The Grey Robe

by Clare Smith

  Maladran laughed bitterly to himself; Sarrat thought that he knew how to control him but he’d been a fool providing him with subjects to torture. Through their agony he’d found an alternative source of power, more powerful than that which had been taken from him. His own pain and depravation had kept this new focus as sharp as a knife but more importantly than that, it had been the prolonged suffering of others which had opened the hidden doorway to the tower's darkest magics. All the time he’d lived in the tower it had been kept a secret from him but now that secret was his and he would bide his time until he could have his revenge against those who had been foolish enough to think they could control him and his magic.

  After nearly four summers of searching and scrying, of calling on dark magic he still hadn’t found the one for whom the golden grains of the year glass ran. Neither had he found the two ancient magicians who had found a way to baulk his spell. His failure hadn’t been through lack of effort though. On the contrary, his long search for just retribution against all those involved had led him along paths of magic so ancient that they hadn’t been travelled for a millennium. What he found there should have given him mastery of any spirit of seeing and yet the grains of time still moved downwards and he still didn’t know the whereabouts of the Princess Daun.

  Without warning Maladran stood and pushed the heavy ebonwood chair away from him, its clawed legs scraping against the stone floor like grating bones. His study of dark magic and the focus of pain had given him power beyond any other but still it wasn’t enough. He wanted more and he knew it was here, hidden beneath the tower, just out of reach. He’d felt it in the pain of others in the moments before they died, a hint of something deeper, more sinister and ultimately forbidden.

  Only once had he had crossed the threshold into forbidden necromancy and had harnessed the terrible power there but beyond that lay demon magic and power beyond imagining. It was a power which would be his if he dared to shed the last vestiges of his humanity. He just needed to take that final irrevocable step but it was proving difficult to do. What he needed was a sign, something to tell him the time was right to take that last step forward.

  He stood slowly, his long index finger tapping against the pale line of his thin lips as he considered the course of action which had just come to him. If he could see into the future then he would know if demon magic was to be his or not. Future scrying was forbidden by the goddess but that didn’t mean that those with the power never practiced it. On the contrary, Callistares, the greatest of all magicians, had constructed a scrying globe to see into the future and that globe lay in the room below. Maladran left his room and hurried down the stairs to the room on the fourth floor where disused items were kept. He hadn’t used the globe for many summers, not wishing to anger the goddess but since he’d now used other forbidden magics that didn’t matter anymore.

  The store room was dusty and full of broken pieces of furniture, discarded pots and pans and old books of little value. A single lamp rested on a stack of wooden boxes and he lit it with a thought before crossing to the scrying globe which stood on a table in the centre of the room. It was similar to his own globe except it was darker and had a metallic gleam to its surface. He put his hands on either side and stared into its depths as the globe pulled him into the future.

  What he saw there wasn’t what he was expecting and the sight of the land passing beneath him at incredible speed made him cry out in alarm and step back from the globe. For a moment he stared at the object in confusion and then a sly smile crossed his face. He knew that Callistares creation was fickle and the images it created were difficult to interpret but he knew for certain what that image meant. If he was going to find the Princess he needed eyes to search for her.

  His descent from the store room to the depths beneath the ancient stone structure was swift and sure, each step well known and well trodden. On the lowest level, carved out of bedrock, the solid, iron-bound door opened in anticipation of his passing and closed noiselessly behind him. The coldness of the unheated tower was insignificant compared to the atmosphere of ice which held the stench of putrefying flesh on living bodies at bay so that the process of suppuration could be tortuously slowed. As Sarrat’s soul searcher he had learnt to extend the pain and suffering of his victims beyond that which most mortals could endure.

  He hurried passed locked doors where inmates moaned and cried out to him for release but he remained deaf to their pleas. His destination was beyond this cavern of suffering, through a rarely used door with no handle and down a deeper flight of stairs. Here, unlike the cavern above, there was a cloying warmth created by the burning torches and the sweat given off by the room's two occupants.

