The White Robe (The Sword and the Spell)

by Clare Smith

  Callabris clicked his fingers and the chair flipped over onto its legs and the edge of the seat nudged carefully at the back of Fallion’s knees. With a muttered curse Fallion pulled it to the table and sat heavily with his arms folded stubbornly in front of him. The moment he sat the innkeeper came bustling over to the table and placed a newly poured flagon of Vinmore’s finest red wine in front of the regent.

  With the same towel he’d used to wipe the seat of the chair a few moments before, he polished the two goblets he carried and placed them on the table looking extremely pleased with himself. He waited to pour the wine but caught a look from Callabris and hurried back to his bar. Callabris poured the wine and waited for the noise in the inn to regain its previous volume.

  “My master sends his greetings and hopes that his cousin is in good health and high spirits.”

  “Get on with it,” Fallion snapped.

  “King Borman is genuinely concerned for your welfare and the welfare of your people. He’s heard that there is dissent in Tarbis and that opposing factions at court gather behind the Regent and the Prince. We are concerned that, without the aid of magic to help keep the balance, the situation could escalate into civil war which would damage Tarbis and could spread to the other six kingdoms. My master would not like to see Tarbis end up like Sandstrone; bereft of magic and in the hands of a fanatic.”

  Fallion gave a bark of cynical laughter. “If you hadn’t deserted Tarbis and gone crawling to Borman this kingdom wouldn’t be without magic.”

  “As I recall the assassins you sent to kill me were meant to give me a clear message that I was no longer welcome here.”

  Fallion swallowed back his goblet of wine and put it firmly back on the table. “I know you will find this hard to believe, magician, but, as I told you before, I didn’t arrange King Hormund’s death. Neither did I arrange for you to be assassinated. Perhaps it was the boy; it’s the sort of thing he would do.”

  Callabris looked at him curiously. “No, I don’t think it was Prince Newn, or at least not directly.”

  “Then perhaps someone else is meddling in Tarbis’s affairs; there are others who would find this little kingdom attractive, including your King Borman.”

  Callabris frowned and considered the idea and then shook his head and smiled. “One of the problems of being Federa’s servant is that magic is black or white, so we’re not good at unraveling the dirty grey of politics; we leave that to kings and regents.” He poured himself another goblet of wine and then regretfully decided that he had better not drink any more if he wanted to stay awake. “Prince Newn is a young man who has not yet learned what it is to be a king and until he has he’s a danger to himself, his people and the stability of the six kingdoms. Fortunately he has suddenly contracted a rare illness which will take him out of public life and out of your way for some time.”

  Fallion sucked in a deep breath in alarm, looking genuinely concerned, and started to rise but Callabris waved him down. “The boy is unharmed and is confined to his hunting lodge with his guards around him to keep him safe and to keep unwanted curiosity seekers out. Nobody will be able to stumble on the place accidently and no man will be able to gain access, so you may find the place convenient to house the occasional long term visitor who you don’t want to hold in a more public place. I am sure they will be duly intimidated by the Prince’s changed persona. Newn’s absence from Tarbisian society will give you the opportunity to stabilize the kingdom and build good relationships with your cousin, who is most concerned about you.”

  “And how long will this infliction last?”

  “That depends. If the Prince learns how to be a king and gains the trust and affection of others there will be a very speedy recovery. However, if he doesn’t recover by the day he’s old enough to be crowned king, the affliction he currently has will be permanent, and you and your kingdom may wish to make other long term arrangements.”

  The Regent leaned forward across the table and spoke in a low voice so others couldn’t hear. “I should be angry with you and Borman for interfering in the affairs of Tarbis but I’m not. You’re right, the boy was dangerous.”

  “Don’t misunderstand me Fallion. My master and I cannot be seen to have any part in this that can be traced back to us. As far as the six kingdoms are concerned, the boy has an illness, and if at any time you accuse Borman or me of being its cause, then I will ensure that the illness really does become contagious. Do you understand?”

  Fallion nodded with a disagreeable look on his face and pushed his chair away from the table. He turned to go but then returned to the table and emptied the last dregs from his wine goblet. “If at any time I decide that the people of Tarbis should find out about the Prince’s affliction and his lack of suitability to be king, would that cause you or your master a problem?”

  Callabris smiled benignly. “As I said, the Prince has an illness. How you treat it is your own affair, but for his father’s sake, I wouldn’t want to see the Prince die of his affliction before he’s had the chance to redeem himself.”

  Fallion smiled. “Thank you Callabris, I will keep that in mind.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER THREE

  Journeys

  The view took his breath away. It was different to Vinmore with its gentle rolling hills covered in vines and cool shady vales rich with fruit trees that produced the finest cider and mead in the six kingdoms. This was more like Leersland with its deep green horse pastures and everleaf forests, but the colours of Northshield were different than those of Leersland. The forests were paler, full of tightly packed slender silver bark, their leaves alternating between emerald and grey as the wind turned them on their supple stems. The fields also alternated colours, mostly the gold of ripening corn but many of them the creamy white of fibre leaf and shirt plant.

