The Grey Robe

by Clare Smith

  It had been far too many summers since the rotund King Porteous had the physical appearance to play the part of a dashing prince although once, over thirty summers ago, he’d ridden gallantly into a distant castle and swept his wife-to-be off her feet. If she’d lived to see her child grow into a man she would have been proud of her noble and handsome son. Porteous smiled indulgently at the apple of his eye and waved a small parchment in the air the moment his son entered the council chamber.

  "It’s come, it’s come!" he shouted eagerly, hurrying across the chamber to embrace Pellum. "I knew it would, all our visits and gifts have paid off just as I said they would. Congratulations, my boy, it's wonderful news." He embraced his son again and then pushed him towards the table, laden with pitchers of cider and ale and a dozen different kinds of pastry. "Now we must start making arrangements immediately so we can be there in plenty of time, what say you my boy?"

  "What can I say, father? To be honest I don't know what in the goddess’s name you’re talking about."

  Porteous stopped in mid bite, his teeth still stuck into the venison pasty he held in one hand. He waved the parchment in the air whilst he swallowed the deliciously warm and succulent snack. "This, my boy, this!" Pellum looked at the rolled parchment with a blank expression. "It's from my friend Steppen, he’s agreed to your betrothal to the Princess Daun. Congratulations, my boy, you're to be married."

  For a moment Pellum forgot himself and looked at his father aghast. "You can't mean that, Daun’s only a child!"

  "Of course I mean it. Steppen is my oldest friend; it's a perfect match, my son and his daughter. Besides how else are you going to find yourself a kingdom?"

  "But she's only twelve," snapped Pellum. "I can't marry a twelve year old."

  "She's only twelve now but in four summer’s time she will be sixteen and a woman and what a woman, she’s the most beautiful creature in the six kingdoms and she’s going to be yours."

  "She may be a beautiful woman but she has a tongue like a viper and the temper of a wild cat."

  "High spirits, my boy, just high spirits. What she needs is a man to master her and calm her down."

  "Then she can marry a sly tamer, because she is not going to marry me."

  Pellum threw himself into a chair, his mouth set in a thin line and his arms folded across his chest. He didn’t want a she cat for his wife; in fact he didn’t want any wife, unless of course it was the Lady Tarraquin. Now there was a high-spirited woman he wouldn’t mind taming.

  Porteous waddled across the room and glowered down at his son. "Pellum, I’m adamant in this," announced the king sternly. "You will be promised to the Princess Daun and when she is sixteen you will marry her. It’s my command and you will obey."

  Pellum remained unmoved, staring sulkily at his feet. The king gave a great snort of frustration and anger, raising his voice in an outraged bellow. "You will do this or I’ll have you locked in the dungeons until you agree!" Still Pellum's expression remained the same. Porteous sighed in exasperation and sat down next to his son as if the sigh had let all the hot air out of him. "Look, boy, this is for your own good. Vinmore is a very wealthy kingdom and when you marry you would be its king. Please son, for your father's sake, do as I ask and marry the girl."

  His father was right, of course. Vinmore was a very wealthy kingdom with good grassland for racing horses and coursing hounds and deep forests for hunting in and he would be its king so he could do as he wanted; the idea was almost appealing. He looked at his father and smiled.

  "For your sake, father, I will do as you ask. Daun and I will be betrothed as soon as it can be arranged but no marriage until she is sixteen."

  *

  "Well, Yer Majesty, it's like this. King Steppen's been gettin' gifts from all those who fancy bein' next king of Vinmore an' as yers weren't amongst them 'e must 'ave thought yer weren't interested any more so 'e's just crossed yer off the list like. Then five days gone 'e announced to us all that the princess was goin' to be betrothed to Prince Pellum, the son of 'is old friend, an' there was goin' to be a big feast and celebrations which we ‘ad to get ready for. So when I 'eard you aint been invited I thought I'd better let yer know what's goin' on so I said I 'ad to visit me sick pa an 'ere I am."

