by Clare Smith
Goodbye my friend.”
They dropped hands and Barrin started up the stairs but stopped half way and looked back over his shoulder. “Oh, and Jonderill, do me a favour. Please learn how to use your magic properly, for everyone’s sake.”
“Here, here,” muttered Dozo under his breath.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Discoveries
Tissian poured the bucket of water over his head and gasped for breath, his injured leg shaking beneath him and every muscle screaming in protest. After a candle length of devotions and two more of battle practice with Allowyn, he realised just how much a bad wound, three days in bed and a night’s binge had weakened him. Of all of them, the hangover from the binge had been the worst and he’d vowed never to touch wine or ale again. Of course that vow would go down the drain the following day, but he had learnt a serious lesson about the lingering effects of too much drink, a lesson which Allowyn had been at pains to ram home.
At least he was able to work, even if it was a slovenly performance, but Jonderill was still suffering the effects of his hangover. He too had learnt a valuable lesson; strong ale and magic don’t mix. Callabris had laughed and said it was a lesson that all their kind learnt very early on once they had come into their powers. He wiped the water from his face and chest with his damp shirt before starting on his stretching exercises. The last thing he needed was to stiffen up if he was to keep pace with Allowyn on their afternoon run.
From the porch outside the cottage, Jonderill felt guilty as he watched his protector go through his exercises. Tissian’s movements were not as smooth and effortless as he had seen them, but at least he was trying, which is more than could be said for himself. He couldn’t remember much of the journey to the cottage from the Soldiers Rest except that he had rolled around in the back of a wagon and had been sick several times.
Callabris had been slightly amused at his escapade and had shook his head and walked away. Allowyn and Dozo, on the other hand, had been furious and had pulled him out of the cart, dumped him by the edge of the stream and left him there. They had left it to Tissian to clean him up and get him to bed, but as Tissian had been feeling equally as fragile, it had been a lengthy and unpleasant experience for them both.
Since then he had mumbled apologies to everyone several times over, and had written to the two old magicians thanking them for their hospitality and apologising for not saying goodbye. He had also written a cryptic note to Barrin thanking him for his help and hoping they would meet again one day when he was more sober. Dozo had promised to deliver it the next time he went to Alewinder for supplies. For now though, Jonderill just sat quietly regretting the whole incident, his head pounding slightly and his stomach out of sorts. He rubbed his arms and adjusted his position trying to get comfortable as the scratchy robe rubbed against his skin. Somehow the robe had become slightly grubby and he was sure it had shrunk.
Callabris came out of the cottage and took the chair next to Jonderill. As usual his robe was pristine white and his long silver hair and beard hung neatly down his back and chest as if they had been freshly washed, combed and trimmed. Jonderill pushed his fingers through his own tangled hair and felt ashamed of himself.
“Guilt is a terrible thing,” said Callabris gently. “It can eat at a man’s soul and consume his very being until he’s full of self loathing and self pity, but fear of failure is even worse. It can smother a man’s will to live the life he was meant to live. By themselves they can paralyse a man into inactivity, but together they have the power to destroy a life. I understand your current feelings of guilt, although they are unfounded. Young men are notoriously susceptible to the allures of strong drink, at least once in their life, and as long as the lesson has been learnt and not repeated, no serious damage has been done. What I don’t understand, Jonderill, is your fear of failure.”
Jonderill looked down at his hands and for a long time said nothing, not knowing how to put his doubts into words. Callabris sat patiently, watching Tissian exercising and Dozo stacking the logs that he had cut the day before.
“How did your magic come to you?” Jonderill asked at last.
Callabris thought for a moment. “Gradually. At first it was producing simple elemental fire and then levitation. The rest I learnt like any student does, through instruction and practice. My brother was different. His power came suddenly one bright summer’s morning as we walked through an orchard. He suddenly stopped, grabbed his head and screamed and every tree in the orchard exploded. It was one of the most frightening things I’ve ever seen. It took him three summers to bring his magic under control. He told me that he lived every day of that time in fear in case he hurt someone without meaning to.”
“Did you know you would be a magician before your power came to you?”
“Yes and no. Our father was a magician although it’s unusual for our kind to marry and have children, and even if they do it’s not certain that the gift of magic will be passed on. There were early signs though. I could produce elemental fire from an early age and there wasn’t a door anywhere that my brother couldn’t open by the time he had seen six summers. He also had the strongest aversion to weapons that has ever been known, he only had to look at a sword and he would pass out.
Jonderill nodded in understanding. “What does your magic feel like?”
Callabris thought about it before answering, “Mine is not so much a feeling as a smell. When I use my magic I smell freshly cut apples, or occasionally herb tea. Again my brother was different; he said his magic was like plunging into an icy stream on a hot day.”
