by Clare Smith
Feeling foolish he looked down at his feet and wished that he was standing on something warmer than marble. Behind him he could hear the murmur of the crowd and the shuffling of feet as people started to lose interest and move away to return to their own business. Uncomfortably he shifted his weight onto one foot and lifted his other foot off the smooth marble to give it some respite from the cold for a moment and then repeated the process with the other foot.
He wasn’t used to the cold, especially standing in it with no clothes on and he tried to imagine the summer warmth of Vinmore to stop himself from shivering. When that didn’t work he concentrated on the building in front of him, counting the close fitting stone blocks which made up its circular wall. When he’d counted all the blocks he could see from his position in front of the great doors, he turned his attention to the people he could see moving around the building.
At first he thought they were wandering aimlessly along the side of the curved wall, but then he spotted a red brick pathway running around the outside of the building and realised it was the same people who were walking circuits of the building. He watched them as they passed through a tunnel beneath the marble steps and emerged from the other side to continue their circuit. At regular intervals, small alcoves had been excavated into the stone blocks with which the building was constructed. Some of the alcoves had wooden benches built into them, and occasionally someone stopped to sit in one of the alcoves either to read or talk to a grey robe, but none of those appeared to be the ones walking round and round the building.
Jonderill studied their faces as they passed him and decided they all looked as miserable as he felt, the only difference was that they were warm and he was cold. With the thought of being cold he started to shiver again so he concentrated on trying to discover who the walkers were and what they were doing. For a start they were all young men around his age wearing varying shades of grey clothing in roughly three styles.
There were clearly the rich ones in short cloaks and light grey robes decorated with embroidery at the edges who held their heads high and walked with a swagger. He’d met their type at Vinmore’s court; sons of the nobility who looked down on everyone else. There were five who wore short grey tunics and leggings and bowed slightly whenever they passed anyone who wore a robe. They reminded him of clucking yard birds pecking at weeds. The other two wore dark tunics, breaches and long cloaks and were heavily armed. They looked a bit like Allowyn only much younger.
By the time he had sorted the men into groups and had counted how long it took them to walk a circuit of the building, the sun had dipped behind the red metal dome. He was now standing in the shade of the building, and despite concentrating on other things, he was shaking with the cold. Irritably he increased the speed in which he shifted his weight from foot to foot in an effort to keep his feet from freezing until he was almost running on the spot, but it didn’t help much.
He even tried to produce elemental fire in the hope that the flame would warm his hands, but every time he tried, his focus seemed to be sucked away by the looming building. After his third failed attempt, he came to the conclusion that he’d had enough of freezing and being ignored and decided he would go and look for Allowyn or Dozo, even if he did look foolish walking through the streets in just his small clothes. He turned to leave and almost fell over the young man who had walked up behind him.
“My pardon, My Lord,” said the young man stepping smartly back out of Jonderill’s way. “I thought you might like to borrow this.” He held out the long grey cloak that he’d been wearing as he walked round and around the temple building and gave Jonderill a friendly smile. “I have finished my penance for today and will be returning to my rooms. I think your need of a cloak is greater than mine.”
“Thank you,” said Jonderill through chattering teeth. He took the cloak and gratefully wrapped it around his shoulders almost sighing with relief at the instant warmth. “Now I have this I won’t look quite so stupid walking through the city with nothing on but my small clothes.”
“You are leaving?” questioned the young man in alarm.
“Yes, I’ve had enough of standing here freezing my feet off and looking like a fool for no good reason.”
“You can’t do that; they’ll send you away if you do.”
Jonderill looked down into the earnest blue eyes of the young man and couldn’t help smiling. He was younger than Jonderill by at least two summers, slight and wiry, but with strong hands which rested on the two sword hilts at his side. He reminded Jonderill a little of Perguine the Pocket, only more innocent looking.
“Tissian! What in hellden’s name do you think you’re doing?”
Tissian gave an impatient sigh as he turned away from Jonderill and waited for the speaker to come to a stop in front of him. The newcomer was older than Tissian by at least four summers and was a good hand taller and much more muscular. He too wore a long cloak and double swords.
“What does it look like, Gellidan? I’m doing what a protector is meant to do and protecting this man from freezing to death.”
Gellidan gave Jonderill a brief appraisal and then ignored him. “If the masters have left him out here to be cleansed then that is their business and not yours. You’re not a protector yet and if you interfere you will do more penance than just walking the temple for a day. Now get your cloak and return with me to the chapter house and I will say nothing to the masters about your disobedience.”
“No.” said Tissian defiantly.
“That’s an order not a request.”
“No.” repeated Tissian pulling himself up taller and taking a step forward, his hands planted firmly on the hilts of his swords. “This man is under my protection, so if you want to remove the cloak that he wears, you will have to go through me.”
“You’ll not disobey my order; I’m the senior protector here.”