  Tarris stood with his felt riding cap in his hands and waited for King Sarrat's reaction. In the six summers he had spied for the king of Northshield he’d made a tidy profit from the gifts he’d intercepted on the way from King Sarrat to the princess. He’d been careful though to ensure that nothing could be traced back to him and had only come to give Sarrat the news of the betrothal himself so that he could head off any enquiries as to where Sarrat’s gifts had disappeared to. This was the first time he’d been to his master's court. It was different than he thought it would be, larger and more forbidding and not in the least like the pleasant and comfortable palace of King Steppen.

  The palace in Alewinder was made up of numerous private towers, connected by decorative courtyards and pretty gardens and each tower was decorated to its inhabitant's individual taste. This castle, on the other hand, was built around a massive central keep, stone cold and adorned with weapons and battle flags. Those who served the monarch of Vinmore did so with pride and affection whilst most of the inhabitants of Leersland's court seemed to be grim-eyed soldiers or cowering courtiers.

  Yet so far he’d found the atmosphere of Sarrat's court much to his liking; it was alive and exciting instead of peaceful and dull. One day, if he served his master well, he’d been promised a place of power and influence amongst Sarrat's closest advisors. Not bad for a kingswards who’d been abused and abandoned by his drunken father and had to fight for his survival.

  "How dare the bleating old fool ignore me!" screamed Sarrat, rising from his throne and advancing on Tarris. "How could the brainless idiot give Vinmore to a half-baked boy with his brains between his legs when a strong man's hand is needed to bring order to that land of indolent farmers and arrogant grape growers?"

  Tarris stepped back from the rapidly advancing king but was too late to prevent Sarrat's strong hand grabbing the front of his jerkin and lifting him almost off his feet. He glared into the Stablemaster’s face. "Does he think I am just going to sit here and let him insult me like that?"

  Tarris would have replied but Sarrat's grip was slowly cutting off his air supply so instead he struggled feebly to give a choking cough. Sarrat glared into his eyes and then threw him full length onto the floor. Tarris scrambled to his knees wringing his crumpled felt hat between his shaking hands.

  "It aint my fault, Yer Majesty, or yours, its 'cause those presents didn't get through to ‘er an’ no one's put your case like they should 'ave. It's 'cause of that you bin made to look a fool." Tarris suddenly stopped, realising what he had said and cringed, waiting for Sarrat's reaction.

  "A fool am I," hissed Sarrat sibilantly. "Is that what people think I am, an old fool who can't court a child, a doddering old man who's lost his wits? Well I'll show them what I am, with sword and flame as I should have done long ago if Maladran hadn't set me on this damn stupid course." He screamed for his guards and pulled his sword as if he was ready at that moment to do battle with the people of Vinmore.

  "It seems ter me, Yer Majesty," said Tarris from his cringing position on the floor, "It's that, there magician whose made a fool of yer, an' perhaps 'e's done that for 'is own ends like. Now 'e's got so powerful an' got rid of the 'igh Lord, perhaps 'e thinks 'e ought to be king 'ere instead of you."

  Sarrat glared down at the Stablemaster but for several moments didn’t speak as he considered his man’s warning. Then he turned to the waiting guard. “Bring Maladran here, now. And if he’s too slow use your sword on him. You, Tarris, wait out of sight and watch what he does. If he’s playing me false I’ll have his damned head.”

  The king retook his throne and waited, pounding his fingers in an impatient tattoo against the throne's ornately carved arm until Maladran entered the throne room from his doorway deep in
the shadows. Only the dark robe and cloak he always wore whispered against the touch of the stone floor to announce his presence. He was unused to being summoned at sword point and went to protest but immediately sensed Sarrat's mood and moved quickly into the light to be recognised, bowing unusually low to his master.

  Sarrat spoke with icy calm in a low voice filled with menace. "It would seem your little plan has failed, Maladran and I’ve been left looking like a fool. I don't like being made a fool of, magician, especially by those who are bound to my service and I don't like it when those who serve me put their own interests before mine. So what have you to say for yourself, conjurer?"

