The White Robe (The Sword and the Spell)

by Clare Smith

  When he woke again it was completely dark and he stank of blood and piss, sweat and fear. His back was a raging fire, his mouth was torn and blooded and his wrists were cut and bruised from the iron manacles. He shivered in the cold and longed for the water he could vaguely remember someone leaving in his cell.

  Slowly he locked the pain away in a corner of his mind and focused his thoughts until a small ball of light flickered to life at the ends of his fingers. In its dim light he could see the bowl of water that had been left for him by the door. He eased himself to his hands and knees and slowly crawled over to it leaving a trail of blood behind him. The bowl of water was small, not enough to drink and clean his wounds, so he propped himself up as best he could and sipped the water, washing the taste of blood from his mouth.

  “Damn fool. What would Allowyn say if he could see me in this mess?” he whispered to himself when he’d finished the last of the water. “Why couldn’t I do as I was told and just kidnap the Prince instead of going through all of this so he would have a chance to prove that there was some goodness within him?” He knew why of course; he owed it to the boy’s father who he’d served loyally for a dozen years or more.

  He pulled the rest of his torn shirt from his arms and tore it into three ragged strips, wrapping two of them around his wrists to soak up the blood. The other one he used to wipe out the last of the dampness from the water bowl and dabbed the bloody cut on his cheek with it. “One last chance,” he muttered to himself as he lay down on the dirt floor, rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.

  It was the small square of light shining in his eyes from the grill high up in the wall that woke him up; that and the sound of activity outside his cell door. He sat up and groaned at the pain in his back and the stiffness in his shoulders. In his sleep he’d accepted the goddess’s healing but not too much; it wouldn’t do to be completely healed when he was taken before the Prince again. Should Newn recognize him before he was ready to reveal himself then he could be in real difficulty. He checked his disguise in the square of light and chuckled to himself; ragged, bloody and dirty with three day’s growth of beard, made any other disguise unnecessary.

  When his prison door opened he was still chuckling to himself but neither of the burly guards seemed to be amused by him or his stink as they pulled him to his feet and dragged him out of his cell. He stumbled in the bright sunlight and would have fallen if the two guards hadn’t had such a bruising grip on his arms. They marched him across the courtyard to where Prince Newn stood by a brazier warming his hands. When he and his escort came to a halt the Prince looked up and stared him in the eye. He shuddered, not just at the chill of the cold morning air on his bare chest, but the vicious glint in the Prince’s eyes. It reminded him of a beast just about to rip apart its defenseless prey.

  “Well, old man, has a night spent in your own blood and filth jogged your memory of where you have hidden the rest of the gold and jewels you brought with you from Sandstrone?”

  “Your Highness, please believe me I have no more gold and jewels, just the gift I have offered you. Please accept the bronze and silver tree and let me return to my home and family.”

  “You lie. The Rale wouldn’t send me such a paltry gift as that.” The prince nodded to the guard next to him who handed him a thick gauntlet like the ones used by nobles to protect their hands from the talon’s of sky hunters. He pulled it on and flexed his fingers. “Hold him.” The Prince took hold of an iron rod which had been heating in the coals of the brazier and pulled it out of the fire. The tip glowed a menacing red. “Let’s see if this helps you to remember.”

  “Enough!”

  The prisoner clenched his fists at his sides and the two guards staggered back as if they had been hit in the jaw. He raised his hands and took a step forward focusing his power into the iron rod in the Prince’s hand. Instantly the red from the tip glowed brighter and spread along the rod and into the Prince’s gauntleted hand. The Prince screamed and dropped the burning metal, clutching the smoldering glove to his chest. He stared in disbelief as the figure before him shimmered and changed from the ragged, tortured merchant to the magician in his pristine white robes who he remembered from his childhood. “You!” screamed the Prince in anger. “Guards, take him! Kill him!”

  Callabris took another step forward and the Prince retreated whilst around him his guards blinked in confusion and started to wander aimlessly towards their barracks. Callabris waited for them to leave until there was only him and the Prince in the courtyard. The sound of breakfast being prepared in the kitchen became muffled and then ceased and the fire in the brazier flickered out, the glowing coals turning to ashes. Even the early morning sky singers above them ceased to call as the sky dimmed.

  Prince Newn, visibly shaken and still clutching his singed hand gave a small whimper of fear. “Callabris, my old friend and mentor, I didn’t know it was you. If I’d known it was you I would have gladly accepted your gift and would have made you welcome here. You remember this place don’t you? You and I used to stay here in the summer and go hunting with my father. They were good times weren’t they? We could do the same again, just you and me.”

  Callabris said nothing but watched as the young man fell to his knees and began to grovel. “I am sorry, Callabris, I really am. I didn’t mean to hurt you; you must know that I would never hurt you, you’ve always been my friend.”