Gellidan pulled his swords threateningly from their scabbards, but before he could go further, Jonderill stepped between the two of them and held up his hands to stop them both. There was a sudden flash of bright light and Jonderill jumped back in shock whilst Gellidan’s swords went spinning from his hands and across the marble floor with a loud clatter.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the taller of the two grey robes who had left Jonderill standing outside the temple earlier. He hurried down the marble steps and immediately both Tissian and Gellidan fell to one knee and bowed their heads.
“You,” he said glaring at Jonderill, “were told to stand there and wait to be summoned by the High Master, not to start fights between two acolytes.” He turned to the two kneeling men. “This is not what is expected from two acolytes who aspire to be protectors. You will both return to the chapter house and you, Tissian, will wait on the pleasure of the Master of Penance. Gellidan, collect your swords and beg the goddess’s forgiveness for defiling them and you, boy, take back your cloak.”
They both stood, but whilst Gellidan went to collect his fallen weapons Tissian stood his ground and looked rebelliously at the grey robe. Before he could protest and make matters worse Jonderill slipped the cloak from his shoulders and handed it back to him.
“Thank you for the loan of your cloak; it’s the only kindness I have been shown since I arrived here and I won’t forget it.”
Tissian took the cloak and gave Jonderill a deep bow and the grey robe a cursory nod before turning and following Gellidan along the pathway away from the temple building. The grey robe went to say something to Jonderill but changed his mind. Instead, he walked back to the temple building and beckoned Jonderill to follow him. Jonderill walked quickly behind him, up the marble steps and through the small door expecting the inside of the temple building to be dark and gloomy.
Instead, hundreds of oil lamps lit up a large hallway with passageways leading off it. In between the entrances to the passageways were a number of doors and men in grey robes or grey tunics were busy going in and out with rolls of parchment or leather bound books. The walls w
ere the same grey stone as the outside of the temple, but instead of marble, the floor was made of polished wood which shone a deep red from the light which filtered in from the dome above.
Jonderill stopped to look around him for a moment, staring at the huge dome which curved overhead without any visible sign of support. The grey robe ignored him and hurried towards the largest set of doors which were firmly closed at the other side of the hallway. When he reached them he turned back and impatiently beckoned Jonderill over to where he stood. Jonderill reluctantly obeyed feeling even more out of place inside the building than he had outside.
Two guards in blue and gold uniforms stood to attention beside the door, armed with sheathed swords and halberds. One of them eyed Jonderill suspiciously and the other hid a smirk making him wish he still had Tissian’s cloak to cover him instead of standing there in his small clothes. The grey robe spoke to one of the guards, knocked on the door and opened it indicating that Jonderill should enter. As he walked forward into the room he had to hold back a sigh of relief as its warmth enveloped him and his feet sank into a deep piled carpet. The door closed behind him leaving him alone with the crimson robed man who sat behind a large weiswald desk. In the centre of the desk lay Jonderill’s old grey robe and Maladran’s golden torc.
“Welcome to Federa’s Enclave, Jonderill. Allowyn tells me that you’ve had a difficult journey and that the goddess’s protector only just arrived in time to save you from further harm.”
The man stood and walked from behind his desk appraising Jonderill as he circled him, stopping for a moment to inspect the welts on his back and the other abrasions he’d gathered on his travels. Jonderill remained silent, uncomfortable with being inspected like a prized horse and unsure of what he was supposed to do. The old man returned to his desk and fingered the grey robe before turning back to Jonderill and giving him a brief but insincere smile.
“You must forgive us for our less than warm welcome; I was busy and the masters can sometimes be over zealous in their work.” He picked up the grey robe and held it out to Jonderill. “I’m sure you will feel more comfortable with some clothes on and something warm inside of you, and then we can talk about your future here and how we, who serve the goddess, can help you.”
Jonderill made no move to take the robe but just looked at the man in front of him. He was as tall as Jonderill but with a heavier build and had the look of someone who used to be fit and active but had gone to seed. The man’s face, framed by medium length hair the colour of squeaker fur, had deep frown lines across his forehead and downturned creases around his eyes and mouth as if he was very dissatisfied with his life.
“Where are my other clothes and my swords?”
“Tch! Such rudeness! Still standing in the cold half naked for most of the day would make one a little tetchy. However, rudeness or disobedience are not tolerated from the acolytes so I will give you one warning; if you wish to remain here you will address me as High Master Razarin and you will do as I or any other master tells you. Now take the robe and put it on and then I will answer your questions.”
Jonderill thought about refusing but there seemed to be little point so he took the robe and pulled it over his head. The cloth felt soft and warm against his cold skin as it slipped easily over his shoulders and back and hung in gentle folds to mid calf. He flexed his shoulders slightly and the robe adjusted the way it hung until it felt comfortable and more natural to wear than it had ever done before.
“There, that’s better isn’t it? You will find some slippers beside that chair that will fit you and when we have finished our little talk and you have settled into your rooms, your clothes, boots and weapons will be returned to you. Now please sit.