  Maladran looked up into Sarrat's angry face and tried to fathom what had disturbed the volatile king who only yesterday had welcomed him to the castle like a visiting monarch but apart from anger his face was unreadable. "My Lord knows that I serve only him and my goddess."

  "So why do my plans come to nothing? Why am I still sitting here whilst Steppen gives his kingdom away to Essenland and brigands steal the very gifts which you tell me to send?" Sarrat stood and approached the edge of the dais so he could tower over the tall magician. "Is it because the gifts were never actually sent and instead you line your own pockets with my wealth?"

  "I have no need of wealth, My Lord," replied Maladran calmly. “You provide for all my needs as is only right.”

  "Then you consort with these brigands and thieves in order to usurp my power?" accused Sarrat.

  "My Lord misjudges me; the only power I seek is that of my calling so that I may do my lord's bidding. I have always offered you the best counsel I can but I cannot be held responsible for the perverse nature of those beyond my influence, whether they be kings or thieves."

  Sarrat swung around and took his seat back on the throne, drawing his long, fine dagger from its scabbard at his belt. "You are meant to be a magician, Maladran, my chosen, the strongest and most powerful in the six kingdoms and yet you cannot charm a mere slip of a girl into claiming me as her betrothed or prevent the cursed brigands from robbing me blind. What kind of useless magic is that?"

  "It’s the magic of enchantment and spells, My Lord. It is not there to control another's mind. It is precise and powerful and it served you well in the days of your rise to power and since.

  Sarrat leaned forward and savagely drove his dagger into the arm of the throne sending splinters of dark wood tumbling to the floor. "You forget yourself, Maladran. It needs but one word from me to denounce you as my magician and strip you of your powers as you took them from Yarrin. If I think you’ve broken your vow of loyalty to me I will claim a blood debt from you as I would anyone else.

  “Think on that, magician, a slow death at my hands, tortured and broken until you scream for the release of Federa's embrace and all it would take would be one word from me. If you have betrayed me that word will be spoken and none of your powers will be able to prevent your lingering death."

  Maladran took a step up the dais to come level with the seated king, his features pale with anger and his eyes full of pent up hatred but Sarrat wouldn’t be intimidated.

  "Hate me as much as you want, Maladran, but remember you cannot hurt me without destroying yourself. Now you will do as I command. I want Steppen to suffer for what he has done; I want him to know that his actions have condemned his daughter to death. More than that I want the spiteful bitch dead, straight away, before she can taste life or the full flower of youth. I want her dead, crushed and destroyed. Do you understand, Maladran?"

  The magician nodded, too full of anger to reply.

  "When you have done as you are commanded I want that band of brigands who have stolen the gifts I sent swept from the land and annihilated and then you will return to your tower and not leave again unless I summon you. Now go!"

  Maladran nodded curtly and stormed out of the Great Hall using his power to slam the ornate doors behind him. Sarrat pulled the dagger from the arm of the chair and began cleaning the dirt from beneath his nails, ignoring the magician as he left the throne room. When Maladran’s footsteps had faded Tarris stepped out from behind the pillar where he had been hiding, a sly expression on his face.

  "That was well done, Yer Majesty. Everyone got what they deserved, except Maladran of course. 'Suppose you've got to be a bit careful wiv magicians like, just in case they turns around an' does somethin' to yer." Sarrat scowled at his spy. "Well yer gave all the uvers the chop but all the magician got was a slapped 'and an' sent ter bed, not much of a lesson ter keep 'im in line. Once ‘e’s done what ‘e’s been told ‘e will be up to the same old tricks again yer mark me words.”

  "So what would you do, my young advisor?" smiled Sarrat.

  "Well, if it were up to me, I'd take 'is favourite toy an’ smash it an’ then send ‘im the bits. It’ll show ‘im what yer can do, a kind of lesson if yer know what I mean."

  Sarrat scowled and then burst into laughter, "I assume his toy is still where I put him?"

  "Oh yeh, he's still under me eye all right."

