.”

  "You can count on that," assured Jonderill, feeling worse than he did before.

  *

  Jonderill woke suddenly with the sun shining in his eyes and a sick feeling in his stomach as he escaped from his reoccurring dream of the dark magician. He pulled the blanket over his eyes and tried to pretend it was still night but all that happened was that his stomach felt worse and his head began to pound in time with his rapidly beating heart. With a groan he pushed back the blanket and lay shivering in his bed. Even in summer the room was cool but surely not cool enough to make him shake. For a moment he wondered if he was sickening for something, perhaps a chill or a summer fever. He pulled the blanket back around his neck; if he was going to be ill the best place for him was in his bed not sharing his illness with everyone else.

  For a short while he lay still in his bed and then threw the blanket off again. It was no use pretending, he wasn’t sick or at least not physically; he had to get up and face the day however awful it was going to be. He made his bed wondering where he would be sleeping tonight and dressed in his best shirt and leggings. His masters were rather forgetful about clothes, never needing to replace their own, ageless, arcane robes. As a consequence he still only possessed those clothes he had come to them with two summers previously and the spare set the Housecharge had provided. None of the four garments fitted very well since he’d grown rapidly during the winter and spring and all of them were patched at the knees and elbows but at least his best set were clean and free of stains.

  Jonderill washed in the basin of water he had carried to his room the previous night and wondered what the other apprentices would wear. None would be allowed to wear the clothes of their trade until after their presentation had been accepted by their assessor who would then hand them their traditional garments; a leather apron or baker's whites or huntsman's leathers. He wondered if Plantagenet or Animus had thought about a robe for him, he doubted it would have crossed their minds, not that it mattered. Even if he could make the broom work for him Maladran would fail him.

  The thought of facing the magician again after all the time which had passed and having to stand in front of all the other apprentices whilst he hid his feelings made him start shivering all over again. Maladran wouldn’t know it was him until he entered the testing ring but he knew the master magician would not share his emotional difficulty. The man had no feelings and would remain ice cold but he was not sure if he could face Maladran and hide the hurt he still felt.

  Sitting on the rickety chair which wobbled precariously beneath him, he wondered again if he should tell his masters that Maladran had once been like a father to him, that was until he sent him away without a word. He pulled the cloth from the tray of food he had brought to his room the night before and decided against telling them. This was an ordeal he had to face by himself. It was going to be hard enough on the two old magicians when he failed the test without them confronting Maladran beforehand, as he knew they would if they learnt about the way Maladran had treated him.

  He looked at the bread and cheese, both of which had gone hard overnight and the two withered apples, the remainder of last summer's crop. The sight of them reminded him of other breakfasts in the High Lord's stables before Maladran had rescued him and he dropped the cloth back over the tray, pushing back unpleasant memories. He settled on the small jug of watered wine for his breakfast feast and sat miserably waiting for his summons.

  When the door to his room eventually opened his mind was as calm as it was going to be and his hands were steady, which was more than could be said for his masters’. Animus's rosy cheeks were as pale as uncooked bread, whilst Plantagenet’s usually dreamy eyes darted nervously around the room like a condemned man looking for the executioner. Their appearance was not encouraging. He wanted to ask if Maladran had arrived but couldn’t find the courage. Nervously he left
the table and pushed his wand beneath his belt and then, feeling like a prisoner going to meet the hangman, he walked between the two silent magicians as they made their way to the city square.

  It had never occurred to Jonderill that this was a very special day for the apprentices and the citizens of Vinmore so the noise and press of people took him completely by surprise. People had come from all over the kingdom to see sons and cousins and nephews make their presentation and be accepted as junior journeymen into their guilds. All the craftsmen from each guild which had an apprentice making a presentation had come to see their new member whilst those who had no relatives or guild involved in the ceremony came along to offer their encouragement.

  The result was that almost the entire population of Vinmore, in lively spirit, crowded into the city beneath the palace walls. Vinmore's famous wine and cider had already been consumed in large quantities by everyone not taking part in the ceremony and the mouth-watering smell of huge roasts, generously provided by the king, reminded revellers of the feast to come.

