The White Robe

by Clare Smith

  “With Maladran’s death the balance has once again been disrupted and I have been commanded by the goddess to restore her order to the six kingdoms. For that reason I must keep the torc safe. It is also the reason why you have been brought here.”

  Jonderill looked confused, “Do you think I am some sort of magician then?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Callabris clearly thought so and the goddess has taken an interest in you.”

  Jonderill gave a cynical bark of laughter and shook his head. “I think you have the wrong person, High Master. I can barely produce elemental fire. Maladran tested me and could find no power within me and in eight summers Plantagenet and Animus failed to teach me one bit of magic. If the goddess has taken an interest in me, it must be for some other reason. Perhaps she wishes me to be a protector or even one of your armsmen; I am quite handy with a sword.”

  “Perhaps, but those of the white do tend to come into their powers late.”

  Jonderill shook his head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you but you’ve got it wrong. There is no way I could be a white magician; they can’t take another’s life but I already have the blood of another on my hands. Now if you wouldn’t mind, High Master Razarin, I would like to have my clothes and weapons back and see to my horse so that I can leave this place in the morning.”

  He stood to leave and the crimson magician followed him to the door with a deep frown on his face. Razarin put a restraining hand on Jonderill’s shoulder. “Jonderill, please wait. I know that this all seems strange to you but Federa is never wrong, although I do sometimes misinterpret her words. If you leave now without even trying to release the power within you, you will never know if the goddess was right or not. Stay in the Enclave with us and even if the goddess is mistaken, we will teach you enough magic to protect yourself and then you can decide if you want to leave or not.”

  Jonderill shook his head but didn’t move to open the door. “Allowyn was sent to find you by the goddess herself and he went to a lot of trouble to bring you here; he would be very disappointed if you left without even trying to touch your power.”

  Jonderill sighed and gave a half smile. “You’re right, it would be ungrateful of me to leave without trying, I owe Allowyn that much. I will stay for one moon cycle and learn what I can.”

  “Good. I will arrange for rooms and fresh clothing to be provided for you and you will train with the Master of Magic himself. When you are rested and more settled we will talk again about your future.”

  He opened the door and beckoned to one of the acolytes giving him instructions for Jonderill’s care and then watched them leave the temple together. Razarin turned back to his room and closed the door before crossing to his desk and taking his seat.

  “You can come in now, Master Tressing.”

  One set of shelves moved silently forward allowing the tall master in his long dark grey robes to enter the room. He pushed the shelves back into position behind him.

  “Well? What of the testing? Is he what the goddess says?”

  Tressing bowed and sat in one of the upright chairs opposite the weiswald desk folding his hands in front of him. “The boy is a fool. He has no idea of the power he has inside him or how to use it. Standing in the shadow of the temple for the best part of a day would have most people on their knees but he was barely shivering. What’s more he used his power to disarm Gellidan without even knowing he did it. And then there’s the robe. He wears it as if it had been given to him by the goddess herself.”

  The High Master sighed in frustration. “If only we could be certain of who his father was we would know what the boy was capable of. I have spoken to Allowyn who reports that the boy didn’t show any signs of recognition when he talked about his brother Jonderill’s death, and when I mentioned Coberin the name seemed unfamiliar to him. It could be just a coincidence that the boy has taken the protector’s name and Callabris’s interest in him could be misplaced.”

  “It would explain why Callabris failed to bring him here when he first found him but it doesn’t explain what happened outside.”

  “Perhaps he has just enough power to be a protector; apparently he’s already taken a life and he says he’s good with a sword.”

  “We don’t need another unpaired protector, High Master. I have acolytes turning on each other because they have no one to pair with. If we announce that we are going to train yet another there will be jealousies and someone will be killed. If that someone should be Gellidan, then Vorgret will want vengeance for his cousin’s death.”

  The High Master sighed in frustration. “You’re right, Tressing, we cannot afford to bring the king’s wrath down on us but neither can we afford to pass up the power or the advantage that a new white robe would give us. With personal tuition from the Master of Magic we will only need one cycle of the moon to discover exactly what he is.”

  “Will he stay that long?”

  “Oh yes, he will stay. I have arranged for him to have the king’s suite of rooms and the finest clothes, food and wine. In fact everything which a peasant such as he could ever dream of having.”

  “Do you want him guarded in case he changes his mind?”

  “No, because he won’t, but tell Gellidan he is to befriend him, and if he turns out to be what we hope, then the king’s cousin will achieve his ambition to become a protector.

  “And if he doesn’t turn out to be what we are hoping for?”

  “Then you will tell Gellidan that the boy is an imposter and that he has made a fool of him, and with a little encouragement, Gellidan will use his tame pack of lordlings to remove our problem so that no blame could ever fall on him or us.”

  Tressing smiled and stood giving a brief bow. “It will be done High Master.”