  From his vantage point at the north east mouth of the Deeling Pass, Jonderill could see the winding snake of the Blue River sparkling in the sunlight as it wound its way from the north, separating Essenland from Northshield. Behind him and out of sight, the river flowed south through verdant pastureland and deep forests to separate Vinmore from Leersland. It would have been easier to follow the course of the river on his journey northwards, but that would have meant going into Leersland, which was not a good idea for a man with a number burnt into his arm and no freedman’s papers. In any case, if he’d followed the Blue River through the lowlands, he would have missed this breathtaking view.

  His way ahead could clearly be seen; a grey ribbon of road crossing the river by the stone bridge and snaking its way into the distance to where Wallmore stood. From this distance it looked like a grey smudge on the horizon but, from what he had been told by those who he had met on the road, it was the largest and most unfriendly city in the six kingdoms. Having spent a part of his childhood in the kingsward compound in Tarmin, he found that hard to believe, but he had been warned.

  Jonderill patted Sansun’s muscular neck and felt guilty that the horse’s fine silver coat was dulled by dried sweat and dust which had turned to the colour of mud in the last rain storm. He’d done his best to keep the horse groomed but, as they had climbed up through the Deeling Pass, they had both been soaked by heavy rain, battered by winds laden with grit and baked by the sun beating down between high rock walls. The last rainfall had left him feeling damp and itchy and smelling slightly musty. He guessed that he really didn’t look much better than his horse.

  Sansun turned and butted him gently in the chest reminding him that he had stood for far too long in the one place and it was time to be on their way. Jonderill climbed wearily back into the saddle and Sansun set off of his own accord, picking his way down the rocky path until they reached the smoother roadway leading to the crossing over the Blue River. Despite leaving the mouth of the Deeling Pass when the sun had only just cleared the horizon it was late afternoon and two soakings later before they reached the narrow, stone bridge.

  The Blue River might have looked blue and sparkli
ng in the sunlight but under a dark, murky sky it looked a muddy grey, flecked with white caps as the gusting wind caught the top of the turbulent waves. A sturdy bridge with three arches crossed the swiftly flowing river, the stone dark and pitted beneath the arches and speckled with green and yellow moss where the spray from the river kept the stone constantly damp.

  Two guards stood either side of the bastions at the entrance to the bridge with the tower and sword emblem of Northshield on their tunics and shields, a sword at their side and a halberd in their spare hand. Another two guards sat on a bench outside a stone building, which resembled a barn, bolt bows loaded and resting by their feet. As Jonderill approached one of them slowly stood and banged loudly on the barn door.

  By the time Jonderill had come to a halt in the area between the building and the bridge and had dismounted, another guard had stepped from the barn and was walking towards him with the two bowmen close behind. He was dressed the same as the others except for the braiding around the cuffs of his shirt and a long brown cloak which identified him as an officer. Jonderill watched as the man looked him up and down, sauntered around his horse and returned to stand at arm’s length in front of him with his hands on his hips. The two bowmen took up position on either side of him, their weapons loaded and pointed at Jonderill’s chest.

  “Papers.” demanded the officer.

  Jonderill reached inside his jerkin being careful not to look as if he was drawing a hidden weapon. He removed the small scroll which had been sent to him from King Steppen and held it out at arm’s length. The officer took it roughly from his hand, unrolled it and stared at the contents, a scowl on his face.

  “The mark of Vinmore ‘as no power ‘ere, this is King Borman’s bridge an’ if yer want to cross yer gotta pay a toll.”

  Jonderill looked unsure; he’d never been in this situation before. “How much is the toll?”

  The soldier looked appraisingly at the horse and then back at Jonderill. “Let’s say twenty Gellstart.”

  He took a quick breath; twenty Gellstart was almost all the coin he had. “Does everyone have to pay that much?”

  “They do if I says so.”

  “And what if I can’t or won’t pay?”

  “Then we takes it in kind see.” He nodded his head briefly to the two bowmen who dropped their bows and stepped to either side of Jonderill, drawing their swords as they did so. For a moment Jonderill thought of drawing his own sword but five to one was not good odds. Instead he gave a resigned sigh and unclipped the pouch of coins from his belt hidden beneath his jerkin. The guard snatched it eagerly from his hand and emptied out the contents, giving a low whistle of appreciation.

  “Well, well, well. Looks like I didn’t ask for enough, did I?”

  Jonderill stepped forward to protest but the two bowmen grabbed his arms and pulled him back away from their officer. Before he could say anything one of the guards punched him in the stomach making him double over, retch and gasp for breath.

  “Den, ‘ave a look in ‘is things an’ see what else ‘e’s got.”

  The guard by the bridge put down his shield and halberd and moved cautiously to the horse’s flanks giving him a nervous pat before rummaging through the saddle bags and dropping the contents onto the dirt. “There’s not much in here, just some food and spare clothes and this.” He held up the crumpled grey robe.

  “What’s that?”

  Den shrugged. “Looks like something me gran’ma would go to bed in.”