  “Don’t lie to me, boy. You sent men to kill Allowyn and me, a foolish and stupid thing to do and if you had known I was not the merchant I pretended to be you would have done the same thing you tried last time.” He sighed again and took another step forward to stand over the Prince. “Ah, boy, what have you become? You are vicious, spiteful, callous and little better than a beast. Your land and the rest of the six kingdoms need to be protected from you.”

  “Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me!”

  “I’m not going to kill you, boy. I honour your father too much to kill his only child, even if you do deserve it.”

  The Prince looked up and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. “What are you going to do to me then?”

  “I’m going to turn you into the beast that you’ve become. You will stay here with your guards to protect you and your servants to wait on you until the day you can demonstrate that you’ve learnt about compassion, mercy and justice. But don’t take too long, boy. If you haven’t changed your nature by the time the last silver leaf falls from the bronze tree I have gifted to you then you will stay a beast until the day someone stumbles upon this place and slays you.”

  “No!” screamed the Prince. “You can’t do this to me, you bastard, I’m a prince and I’ll kill you for this!”

  Newn stood and grabbed for the sword at his side but his fingers twisted and changed into bent claws in front of his eyes. He screamed again but his words turned into a throaty growl issued from a gaping maw lined with jagged teeth. The beast howled as its back bent and its arms stretched to match the length of its clawed hind legs. Thick fur sprouted across the muscular body, pushing off the remnants of torn clothing, sharp ears flicked forward and tusks protruded from the creature’s lower jaw. The only thing that remained of Prince Newn was his deep, dark brown eyes. The beast howled in anguish and tore at the ground with its claws.

  Callabris shook his head sadly and walked away and as he did so a high wall burst from the ground taking the place of the pole trees and ornamental hedges which had surrounded the hunting lodge and its buildings. Stone monsters with claws and fangs settled on the top of the wall and the two sky hunters which rested on their perches transformed into two giant raptors with metal wings and razor talons. They rose from their places to settle onto the stone pillars guarding a high gate, which clanged shut behind him.

  *

  Callabris emptied his pot of ale, put the pot back on the table with a quiet click and leaned gingerly back against the wall in the corner he had chosen for his meeting. With satisfaction he licked his lips noting that everything pe
ople said about the ale in Vinmore was true. It was rich brown, smooth and clear with a distinctive nutty taste and perfectly complemented the meat pie he’d just eaten. He’d travelled the length and breadth of the six kingdoms, with the exception of Sandstrone where his kind were definitely not welcomed, and Vinmore’s inns were by far the best. It was a pity that Vinmore already had two magicians otherwise he would have settled there instead of in the cold of Northshield.

  Even on Vinmore’s southern border with Tarbis, where traders and mercenaries passed to and fro, the inn was clean and orderly and busy too. He chuckled to himself; at least it was busy everywhere else except for a large semi-circle around where he sat. Despite magic being accepted as a part of everyday life in Vinmore, people were still careful to give a magician a wide berth, which was probably a good thing, as his guest, when he arrived, would not want their conversation to be overheard.

  The downside of course was that he had been sitting in this inn for two days and had spoken barely a word to anyone except to ask the innkeeper for food and drink and a room for as long as he needed it. If Allowyn had been with him it would have been different. Allowyn would have been out and about in the border town finding out the latest news and listening to the gossip. Afterwards he would have returned to the inn and recounted what he had found, either seriously if the news had warranted it, or with cynical humour if it were the usual mundane gossip. If there was nothing to report, he could always be relied upon to initiate a discussion on the latest political maneuverings of the monarchs of the six kingdoms, or failing that, a debate on some obscure aspect of their calling.

  However, Allowyn wasn’t here and he missed his protector more each day. Since their pairing they had been apart only the once when they had both searched for their brothers who had been slain but that had been many years ago. He had forgotten how alone he could feel without his constant shadow. Allowyn had taken the opportunity of his absence to visit the Enclave to renew his vows and he wondered if he’d managed to go there yet or if King Borman had him running errands.

  Callabris sighed and contemplated leaving his isolated corner to go and talk to the local people who had crowded into the inn to have a pot of ale or a goblet of Vinmore’s famous wine before returning to their homes or wherever else they were going to sleep that night. Most wore the short tunics and long red breaches of vine workers, including three or four of the women. They gathered in a loose group by the door talking quietly amongst themselves. Next to them, closer to the bar, stood a group of mercenaries clutching pots of ale and laughing loud enough to cause annoyance to the vine workers; not that they would do anything about it with so many swords resting on hips ready to be drawn.

  Apart from the four men who sat around a table with half a dozen bottles in front of them, the rest looked to be farmers or traders; too tired and grubby to be happy being disturbed by an outsider who wanted a chat. Callabris turned his attention back to the four men at the table with their selection of bottles watching them take small sips of wine, swish it around their mouth and then spit it into a spare pot which they passed around the table. It wasn’t difficult to concluded that they were vintners from different parts of Vinmore and as such would probably be educated enough to hold a decent conversation. He wasn’t sure how well they would react when a white robe butted into their private wine tasting but he was so bored that he was willing to take a chance of being rejected.