  If the torches hadn’t been impregnated with strong smelling oils even he might have gagged at the stench, instead he noted with satisfaction that his two prisoners were both still alive and conscious, although the woman, spread-eagled and being slowly impaled, was unlikely to live much longer. He pulled on a chain which raised the woman slightly, releasing the pressure of the impaling spike and prolonging her life and her agony.

  He turned to the man who was chained to the wall but otherwise unharmed. "Well, Garrin, my old friend, it looks like the time has come for you to make a decision. Your wife is in agony and I can maintain her suffering for days whilst you watch her slowly die, or you can do your master one final service in exchange for my mercy."

  "Why, master, why us? We’ve always been faithful and caring servants to you and have willingly done your bidding."

  "That’s why it has to be you and your dear wife, the final sacrifice has to be someone I trust and care about."

  Garrin's wife shuddered and groaned in pain, bringing tears of desperation to the elderly servant's eyes. "What is it you want from me?"

  "Just the use of your soul for a short time," smiled Maladran coldly. "That and the use of your eyes. Sarrat has forbidden me to leave this place so I must use another to scour the land for the Princess Daun. When you have found her and returned back to me I will release you both."

  The woman groaned again. “You’re a monster and may you rot in hellden for what you are doing.”

  “I probably shall but that is of no consolation to your wife now.”

  Garrin hung his head and slowly nodded. Maladran made no response but drew a long serrated knife and sliced deeply into Garrin's chest letting his blood run down his hands and drip onto the stone floor.

  *

  "I'm not sure about this idea of yours," said Plantagenet, closing the cottage door behind him. "Just what are we going to do to take Rosera's mind off Jonderill leaving?"

  "Simple. We'll make her a surprise, something she won't expect; after all it is her birthday so she should have presents to open."

  "That sounds reasonable," agreed Plantagenet cautiously. "What sort of presents have you in mind?"

  "Oh I don't know, something special which she will really like and has never had before."

  "You mean like a new book?"

  "Yes, only it must be something new and something she wants."

  The two elderly magicians looked around the warm cosy kitchen searching for inspiration and feeling rather lost in a room which they didn’t know that well. The kitchen and all the things which went on in there had largely been shared between Jonderill and Rosera for the last four summers. Plantagenet wandered into the living room and over to the hearth where he opened the lid of the box-seat by the fire. The heavy smell of cured furs filled his senses and he gave a satisfied smile.

  "I shall make Rosera a cloak in grey fur, trimmed with the white winter pelt of a sly hunter." He began rummaging through the furs in the box, pulling out the ones he liked and laying them flat on the floor.

  "That's a wonderful idea," said Animus enthusiastically. "Er...., have you ever made anything from fur before?"

  "Of course not but I've seen Jonderill do it and it looks quite simple, just a case of cutting the furs to size and sewing them together, a simple task for one
of my intelligence. Now come and lie down whilst I work out the dimensions."

  Animus willingly obliged, placing himself in the centre of the furs and wriggling slightly to make himself comfortable against their softness. Plantagenet took the shears from the shelf by the hearth, knelt beside him and began to cut around his outline. The shears he had seen Jonderill use to trim furs were heavy and cumbersome but worked well enough if he pulled the edges of the fur taut. The only problem was, when he released the edges of each pelt, the fur retracted leaving a smaller piece than he had wanted, with a jagged and uneven finish. Plantagenet ignored it and carried on cutting, leaving the headpiece large enough for a deep hood but having to cut the cloak short at the bottom because he had used too many pelts for the top. When he had finished Animus stood up and looked at the strange shape.

  "I don't look like that," he said, offended.

  "Of course you don't. I made some adjustments so it would fit Rosera. Now all I have to do is sew the pieces together and put the white fur around the hood and it will be the most perfect cloak you have ever seen."

  "Wonderful!" exclaimed Animus, hiding any doubts he might have had. "Now if you have finished with me I will go and make my gift, time's getting on you know."