  “Na,” said the other guard who had come to join the group. It looks like something Lord Callabris would wear only it’s too small and the wrong colour.”

  Jonderill straightened up at the mention of the white magician’s name. “Leave them alone, they belong to me.”

  Den ignored him and unwrapped the blanket tied behind Sansun’s saddle letting everything roll out. “Perhaps ‘e’s one of them magic workers.”

  “Don’t be daft, do yer think ‘e would be letting us go through ‘is things if ‘e could work magic? The clothes aint worth owt but they’ll do fer cleaning me boots with.”

  “What about these swords?” asked Den as the two weapons rolled out of the blanket and clattered to the ground.

  “The new one should fetch a gellstart or two when we get back to Wallmore but the old bit of iron is useless. Now the ‘orse is a different matter, I reckon that under all that grime ‘es a real beauty.”

  “I bet ‘e nicked ‘im,” suggested Den. “Got ter be a big reward for an ‘orse thief like ‘im.”

  “Bet there is too.” The officer smirked at Jonderill and stepped forward to the horse, picking up its trailing reins.

  “Sansun go! Run!” shouted Jonderill.

  Sansun whipped his head around jerking the reins out of the officer’s hand and knocking Den to the ground with his shoulder. The officer staggered back cursing loudly and clutching at his hand where the reins had gouged a furrow through his palm and fingers. Sansun whipped his head back around again and snapped at the officer with his big teeth as he barrelled past, catching him in his upper arm with enough force to draw blood. Before the rest of the troop could move to stop him the horse was galloping away from the bridge, reins flying behind him, into the direction of the silver bark forest.

  “Bloody animal bit me!” screamed the officer, clutching his upper arm. He turned back to where the bowmen were holding Jonderill with his arms twisted behind his back. “Yer goin’ ter pay for this yer bastard. Take ‘im out back an’ teach ‘im a lesson then lock ‘im in the wood store. Tomorrow we’ll ‘ang im from the centre arch as a warning to other ‘orse thieves who would try to trick us.”

  *

  Jonderill came slowly to his senses in the darkness, hardly daring to move as he listened to some small creature moving around in the back of the room where he lay. He hoped it wasn’t a gnawer; he hated filthy gnawers with their naked tails and sharp claws. The floor on which he lay was hard and cold and bits of wood chippings and bark pressed into his naked skin. His shirt had gone and he had vague memories of it being pulled over his head somewhere between them using their fists on his face and their feet on his body.

  As well as his shirt his boots and his breaches had gone although he couldn’t remember them going. Pushing himself into a sitting position with his back to the stone wall, he winced at the bruises and split skin which covered the top half of his body and the welts across his back and his thighs. He didn’t recall them taking a strap to him but he had been beaten with one once when he was a small boy in the kingsward compound for taking another boy’s bread ration. He still remembered what it felt like.

  Carefully he rolled his shoulders, moved his arms, legs and fingers and felt his ribs. Despite the beating nothing was broken which was a small mercy. The two guards were clearly experts at what they did, not that it mattered much if they were going to hang him in the morning. The thought added urgency to his assessment of the situation and once he was sure that the only real injury was a swollen eye he rolled to his knees and started to explore his prison. It didn’t take him long; there was a pile of chopped wood stacked at one end, solid stone walls around him, a solid wooden roof above and an even more solid wooden door locked from the outside. He tried to stand up but the ceiling was too low so he slumped to the floor in dejection.

  “Where are you, Sansun?” He muttered under his breath before closing his eyes in misery.

  When a gnawer ran across his bare feet, its tiny claws digging into his skin like small needles and its long hairless tail trailing behind like a dirt crawler, he woke with a start, jumped to his feet and banged his head against the low ceiling. He cursed loudly but remained as upright as he could in the cramped space. There was no way he was going to share his prison with a filthy gnawer, especially one he couldn’t see.

  In desperation he thrust out his hand and instantly a small ball of light appeared in the centre of it. He blinked his one good eye in amazement. It had been nearly five summers since he’d last produced e
lemental fire and even then, with daily practice, it had been a struggle to maintain a small flame but here it was sitting in the palm of his hand with barely a waiver.

  Now, with the light in his hand, he had his first chance to have a good look at his prison. The door was as sturdy as he had felt it to be with no handle on the inside and just a small hole where a key would fit into the lock. The walls were plain stone with no windows and the low ceiling was made of thick boards without any gaps which he could lever apart. The woodpile, where the gnawer had escaped to, was loosely stacked against the far wall leaving a gap between the top of the pile and the wooden ceiling. From what he could see of the far wall, it was only made up of a thin wooden partition rather than stone blocks which the other walls were built from.

  “That’s it,” whispered Jonderill to himself. If he could just break through that wall he was certain the living quarters would be on the other side. If the guards were asleep and he was very lucky he might be able to make his way out and escape before they woke. He stood and looked at the wall trying to work out how to break through it whilst his optimism faded. There was only one way to get through the partition but by the time he’d beaten the wall down with chunks of wood from the wood pile the guards would be awake, armed and waiting for him.