“I don’t think I have any magic,” said Jonderill quietly. “I can make elemental fire most of the time but there’s nothing else there. They tried to teach me at the Enclave but I learnt nothing, not even how to move a wine berry across a table. The goddess knows I tried time and time again to do the simple things they asked of me but I couldn’t, there is no magic inside of me. I feel nothing.”
“I see, and yet you show all the signs of having Federa’s gift; the white robe, the aversion to weapons, your protector’s bonding and others have seen it in you too and have faith in you.”
“I know they do, as you do, but it’s unfounded.”
“Ah, thus the fear of failure, but I expect it is not a fear of not being a magician but a fear of letting others down. Am I right?” Jonderill nodded unhappily. “Well, we will need to do something about that. The first lesson that a magician learns, next to not drinking too much strong ale, is that living up to the expectations of others is hard work. Travelling the six kingdoms and parading in front of kings and queens, not to mention the populace, looking like you own the place and have infinite wisdom requires you to be physically fit and have endless endurance, which you don’t get sitting around moping.”
He waved his hand and beckoned to Allowyn who had joined Tissian in his stretching exercises. They both came and stood before Callabris, bowing deeply. “Allowyn, I believe it’s your plan to take a long run now you’ve finished your devotions and practice for the day?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good. You will take Jonderill with you and Tissian, every time your master shows any sign of giving up you will prod him with your sword.”
“Yes, Lord,” replied Tissian with a broad grin.
“Good. I want this repeated every afternoon until Jonderill no longer needs your encouragement.” Jonderill went to protest but he gave him a stern look.
“Yes, My Lord.” Jonderill reluctantly climbed to his feet and followed the two protectors down the woodland pathway at a slow jog.
The sun was dropping behind the trees and the beginnings of a cool breeze were stirring the top most leaves by the time Allowyn trotted into the clearing in front of the cottage. He was sweating slightly but apart from the dust on his legs he looked little different than when he had set out earlier in full armour. By the time Dozo had helped him remove his armour and had given him a cloth to wipe himself d
own, Tissian limped into the clearing looking pale and breathing hard.
Dozo helped him off with his protective leathers and he joined Allowyn in his stretching exercises. They had both washed and dressed and the sun was almost setting by the time Jonderill staggered into the clearing with his robes hitched up around his knees. He tottered as far as the porch and collapsed into a groaning heap.
Callabris raised a quizzical eyebrow and waved Tissian over from the workbench where he was working on his new armour. “I think your master needs your assistance. The stream might revive him.”
Tissian grinned and pulled Jonderill to his feet ignoring his protests and supported him until they left the clearing in the direction of the stream. When they returned Jonderill was in his small clothes, dripping from head to toe. He ungraciously grabbed the towel that Dozo held out for him and disappeared inside of the cottage and did not reappear again. Tissian shrugged, hung the white robe over the line to dry and took his master’s boots away to clean them.
When Jonderill awoke he was stiff and sore, but his head had cleared and the pain in the hand, which had been stamped on, had subsided to a dull ache. His robe lay neatly folded across his chair and his shining boots stood beneath it. He felt a sudden pang of guilt at the names he had called Tissian every time he had been prodded by his sword and the curses he had given him when his protector had dumped him into the stream.
He pulled his robe over his head and adjusted its fit. It didn’t feel as scratchy as it had the day before and most of the dirt had disappeared, which Jonderill put down to its dip in the stream. He wandered into the kitchen and picked up the small loaf of fresh bread and the cold sausage which had been left out for him. He moved out onto the porch and sat in the chair next to Callabris. To one side of the clearing Dozo was brushing one of the horses and in the distance he could hear the clatter of weapons.
“Good morning Jonderill, are you feeling better this morning?”
“Somewhat.” He ate his sausage and picked at the bread. “Callabris, does a magician have to have long hair and a beard?”
Callabris laughed and shook his head. “Of course not. They don’t have to wear a robe either if that was going to be your next question. However, they are part of what we are, part of our image. Let’s face it, who would know you were a magician if you dressed like a trader or a farmer. It doesn’t really matter what you wear as long as you believe it is right for you, that it feels like it is part of the magic. For example do your boots feel right or would you feel better in sandals or slippers?”
Jonderill shook his head. “No, boots are fine.”
“What about the matted locks and dark stubble? Do you feel like a magician when you look like a herder of woodland grunters?” Jonderill rubbed his chin and felt embarrassed. “And what about the robe, how do you feel about wearing something which looks a bit like a dress?”
“Sometimes it feels perfect, just like a second skin and other times it’s itchy and uncomfortable.”