  "What are you making?"

  "Toffee."

  "Toffee?"

  "Yes, toffee with red berries in it."

  "But you've never made toffee before," protested Plantagenet.

  "Of course I haven't but I have a recipe and that's all one needs when one is cooking."

  Animus moved into the kitchen and opened a large, well worn book, propping it up against a window ledge and studying the appropriate page whilst scowling at the list of contents. The recipe called for hard sugar but all he had was wild honey. He dipped his finger into the jar and tasted the golden liquid; it seemed sweet enough to him so that would have to do.

  Taking the largest fire pot he could find he poured the honey into it, added a handful of red berries and put the pot over the fire. He needed to add water next but when he went to the water bucket he found there was no water drawn so he took the leather pail and hurried outside to collect some from the stream.

  Plantagenet heard him go out of the door but took no notice as he struggled with his own problems. Jonderill had made it look so easy when he pushed the large-eyed needle through the edge of the furs so they joined together perfectly, with the knap of the fur covering the seam. Unfortunately his first effort had resulted in the edges tearing away as he forced the needle through and his second effort, which was only slightly better, ended up with stitches as long as his finger. The next piece was a great improvement as he turned the fur around so the knap would all run in the same direction. Only that meant the fur didn’t fit together quite properly and he had to make extra large stitches to make it lie flat.

  He was on his final piece when the acrid smell of something burning made him look up from his task in distaste. Black smoke billowed out of the kitchen doorway from the pan on the fire and a brown cloud was rapidly filling the room. With a cry of anguish he grabbed the furs and ran to the fire, throwing the cloak over the pan to prevent the escape of any more noxious smoke. Then he gathered it all into a bundle and ran for the door.

  Animus, who had been watering the flower beds with his newly collected pail of water, strolled through the cottage door and saw the smoking fur Plantagenet carried. Instantly and without thinking, he threw the pail of water over the bundle, drenching it and Plantagenet in a sibilant hiss of steam. Plantagenet dropped the bundle in shock and gave an unaccustomed oath as the pot, now partly full of brown water, rolled across the floor trailing a line of sticky, burnt black slime. The two magicians looked at each other in shock, appalled by the mess and the smell which had so quickly turned the cheerful cottage into a battleground. Neither could find the words to say until their silence was broken by the not too distant sound of singing.

  "Rosera!" whispered Plantagenet as if she might hear him.

  "What are we going to do, everything is ruined?"

  "And look at the mess!"

  They looked at each other in despair. "The wands!" they announced simultaneously.

  It was as if the wands had been waiting for their summons and instantly the lid of the wooden chest sprang open and the wands sped from their hiding place straight into the magicians’ hands. Animus beamed in pleasure, after being separated from it for so long it was like being reunited with an old and very dear friend. In his enthusiasm he focused a great surge of power into its ivory wood which flooded outwards, carrying his thoughts on putting everything to right. Scraps of fur flew in every direction, accompanied by pots, pans, bowls and goblets. Black tendrils of smoke rolled themselves into compact balls and popped back into the fire whilst spilt water flowed backwards, filling the pail which now stood in the kitchen.

  Plantagenet added his own magic to produce a beautiful, soft, grey fur cloak, trimmed with a pristine white winter slyhunter pelt. He placed it across the hearth-side chair to accompany the mouth-watering display of sweets, chocolates and fancy cakes which covered the wooden kitchen table. Excess magic spread outwards from the cottage, bringing flowers into bloom before their time and making each leaf on the nearby trees sparkle a silvery green.

  Animus smiled in satisfaction and then jumped in surprise as a second burst of Plantagenet’s magic wrapped him around and once again clothed him in the long comfortable robes of his profession. He smiled happily, noting with pleasure that Plantagenet at last looked his usual imperious self in his regal striped robes. The sound of Rosera's singing and her footfall close to the cottage door brought him from his pleasant reverie.