  “Oh, and Tressing, send word to Vorgret and Borman informing them that we have a new white robe and that I would be pleased to accept their emissaries.”

  “Isn’t that a little premature?”

  The High Master shrugged. “Yes, a little, but it takes time to sell a magician to the highest bidder.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  PART TWO

  Opening Moves

  CHAPTER SIX

  Pretender

  “Stand still, Your Majesty. I cannot make you look like a queen if you squirm around like a girl preparing for her first dancing lesson.”

  Tarraquin glared at the little man with his shears in one hand and pins stuck to a pad on the other like the back of a prickle pig. “Don’t call me that. Until I sit on the throne with the crown of Leersland on my head I’m just Tarraquin, pretender heir to my father’s kingdom and wanted outlaw.”

  “Just so,” muttered the tailor, lifting the breast support slightly and inserting another pin to keep it in place. “But if you don’t want to look like a peasant you need to keep still whilst I raise your breasts enough so that the royal seal nestles in your cleavage just right and proclaims your right to the title of, Your Majesty.” He pushed the right breast upwards, secured the support with another pin and stepped back to admire the effect.

  “Damn, that looks good,” announced Malingar. “Nobody will miss the royal seal displayed on that neck.”

  “Not unless someone severs it,” muttered Jarrul under his breath.

  It was true though: he’d never seen a scion of the royal house look so regal, and if the people of Leersland could be persuaded by looks alone, his Tarraquin would be queen by this time tomorrow. But that wasn’t the way things worked and he knew it, even if she didn’t. Those faithful to the long dead King Malute would support her, but those with the real power, especially those who owed their position to Sarrat, would denounce her as soon as they stepped into the throne room. If there was anything he could do to stop this and save her life he would, but things had gone too far.

  “You look stunning, Your Highness,” commented Malingar giving her a warm smile. Tomorrow, when the people enter the throne room and see you crowned, there won’t be a lord, councillor or guildmaster who won’t ac
claim you as the rightful queen.”

  He pushed himself away from the wall of the tailor shop and offered his hand to Tarraquin as she stepped down from the platform. Sometime in the last seven day he’d changed from his previous dark garb of a mercenary into the rich clothing of a court advisor. The only things that remained were his long sword, his serrated side knife and confident smile. Jarrul hated him.

  “Is everything in place?” Tarraquin looked at each of her two advisors. “If we don’t get this right first time and Sarrat gets back into the fortress, all our heads will be on pikes in front of the city gate by this time tomorrow.”

  Malingar took her hand and smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, my men are in place and as long as Jarrul has done his part there will be no problems.” He looked hard at Jarrul, waiting for a response.

  “Jarrul will do his part; he’s never let me down before.”

  Tarraquin smiled at him and his heart lifted slightly from the black pit in which it had lain since they had agreed on this plan. “We’ve done all we could to turn the people against Sarrat and to declare for Malute’s heir, but the people are afraid.”

  She took Jarrul’s arm and patted his mangled hand fondly. “I have faith in you,” she whispered. “If anyone can move the people it will be you.” She smiled at him and turned to the rest of the room. “That’s enough. Master tailor here needs to disrobe me and provide more support to the bosom which must display the royal seal, and if you don’t mind I would rather disrobe in private than in front of an audience.” There was a general mutter of approval as the courtiers filed out.

  Once outside the tailor’s shop, Malingar’s charming smile, the one he kept just for Tarraquin, disappeared and he reverted to the hard features of the soldier he was. He turned sharp left trapping Jarrul between him and the wall and glared at him.

  “We have just one chance at this and if things go wrong tomorrow it will be because she will have placed her faith in you and you’ll have let her down. I don’t care if the people are afraid, I don’t even care if they want Sarrat to be their king. All I care about is that tomorrow the people who matter put Tarraquin on the throne and the crown on her head.” He stepped closer to Jarrul and pushed him hard against the wall. “You will make sure that happens or I will kill you myself.”

  He gave Jarrul a final shove and stormed off leaving Jarrul shaking and breathing hard. When he’d composed himself he straightened his jacket and turned in the other direction hobbling slowly up the street towards the inn which had been the rebel’s headquarters for the last moon cycle. As he passed the street corner where the city guard had one of their watch stations, he took note of the two men leaning casually against the wall.

  Jarrul knew them to be Malingar’s men by the way they wore their swords and hoped that nobody else would reach the conclusion that they were potential trouble. He looked across the square and noticed two more sitting on a low wall by the cross roads. Malingar had told them that he’d already posted men at all the critical places in the city just in case, which was fine, but he hadn’t said in case of what.

  It occurred to Jarrul that, if Malingar wanted to, he could probably take the city for himself at any time he chose. Getting the people to accept him would be more difficult, but with the map to the fortress’s hidden entrance in his possession and five hundred armed men to support him, there wasn’t much to stop him declaring himself king. Jarrul put the thought to the back of his mind and turned into the inn.