  "Then you may kill Jonderill in an appropriate manner but make sure my warning message is clear. Then return his body to Maladran."

  Tarris smiled in satisfaction. "It’ll be a real pleasure, Me Lord."

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Betrothal

  Jonderill eased back behind one of the massive stone pillars where his faded grey robe, which clearly designated him as a magician, albeit an apprentice one, couldn’t be seen. If he hadn’t been feeling so sensitive about the matter he might have laughed at the inappropriate status which the robe gave him, but after three summers of practice, study and more practice, the only magic he could perform was still the intermittent creation of elemental fire. Why Animus and Plantagenet hadn’t given up on him a long time ago and sent him back to the palace kitchens was a mystery to him.

  If the roles had been reversed he would have thrown himself out after the first year. Instead they continued with his daily lessons, always certain that one day he would find what they called 'the pathway to his power'. Despite their persistence and encouraging words, and what the white sorcerer had said to him at his apprentice day test, Jonderill was far less optimistic.

  At the far end of the massive throne room the choir started up, their soprano voices silencing the hum of conversation as every head turned towards the silver-bound doors, waiting with eager anticipation for the royal procession to arrive. Jonderill ran his hand through his damp hair and wished he could have it cut short like the squires or the guards. Unfortunately Plantagenet was still insisting that magicians had to have their hair long to give them dignity. As Animus had nodded his bald head vigorously in agreement, Jonderill didn’t have the heart to argue.

  It had been the cause of some joking and ribald remarks when he first started sword practice with the cadets, but they soon forgot about it under the Cadetmaster’s stern glare. He was grateful that his friends accepted his long hair as easily as they did his foreigner's pale green eyes. His grey robe was a different matter though and after two days of girly jokes he now changed from his robe into shirt and breeches in an alleyway between the magician’s tower and the practice yard before each training session.

  If it hadn’t been for the Cadetmaster making him practice a double-handed guard that morning over and over again after everyone else had gone until sweat ran down his face and his shirt stuck to his body he would have had more time to get ready. Then his hair wouldn’t have been wet and he would have had time to scrape the soft stubble from his chin. As it was he had to douse himself under the fountain in the palace courtyard after such a gruelling session to remove the sweat and dust and ease his aching muscles. That gave him just enough time to get back to the tower, pull on his robe and get into position in the throne room before the first knights of Vinmore took their places of honour along the aisles. He wondered if the Cadetmaster had delayed him on purpose.

  With a sigh of resignation he looked down at his feet and realised wi
th horror that he’d forgotten to change out of his house slippers, a soft velvet of startling red. If his robe had grown to fit him as it was supposed to do, they wouldn’t have shown but at sixteen he’d grown tall whilst the robe had remained just as it was when it was given to him and was now a good hand span too short for him. Fortunately he was not required to move into the open, so with any luck he would be able to escape from the ceremony without anyone noticing his lapse of memory or making embarrassing comments about him being half dressed.

  The sound of the procession drawing level with the pillar he was hiding behind turned his attention away from the length of bare ankle and calf which protruded from beneath his robe. King Steppen, as always on state occasions, led the way but instead of having his two chancellors on either side, Queen Althea held one arm and Princess Daun the other.

  Jonderill forgot about his wet hair or short robe or any other reason he was hiding behind the pillar and eased forward to get a better view of the princess as eagerly as any other man in the vast hall. The Princess Daun was stunning. Her golden hair, studded with diamonds, fell to her waist in silken waves, framing a face of near perfection. Sea blue eyes, offset by long lashes, sparkled alluringly and her lips seemed to invite every man there to fall down before her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered and, at that moment, he could have happily given his life for her.

  Ignoring the rest of the procession which followed the royal family down the long aisle to the dais with its triple thrones he followed her with his eyes and suddenly wished he hadn’t refused his master's offer to stand with them at the foot of the raised platform. Then he hadn’t wanted to be seen, but now, the closer he could be to the woman of his dreams the better. Perhaps if his master had forgotten something he could run and fetch it, and when he returned, he could take up a position next to them.