Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe Read online

  Maladran waited for Jonderill to leave before he opened his eyes and swallowed hard, choking back the emotions which the boy had taught him to feel. So it had emerged at last, the hidden power within the boy which he’d sensed the first time they had met. Why did it have to emerge now though, after all this time? If the power had come to the boy earlier it would have been easy to block it but to suppress it now could cause Jonderill considerable harm, even madness. But even that was better than Sarrat discovering that the boy had talent.

  He dropped his head to his hands in blank despair and closed his mind to every sense. Eventually the loud rapping on the door and the shock waves rippling through his warding broke his trance and his mind jumped back to the present. Angrily he lifted the warding and snapped open the door allowing Garrin to tumble through the sudden opening and then scuttle back guiltily over the threshold. He knew the rules and was terrified of where his momentum had carried him.

  “Well?” snapped Maladran.

  “My lord, the king is here.”

  For a moment the magician looked blank and Garrin repeated himself. It took a moment longer before he realised what Garrin had really meant.

  “Not here,” he commanded but he was too late, the bulky figure of Sarrat pushed the nervous servant aside and stepped into the room.

  He stopped and looked around him with a sneer of disdain on his face. ”So this is where you have been hiding, hardly impressive is it?”

  “You’re welcome here to my work room, My Lord, but perhaps it would be more appropriate if we were to retire to more comfortable quarters where refreshments could be served. I have a fine red wine which I am sure you’ll enjoy.”

  “This’ll do well enough, I have no intention of remaining long, I have more pressing matters to deal with. Now, magician, what is this damn fool nonsense you have requested of me about adopting a kingsward as your own son?”

  Maladran sat back heavily in his chair, the mention of the boy bringing back the memory of what had happened, which the king’s unexpected arrival in his private room had momentarily put out of his mind. “It’s the boy I took from the estate of High Lord Coledran, I have become fond of him and thought I would take him for my son.”

  “What foolishness is this, Maladran? You are a magician not a damn father. I can see I have been over-indulgent with you, allowing you to hide away in your tower instead of attending my court as you should be doing. Now you’ve come up with this nonsense. Put the boy back in his proper place, Maladran and come to your senses. The High Lord is up to his old tricks again and is refusing to obey my commands so I once again have need of your services.”

  Maladran stood and took a step towards the king. “The boy is in his right place, at my side learning from his father.”

  Sarrat raised his eyebrows in question. “Learning what from his father?” Maladran remained silent whilst the king looked annoyed at the magician’s obscure comment and then a cruel sneer of realisation crossed his face and he laughed maliciously. “You’ve done it again haven’t you, Maladran? Despite my warnings and what happened last time you’ve taught the boy to call on the arcane.”

  “The boy has a talent,” replied Maladran defensively. “It is a very different talent than mine and as yet immature but undoubtedly strong. With care he could be a great magician.

  If he were my son we could work together and share the knowledge of his power, then you would own two magicians to do as you bid.”

  “If you believe that you are deluding yourself, magician. I told you at the outset that I would allow only one of your kind to stand by my side and you took a vow on it when we took the kingdom. Don’t think that I will allow you to break that vow, Maladran, for the sake of your sentimental feelings.”

  “But he could be of great value to you if I am allowed to nurture his power.”

  “No, Maladran. You know that none of the six kingdoms can harbour more than one of Federa’s acolytes at a time. There is no way I will let anyone with the slightest chance of using the power out of my control to be snapped up by my enemies.”

  “But he’s only a boy! I will ensure he’s always loyal to you.”

  Sarrat looked at the magician with contempt. “Don’t be a fool, Maladran. Is your memory so short that you forget how we came to be where we are, you and I? You were loyal to Malute and Yarrin but that didn’t stop you plotting against them so you could take the place of Yarrin. I put that torc around your neck and I can take it off again. Remember how Yarrin died, raving and mad and fouling himself. Unless you want to go the same way the boy dies and you will do as you are told. Now get your things together, lock your tower and go and deal with the High Lord. I shall deal with the boy.”