  Barrin, Redruth and the other junior guards and trainee knights he practised sword with every week formed a guard of honour through which the apprentices walked as they entered the main square. His friend had been sympathetic with his plight. In all the time they had been friends Jonderill had only managed to produce elemental fire once and that had fizzled out to nothing after a few seconds.

  However sympathy could not help much now it had come to the testing and the best Barrin could do was give him a quick smile for good luck. When it was Barrin's turn to parade before the king and be accepted into the guards Jonderill hoped he could offer more support than a half-hearted, pitying smile. As soon as he had finished with the thought he felt guilty. He was being grossly unfair. Barrin had been a tower of strength and support in the past few weeks and didn't deserve to be so maligned.

  A sudden burst of cheering dragged Jonderill back to the present as the first apprentice moved forward. More applause and shouting then accompanied each apprentice as they entered the city square although most of the young boys were too nervous to acknowledge it and their masters too dignified. Animus and Plantagenet, with Jonderill between them, entered last and made their way to the far end amidst some half hearted-applause, laughter and whispered comments. Jonderill was not perturbed at his quiet reception; the fewer people who supported him, the fewer people he would disappoint when he failed. He took his place at the end of the line of apprentices, wishing he could be anywhere else except where he now stood.

  There were eight apprentices in all, none who had seen their twelfth summer except for himself. Behind each stood their master carrying the object to be judged, most hidden beneath a cloth embroidered with the guild's colours. Jonderill glanced at the boy next to him, dressed as all the others were in new shirt and tunic, hose and shinning boots and then behind to where his master stood. It was Tarris, holding a small gleaming pony with plaited mane and tail and leering back at him. He licked his lips and ran his hand suggestively down his thigh. Jonderill looked rapidly away knowing that very shortly Tarris could be his new master; Tarris seemed to know it too.

  A joyous fanfare brought a hush to the crowd and everyone turned their attention to the balcony which jutted out from the castle wall and overlooked the square. When King Steppen, his wife and daughter came into view the crowd cheered with double the volume they had so far made. Jonderill's eyes settled on the princess, looking golden and more beautiful than anyone he had ever seen in his fifteen summers of life. He could have spent the entire day looking at her and still not have been bored.

  The princess obviously didn’t feel as interested in the crowd as they were in her and quickly turned away to talk to the young man behind her. Jonderill recognised him as the princess's companion at her birthday celebrations and as King Porteous was also there he assumed he must have been Prince Pellum, his youngest son.

  Three other men were with the royal party. One was taller and darker and a little younger than the two kings and seemed to laugh a great deal but take little notice of what was going on. In contrast the one who stood next to him, dressed in a white robe with a deep hood, studied the crowd intently as if he was looking for something or someone. The other man, in bronze and leather armour with two swords crossed over his back, stood behind King Steppen’s two guests, his eyes watching the crowd and his body tense as a spring. A second fanfare sounded and the crowd’s attentions turned away from their beloved king and his guests to the more important and interesting events about to take place in the square where the eight nervous boys waited for the ceremony to begin.

  Through the centre of the crowd Barrin's guard of honour opened a pathway and seven men, all masters of their guild, marched purposely forward to take their position in front of each apprentice. Jonderill recognised the master baker from the king's kitchen, dressed in his white apron and tall white hat and with his sleeves rolled up passed his elbows. All the others were strangers except for the last in line who he recognised as the king's old Stablemaster, now retired in favour of the younger and more energetic Tarris. He turned his eyes towards the empty space where his own assessor should have stood and felt his face flush with shame; Maladran hadn’t bothered to attend, nor even sent word.

  Jonderill tried to look as if he didn't care but all around him he could hear whispered comments and the scornful laughter they invoked. He felt people’s eyes boring into his back and was certain everyone was mocking him, including the princess. When he glanced up to the balcony where the royal party stood, she was still talking to her friend and taking no notice of what was going on below. In fact the only thing which had changed was the man in the white robe and the armed man behind him had disappeared. He turned back to the ceremony and stared straight ahead of him, as one after the other the apprentices presented their work for assessment and were received into their guild as junior journeymen with rapturous applause from the crowd.