  He stood, stretching slightly to get rid of the stiffness caused by sitting for too long and flexed his shoulder, grimacing at the ache across his back. Despite his healing powers he was still feeling the unpleasant effects of his brief stay in Tarbis. He picked up his ale pot, but before he could move to join the vintners, there was a commotion at the door and six guards in royal livery and carrying pikes pushed their way into the inn. The crowd at the door muttered angrily at the intrusion and stepped back into the mercenaries, pushing them further towards the bar. There was the scrape of metal as the mercenaries pushed the vine workers back and eased their weapons in their scabbards, but they decided against pulling their steel when the soldiers used their pikes to give their lord enough room to make a dignified entrance. Callabris sat down again and settled himself back into his corner to watch what would happen next.

  The innkeeper, alerted to the change of mood by the clatter of weapons and the angry muttering of vine workers, put down the jug he was filling and grabbed the large club that he kept behind the bar. It was a good weapon with which to subdue trouble makers and rowdies. He pushed his way through the crowd with a determined look on his face, ready to sort out whoever was causing a disturbance in his well ordered inn. He took one look at the liveried soldiers and instantly stopped his forward march. Instead he bowed to his newest customer, trying his best to shuffle the club behind his back in the crowded space so that his exalted guest wouldn’t see it.

  “My Lord Fallion, this is indeed a great and unexpected honour. May I welcome you to my humble inn.”

  Lord Fallion looked annoyed at being hemmed into such a tight space and muttered something to the innkeeper which Callabris didn’t catch. He guessed what it was though and watched as the flustered innkeeper used his considerable bulk to move his regular customers aside so he could lead the regent of Tarbis across the inn to where he sat. Callabris stood and bowed briefly to the most powerful man in Tarbis, whilst the innkeeper pulled out a chair and cleaned off some non-existent dust with the cloth he had tucked into his belt. Fallion sat with a dissatisfied grunt and the innkeeper bowed and hurried away to fetch his best wine for his noble visitor.

  “Callabris, it must be four years or more since we last met. I didn’t expect to meet up with you again, especially so close to the borders of Tarbis.”

  “Lord Fallion, as always it is a pleasure to see you. May I thank you for accepting the invitation of my master to discuss matters of mutual interest.”

  “Where is he? I expected King Borman to be here to meet with me, not his turncoat magician.”

  Callabris smiled politely and ignored the acerbic remark. Fallion had aged in the four years since he had last seen him and the once smooth face was crossed with worry and frown lines. The once distinguished salt and pepper hair was now completely grey and the amused smirk, which he used to wear most of the time, had changed into a disapproving scowl. A downward tug of the lips with two deep creases descending from the edges of his mouth to each side of his pointed chin completed a picture of a very worried man. He tapped impatiently on the table waiting for Callabris to respond.

  “How is the young master?” asked Callabris pleasantly.

  “He’s damn well the same as he always has been, the bloody minded bastard, now where’s Borman?”

  Callabris resisted the temptation to chuckle to himself. Clearly things hadn’t gone as well as Fallion had expected after he had arranged the murder of the Prince’s father and, knowing Prince Newn as he did, he guessed the boy had been making Fallion’s life a misery; a fitting reward for his treachery.

  “You didn’t really expect the King of Northshield to come here and meet you in a public inn did you?”

  “Where in hellden is he then?”

  “In Northshield, where do you expect?”

  “Here talking to me. That’s what the message said; he wanted to talk to me about a proposition of mutual benefit.”

  “King Borman is tucked up safely in Northshield doing what kings do and I am here in his stead.”

  Lord Fallion jumped to his feet, pushing his chair over backwards and glaring at the magician. “I’ll not waste my time talking to a turncoat who walks out on his master without a word!”

  “And yet I am happy to deal with a traitor who kills his brother and his king so he can grab a throne.”

  In a temper at having his time wasted Fallion turned to leave but the chair was in his way. He pushed it aside but as it fell the legs stuck out blocking his path. His temper even worse, he gave the legs a vicious kick which swung the chair completely around so
that the back of the chair now blocked his path. One of his guards picked up the offending piece of furniture but instead of throwing it to one side he placed it directly in front of his lord. Fallion kicked it again and the chair fell backwards with its legs in the air but still in front of him and blocking his exit from the inn.

  “Damn it, Callabris! Move this chair out of my way or I’ll have my guards run you through!

  “The chair, like me, needs you to stay.” He sighed in annoyance. “Lord Fallion, I’m sure you haven’t come all this way just to look on the face of my master. His message said that he had something to discuss with you that would be to your advantage and that hasn’t changed just because he’s not here. Now, sir, please sit and listen to what I have to say.”