  Sarrat turned on his heel and stormed out of the magician’s room leaving Maladran numbly staring after him.

  Outside, in the warmth of the afternoon sunshine, Jonderill sat quietly in his favourite place, the grassy hillock with the glorious view across the kingdom of Leersland. He had seen the king and his escort arrive and knew they could be here for only one purpose. Of course he wasn’t meant to know what it was which brought the king to Maladran’s tower but Garrin lacked the ability to keep a secret, especially from the boy he had become a second father to.

  If the king agreed then he would be Maladran’s son. He wondered what it would be like, if he would feel different than he did now. Despite all his efforts he still couldn’t remember his parents and he could remember nothing of what it was like to be someone’s son. In fact, in all his life he had only known one father and son and they argued all the time. He smiled to himself in anticipation, when he was Maladran’s son he would never argue.

  Sounds of someone approaching broke through his daydreams and he eagerly jumped to his feet knowing he was grinning like a fairground fool. The approaching man was a kingsguard with dull eyes and a straggly beard. For a moment Jonderill was concerned and then felt foolish; what did he expect, the king to come searching for him personally? The guard beckoned him to follow and he did so, holding back an urge to skip across the bright sunlit grass.

  At the front of the tower only half the kingsguard troop remained, the other half having left with the king after he had spoken to his Guardcaptain. The rest were mounted, obviously ready to leave but there was still no sign of Maladran. Jonderill hesitated, unsure of what was expected of him and the soldier who had come to fetch him pushed him roughly forward to where Gartnor sat on a large dun gelding.

  “You’re to come with me, boy,” commanded Gartnor without any attempt to dismount.

  “Why?” asked Jonderill curiously.

  The Guardcaptain leaned from his saddle, his eyes cold and a sneering laugh on his narrow lips. “Because you’re my property now, kingsward.”

  For a moment the words meant nothing and then the terrible truth hit Jonderill like a stunning blow. “Maladran’s sold me?”

  “No, boy, not even that he’s given you away. Now give me your hand unless you want to walk back to Tarmin tied to the rear of my horse.”

  Jonderill backed away, unable to believe what was happening. A sharp lump in his throat prevented him from speaking but nothing would stop him from finding Maladran and learning the truth from his own lips. He turned to run but the guard’s strong hands grabbed hold of his shoulders and arms and in a moment his hands were bound firmly in front of him. He kicked and struggled but Gartnor leaned from his horse and struck him a stunning blow around the head before taking hold of his bound hands and dragging him across the pommel of his saddle.

  Now the boy’s tears came freely and whilst the sharp lump in his throat threatened to choke him he managed one coherent word. “Why?”

  Gartnor laughed viciously. “Because you have the power. Don’t you know, boy, no one threatens Maladran’s position as the greatest of all magician’s and still lives?”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Houseboy

  Jonderill rolled up the sleeve of his coarse grey tunic and sul
lenly looked at the sour slops in front of him. Of all the tasks assigned to him in his lowly position as houseboy this was the one he detested most. He pushed his hands into the cold, congealed mess and his stomach turned in protest. Unable to stop himself he retched twice, thankful there was nothing inside him to bring up and waited for his nausea to pass before he began sifting through the scraps of leftover food from the Great Hall.

  This bucketful was worse than most. Not only did it contain the remains of last night’s banquet; soups, shellfish, vegetables, five kinds of meat and as many rich sauces but the princess and her guests had been present. Soft preserves and rich cream, milky puddings and once sweet fondants now curdled disgustingly amongst the greasy scraps. He retched once more and began the task of separating meat and bones from the rest of the slops; bones in the pail for the glue makers, slops to the pigs and meat for the hounds. At least in this land of plenty the meat was truly for the hounds and not for the bound servants such as him.