“And what if I don’t want to stay?”
The High Master ignored his question and indicated a padded chair to one side of his desk. Jonderill hesitated, waiting for an answer, but when it didn’t come he reluctantly sat and pulled on the soft slippers that were on the far side of the chair. They were warm and comfortable and reminded him of the slippers Plantagenet and Animus had given him to wear when he had lived in their tower. He had a sudden desire to be back in the safety of their rooms and looked around Razarin’s room searching for something familiar.
The room was large and well lit by oil lamps which hung on chains from the ceiling. A number of chairs were placed around the weiswald desk as if the High Master had numerous visitors all at once. Some of the chairs, like the one he sat in, were soft and padded and had a side table beside them whilst others, mostly the ones directly in front of the desk, were hard and upright. Shelves lined all the walls except the one where the door stood. They were laden with books neatly placed in straight lines and scrolls stacked in pyramids three high.
Next to the door was a long dresser with an assortment of mugs and plates. There was also a small silver kettle which the High Master was using to make tea. Jonderill could smell the herbs releasing their scent as he poured the hot water over them. The room felt very familiar but it lacked Plantagenet’s untidy heaps of books open on every available surface and Animus’s half forgotten experiments cluttering the floor.
The High Master handed Jonderill a mug of herb tea and placed a plate of small pastries on his side table before taking his place back behind his weiswald desk. Jonderill sipped his tea gratefully feeling its warmth flow through his body. “Now, young man, I have some questions for you and then, perhaps, some explanations. Firstly, where did you come by that robe?”
Jonderill fingered the soft fabric and wondered what Dozo had done to it. It felt so different from the rough grey cloth he was used to. “Callabris gave it to me on my apprentice day six summers ago.”
“Did he now? Callabris had no right to do that without you being tested to see what form your gift would take. Only I, as the goddess’s voice, can confer such an honour. It would seem that I will have to have serious words with Callabris should he return to the Enclave. And what about this?” He picked up the torc and held it gingerly with his fingertips as if the thing would burn him.
“That belonged to Maladran. It came to me when Maladran died.”
“When Maladran died?” The High Master asked in astonishment.
Jonderill nodded and the High Master stared at him in disbelief and waited for him to say more. When Jonderill remained silent, Razarin replaced the torc carefully on his desk and pulled a piece of black cloth from a draw to cover it, blocking out the glow from the engraved dragon’s two ruby eyes. “Do you know what this is or what it does?” He pointed at the covered torc.
Jonderill shook his head. “No, High Master.”
“Do you know what you may have unleashed by taking this from Maladran?”
“No, High Master.”
“Do you know anything about magic?” he asked in exasperation.
Jonderill didn’t bother answering but just shook his head again. The High Master slipped the torc and its black covering into a drawer in his desk and locked it with a key which hung on a long chain around his neck. He stood and walked to where Jonderill sat and took a seat nearby, leaning forward until he was almost touching him.
“I blame Callabris for your ignorance; he should have never left you with those two doddering old fools to find your own way. If he thought you had magic, which he must have done to give you that robe, he should have brought you here; it was his duty. Still, what is done cannot be undone.” He paused for a moment and sat back in the chair tucking his hands into his long sleeves. “If you are to stay here you must understand about the balance and how what we do with Federa’s precious gifts affects all those who wield the power she has given them.
“You see the six kingdoms are very special; they are the only lands that exist which have been blessed by Federa’s gift. Fear of magic keeps other nations from invading and attempting to conquer our small kingdoms one by one although the barbarians from across the Northern Sea seem to lack the imagination to fear even that. However, to prevent any one of the six kin
gdoms becoming too powerful and overthrowing the others, magic has to be balanced so that each kingdom controls an equal amount of magic.
There also has to be the right mix of magic so that there is both passive magic for peace and prosperity and aggressive magic for battle and defense. Federa in her wisdom gave her gift to four of the white to care for her lands and to bring justice to her people. Her gift was given to one of the black so they could use their powers against an aggressor and her final gift was given to the crimson so that he could hear her words and maintain the balance.”
Jonderill looked up from his herb tea and frowned. “But I thought Callabris was the only white magician?”
“Just so,” Razarin answered irritably. “It’s unfortunate that one of the kingdoms became deaf to the wisdom of Federa and turned their hearts towards Talis, an evil and vengeful god. When Coberin was slain the balance was disrupted and the black grew in power. It became necessary to control those of the black to prevent the power turning them to madness and that was why the torc you have brought here was created by the goddess.
“I was as concerned for Maladran’s sanity as I was for Yarrin’s before him so I told Sarrat what must be done and when Sarrat became king he placed the torc around Maladran’s throat and the power of his black magician was contained. Or at least it was until Sarrat foolishly thought he could use madness to punish Maladran and removed the torc. It appears that Maladran found a way to thwart his king even though it cost him his life.