“When does it feel right?”
Jonderill thought about it. “When things are going right and I am feeling sure of myself. When I am in control of things.”
“And the other times?”
“When things are going wrong and I don’t know who or what I am.”
“Does that tell you something?”
Jonderill nodded. “But it’s cumbersome and gets in the way.”
“It is also warm, waterproof and will protect you from most things outside of a direct thrust or slice of a sword. Like every tool you must learn how to use it and then practice to achieve mastery, but you cannot do that if you are undecided if it is a part of the image you wish to portray or not.”
“That’s more or less what Allowyn told me, only in different words.” Jonderill was silent for a time whilst he thought about the magician’s advice. “What about a wand? The Master of Magic at the Enclave made me use one and I carved one once when Plantagenet told me it would act as a focus for my magic.”
“Did it feel right?” Jonderill shook his head. “When magicians become as old as Plantagenet and Animus they sometimes need a prop for their magic, a bit like a walking stick. Do you need a walking stick, Jonderill?”
“The wand didn’t work when I was with them or when I was at the Enclave, so I suppose not.” They were silent for a long time before Jonderill spoke again. “Aren’t you going to teach me some magic?”
Callabris shook his head. “No, not until you have made some decisions about your image. How will you know what your magic should feel like or smell like if you haven’t made up your mind what you will be like.”
Jonderill nodded and without another word he stood and crossed to where Dozo had just finished grooming his horse. They talked for a short while and then disappeared into the cottage together. When they returned, the dirty bandage around Jonderill’s hand had been changed for a clean one, his hair was trimmed, combed and tied back with a leather thong and the stubble on his chin had disappeared. For a moment he felt good, but then Tissian and Allowyn appeared ready for their run and he failed to repress a groan. Despite his pleading look at Callabris he had no option but to set off after them.
Their return was similar to the previous day except that Jonderill managed to throw himself into the stream without Tissian’s assistance and carried his own boots and robe back to the cottage. On the following day he managed to eat a bowl of stew before collapsing into his bed and the day after that he returned at the same time as Tissian with a grin of satisfaction on his face.
“Will you teach me magic now?” asked Jonderill on the sixth morning of their stay at the woodsman’s cottage. The sky was overcast and a cold wind blew around the cottage throwing up small puffs of dirt and grit across the clearing. Dozo had taken the wagon into Alewinder for more supplies and the distant thump, thump of knives being thrown into wood could just be heard above the whisper of the wind.
Callabris thought about the question for a moment. “Produce elemental fire.”
Jonderill held out his hand, concentrated hard and produced a small flame at the end of his finger tips. The flame wavered, spluttered and went out. He tried again with the same result but on the third attempt nothing came at all. With a sigh he slumped in his chair in disappointment and resignation.
“Why did you produce elemental fire?” asked Callabris.
Jonderill looked at him oddly. “Because you told me to.”
“And why did you put it out?”
“I didn’t put it out; it just went out of its own accord.”
“Why did you produce elemental fire for a second time?”
“Because you were waiting for me to do it,” replied Jonderill with some annoyance.
“So why didn’t you produce it a third time?”
“I tried but it wouldn’t come. I suppose it was because I’d already failed you.”
“No, Jonderill, that is not the reason at all. Think about it and when you have discovered the cause of your failure to produce elemental fire we’ll move on. Until then I have other things to do with my time.”
Callabris stood and returned to the cottage leaving a shocked Jonderill staring after him. After a while he turned his attention back to the clearing and stared out at the steady downpour of rain. He was still there when Allowyn and Tissian came to collect him for their afternoon run. With real reluctance Jonderill followed them down the woodland path in the rain which was miserable and coming down heavier than before, as if in keeping with his mood.
In less than a candle length he returned with water streaming down his hair and face and his boots splattered with mud. He walked up the steps to the sheltered porch, removed his boots and robe which he shook out sending water droplets out into a spray and marched into the kitchen in just his small clothes. Callabris, who was sitting reading a scroll by the cold hearth, looked up in surprise at Jonderill’s early and unexpected return. Jonderill bowed briefly, produced a large ball of elemental fire which he dropped into the hearth, ins
tantly setting the kindling and logs alight. Without speaking he propped his boots up by the fire, draped his damp robe over a nearby chair to dry and retired to his room. Callabris smiled to himself.
A short while later a very anxious Tissian arrived back at the cottage soaked to the skin and with his protective leathers heavy and dark with water. He dropped them onto the porch along with his weapons and hurried into the kitchen. Callabris watched him closely as his look of anxiety changed to relief when the protector saw his master’s robe and boots and then to one of annoyance. He turned and marched towards the door of Jonderill’s room but Callabris called him back.