  He tried to look unconcerned as Tarris led the small pony forward and gave its halter to the apprentice from his stable but couldn’t help a grimace at Tarris’s scornful laughter when he returned to his place and hissed into Jonderill’s ear, “yer’ll be mine soon, boy.”

  Jonderill wished the stableboy's presentation would last forever so the moment wouldn’t come when he would have to acknowledge that he had been disdainfully rejected as an apprentice. Then he wished it was all over and done with so he could go and hide. Loud applause accompanied the stableboy's acceptance and the young boy returned to stand next to his master, smiling and proud.

  When the applause ceased an expectant silence fell across the crowd and all eyes turned to Jonderill who had no idea what to do next. Tarris started the whispering, leaning towards his apprentice and making a disparaging remark just loud enough for those behind to hear. His apprentice laughed nervously and the laughter was taken up by the tightly packed crowd behind him. Someone at the back of the crowd became bored with waiting and started a slow, funeral pace handclap which was immediately taken up by others until the entire crowd clapped in derision.

  Jonderill felt hot and cold at the same time, his stomach churned and tears pricked behind his eyes. He looked up towards King Steppen whose command could put an end to his shame and saw the Princess Daun point at him and laugh. He stared down at his feet and wished the ground would open up and swallow him. The clapping stopped so abruptly that it took him a moment or two to realise the crowd had become silent and those closest to him had taken a hasty step back. Blinking to hold back the tears of shame which threatened to shame him even more, he looked up into the coldest eyes he had ever seen.

  Dressed all in white and with his head hidden within the deep hood of his robe, only Jonderill could see the cloaked man clearly. His hair, beard and moustache were silver white and plaited into long thin braids and his features were angular and drawn. Beneath a hooked nose, his mouth was stretched into a thin line but most frightening of all were his eyes, sea green, cold and piercing as if he w
ere looking into your soul.

  Strangely Jonderill felt no fear but stared back unflinchingly, his feelings clearly open and readable to the man in white. The stranger nodded slightly as if he was acknowledging something he saw in Jonderill and smiled, softening his features and making Jonderill feel a little better. Then he turned to bow briefly at King Steppen who, with a wave of his hand, indicated his acceptance of the man's position as a suitable person to test an apprentice, giving his permission for the ceremony to continue.

  "Begin, apprentice," the man in white said in a low voice which was barely a whisper and carried no further than Jonderill's ears.

  Animus hurried forward carrying the broom which he placed at Jonderill's feet. He bowed deeply to the white robe and stepped back, giving the boy a smile of encouragement. At that moment Jonderill forgot all the fears of the last weeks and knew only a steely determination to succeed and show his judge that he was worthy of his confidence. He pulled the wand from his belt, whispered the appropriate words and pointed the carved golden weiswald at the broom.

  Nothing happened, nothing stirred and nothing moved. An inkling of doubt crossed his mind as he tried again, concentrating his thoughts to focus power into the wand but still nothing happened. The old fear of failure returned, expelling the determination which for a short time had made him feel he could do anything. A restless murmur stirred in the crowd and Jonderill could feel his desperation growing. He licked his lips nervously and tried again, his whispered words hesitant and unsure.

  Slowly the broom began to move, the bristles first in a gentle waving motion and then the handle, lifting the broom into a vertical position. Awed by the magic, the crowd went silent and leaned forward to see what would happen next. Jonderill concentrated harder whilst the broom began to sweep the cobbled paving at his feet in short deft strokes. He whispered a command and the broom pushed the small pile of dirt it had gathered passed Jonderill to where Tarris stood. With a vigorous forward push it swept the pile of dirt over Tarris's clean and shiny boots and finally came to rest against the Stablemaster’s clenched fist. The crowd roared with laughter and applauded loudly whilst Jonderill stood with wide eyes and the wand still extended in front of him.