  "Quick, she's coming!" cried Plantagenet, pushing his wand safely into his belt. "Hide!"

  The two magicians, excited as children, hurried to hide behind the pantry door where they could watch Rosera's every movement and expression. With light feet and her face aglow with excitement, Rosera skipped into the cottage and called out their names and then stopped with sudden surprise at the sight of the beautiful cloak and the table full of delicacies.

  "Surprise! Surprise! Happy Birthday Rosera!" cried Animus and Plantagenet together, leaving their hiding place and hurrying forward to give their ward a hug and a kiss on each cheek.

  "Oh this is wonderful!" Rosera pulled away from her guardians and wrapped the luxurious fur cloak around her shoulders. She twirled around to let the cloak flow about her, laughing excitedly. "Everything is so perfect. I shall wear this tonight when he and I walk together in the moonlight and I will save this feast until then so we can share it with him."

  She twirled around again, giving a deep sigh of happiness. Plantagenet looked at Animus with a sad frown, it was a pity to spoil her joy but she had to know.

  "I'm afraid Jonderill has gone, my dear."

  "Jonderill?" She stopped dancing around the room. "I don't mean Jonderill, it's the man I met in the woods who will be coming here tonight, just wait until you meet him, he's absolutely perfect."

  "You've met some stranger?" asked Animus in alarm.

  "Yes but he won't be a stranger for long, he says he loves me and I am going to marry him."

  "Oh no," said Plantagenet in anguish. "That's terrible."

  "Terrible? Why terrible, I’m sixteen and he isn't poor like us, he’s rich and has fine clothes, and a bejewelled sword and a great silver war-horse."

  "Silver horse!" exclaimed Plantagenet and Animus together.

  "Yes." Rosera looked uncertain, taken aback by their alarmed response. "What's wrong with that?"

  "Rosera, my dear," said Animus, taking her hands. "I know this may sound cruel but you must never see this young man again."

  "And never, ever, go near his silver horse," added Plantagenet urgently.

  "Never see him again. Why?"

  "You are already betrothed to another and have been since you were twelve."

  "No that cannot be, I would have remembered." She pulled away from Animus, tears starting
to fill her eyes.

  "I'm afraid it is, my dear. You haven’t been able to remember anything of your past since you first came here but tonight we’ll take you back to your parents and to the man you will wed. I am sure everything will come back to you then and you will be very happy."

  "But I can't leave. I promised to meet him here, tonight. He's the man I'm going to marry."

  "I'm so sorry, Rosera," said Plantagenet, "but you have your duty and that means you must never see him again."

  "No, No. I can't believe you would do this to me. The first time I meet someone I can love and who loves me and you won't let me see him again!"

  Rosera turned on her heel and ran from the room, tears streaming down her face. Even when she reached her attic bed chamber the two magicians could hear her muffled sobs.

  "And we thought she would be upset at losing Jonderill," said Plantagenet wearily, dropping into the fireside chair.

  "I wish he were here, he would know how to comfort her.”

  Animus sat down equally weary and gave a shudder as a cloud seemed to cover the sun and an unnatural chill crept into the room.

  *

  "It won't be long now," said Steppen, standing on the open balcony and looking across the sweep of green fields which separated the palace and city from the forest beyond. The valley looked serenely beautiful in the late afternoon sunlight, with orchards rising up the gentle sloping hills, softened by shadows, whilst on the eastern side of the valley, steeply terraced vineyards reflected the setting sun. "If only Althea had been here to see this day I would have forgiven her anything." He gave his friend a knowing look.

  Porteous shuffled uncomfortably, not knowing what to say. After the death of Althea he had become even closer to his old friend, visiting him as often as he could. He too had heard the whispered rumours about the doubtful parentage of Steppen's daughter and had told Steppen it was just market place gossip, but that had been little consolation to the king who had lost his daughter and wife within a month of each other. He remembered what it was like when his own wife had died leaving him with two small sons.