  At this time of the day the inn was usually busy with merchants who had finished their day’s trading and wealthy carters who could afford to employ a foreman to supervise the loading of their wagons whilst they relaxed and had a drink or two. Today was no exception, but instead of the usual noise of people enjoying an end of day drink together, the common room was hushed, and people sat in small huddled groups keeping their conversations between themselves. When he entered, everyone stopped talking and looked at him, before returning to their muted discussions.

  He went to the bar and nodded to the innkeeper who poured him a small goblet of wine. It was unusual for him to drink wine so early in the day but he needed to take stock of who was in the room and with whom they were meeting. Apart from that, Malingar’s threats had unsettled him and he needed a drink to steady his nerves. He looked at the wine and wished it was grain spirit. Across the room one of the counting house masters looked up and gave him a brief nod. Jonderill ignored it but felt slightly more optimistic. The man was influential amongst those who controlled the finances of the kingdom, and the others at his table sharing a flagon of Vinmore’s best red, owned most of the counting houses in the city. It was he who had been charged with ensuring that those who held the purse strings were well represented at tomorrow’s coronation and he seemed to be doing a good job of it.

  Jarrul studied the other groups, but no one else looked up, which wasn’t quite so encouraging. He already knew that the cloth merchants would be there along with representatives from the metal smiths, horse traders and those who imported spirits into the kingdoms, but what he really needed was the carters who employed large groups of men, both inside the city and across Leersland. With their support the message that the rightful heir had taken the throne would spread quicker than even a whole company of mounted couriers could carry it.

  The sound of raised voices stopped the conversation in the room, and everyone turned to look at the group of five men in the far corner. It was clear from their richly embroidered coats and the colourful feathers in their decorative hats that these were not coin lenders, wine merchants or horse traders, but the nobility of Leersland. One of them stood and brandished a small cane at the man who sat opposite, whilst the person next to him held onto his arm and tried to pull him down into his seat.

  It did no good though, the man, a minor lord with an estate just outside of Tarmin, brought his cane down hard on the table, making the goblets rattle, and glared at the person next to him until he released his arm. With a last harsh word he stormed across the room and out of the door. Tordray and another of Malingar’s men, who had been sitting at the table by the door, stood and followed him out. Jarrul looked anxiously at the group of nobles as one of them gave him a small shrug and turned away. It was always going to be a problem getting the nobility on their side; they were the ones with most to lose if it all went horribly wrong.

  There was also the problem of one of them betraying the rebels during the recruitment process. Malingar’s men had been posted at the inn’s doors to manage such an occurrence, and he hoped they would follow their orders and just restrain the young lord instead of killing him, but he didn’t hold out much hope. There was a sudden movement around the table and the other lords stood and shook hands. Three of them left together whilst the young man who had given Jarrul the shrug sauntered across to the other side of the common room and climbed the stairs. Jarrul gave him a few moments and then followed him up.

  When he opened the door of the large room at the end of the upstairs corridor, the young noble was not alone. Jarrul closed the door behind him and crossed the room, holding his hand out in greeting. “Lord Istan, it’s good to see you.” Istan took Jarrul’s hand and shook it carefully.

  Jarrul glanced at the other man in the room and his spirits lifted slightly. He knew the master of the carters’ guild by sight as did most of the city’s inhabitants. He was a very large man and next to him the slight and youthful Istan looked insignificant. Jarrul knew that the lord’s appearance was deceptive; with his curly blond hair, blue eyes and permanent smile, he looked like one of the frivolous minor nobility who filled the better class inns every night, but to the rebellion, he was one of the key players. It was Istan’s role to ensure that enough of the nobility were present at Tarraquin’s coronation to legitimise her ascension to the throne. He wondered if the guildmaster was aware of the influence Istan wielded amongst the sons and daughters of the nobility who, one day, could be his customers.

  “Jarrul, it is good
to see that you are still alive. Let me introduce you to Guildmaster Jobes, master of the carters’ guild.”

  Jarrul gave a brief bow and reluctantly held out his mangled hand desperately hoping that the man’s grip would not be as strong as he looked. Fortunately the big man kept his hands in his pockets and looked Jarrul up and down. “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me, Guildmaster. I assume that Lord Istan has explained the situation to you?”

  “Oh aye, his nibs has told me that a bunch of traitors led by a cripple and some slip of a girl, who claims to be Malute’s heir, is going to take the throne from King Sarrat. I suppose you’re the cripple?”

  “I am Master Jarrul, Princess Tarraquin’s first advisor, and yes, our intention is to put the rightful heir onto the throne of Leersland. Her Highness, who really is the daughter of the murdered King Malute, would like to call on the loyalty of the carters’ guild and their guildmaster both in taking the throne and when that is done, in spreading the good news across the kingdom.”