  Perhaps it was memories of those days when hunger had driven him to eat with the hounds that made this task so distasteful. Then he had never considered where the food came from and if he had known he wouldn’t have cared, food was life and when you were starving that was all that mattered. Or at least that was all that mattered then but he had learnt that even a kingsward could have a life which was worth something if someone cared for you. Having someone care was what was really important. A hard lump came into his throat and he blinked to clear his blurred vision. Hunger or exhaustion or even the cut of the dog whip was nothing compared to the pain of being given away to be a slave by someone you thought cared for you.

  Maladran had given him away without a thought or a word and all because he had tried to please him. His ribs were still bruised where Captain Gartnor had ridden back to Tarmin with him held firmly across the front of his saddle. After that he had spent two days locked in a dark shed without food or light and had then been sold to a caravan master heading across the Blue River. It had taken four days of walking with his hands tied to the back of an ox cart before he arrived in Vinmore. Then he’d been taken to the servants’ yard of the palace and handed over to a burly man in house livery in exchange for a small purse of coin. Jonderill pulled his slimy hands from the bucket and glared at them as if they were to blame for everything which had happened to him.

  “Boy!” said a voice behind him, sharp but not unkind.

  Jonderill jumped and made a hasty bow to his new master, the Housecharge, who managed the royal household and ordered the lives of its servants, pages, squires and even sometimes the knights and the royal family as well. He was a large man in stature as well as in voice and few, except the very brave, challenged his authority. It had been the Housecharge who had accepted him as a bound servant, making it clear that he didn’t usually take the children of convicted felons into his household. However he had found the exhausted boy a bed in the servants’ hall and the following morning had furnished him with a brown house tunic which fell to his knees, a webbing belt and a list of duties to be performed daily. Since then the man had ignored him completely, which was only to expected for a servant who was little more than a slave.

  “The yard boys have all been called to the stables to help with the guest’s horses or to prepare for the royal hunt. You’ll have to carry the scraps away yourself and make it snappy; with the princess ruling the roost there won’t be a moment’s peace for any of us today.” Jonderill bowed. “And, boy, make sure you get a loaf and a wedge of cheese inside you as soon as your stomach has settled. I’ll not have any of my boys go hungry just because her highness wants everything done yesterday.”

  He gave Jonderill an unexpected wink and moved back into the kitchen where his commands reverberated from pristine white wall to pristine white wall. For a moment Jonderill stared after him, strangely touched that the Housecharge should show any concern for his well being. Then he shrugged, he supposed it would be an inconvenience to his master if he fainted from hunger, especially when there was so much to be done.

  Despite his dour thoughts and the heaviness of the buckets which waited to be transported his mood lightened slightly at the thought of being free from the constraints of the kitchen precincts for a while. His duties had restricted him to the kitchen, its store rooms and yards and, of course, the servants’ quarters. The Housecharge had warned him strictly against entering any area where the royal family might notice a brown-clad servant. In all honesty he could have left the palace at any time he chose over the last moon cycle, either to visit the town outside the palace walls or to leave his captivity and make a bid for freedom but he’d no money and he knew what it was to be hungry, cold and alone. At least here he had a warm bed, clean clothes and enough to eat. For a kingsward that should make him more than content.

  “Hey, houseboy!”

  Jonderill looked up to see a tall boy a few summers older than he was dressed in a leather jerkin and breaches leaning against the wall and studying him with a contemptuous sneer. He had seen that look before and guessed what was coming next.

  “I see they’ve found you the perfect job, sorting through the left over slops.” Jonderill said nothing but continued with his unpleasant task keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the bucket in front of him. “That’s just the right sort of job for a slave though, isn’t it, rubbish in rubbish out.”

  “I’m not a slave,” said Jonderill defensively. “I’m a bound servant.”

  The boy wandered over and kicked the bucket Jonderill was working through, the look of arrogance still on his face. “Same thing. You belong to the Housecharge. I heard it said he paid three silver gellstart for you, about the same as he would pay for a work horse.” He gave a cruel laugh and prodded Jonderill’s leg with the toe of his boot. “Is that what you are, slave, the Housecharge’s work horse?”

  Jonderill stood slowly, tired of the insults and the chiding he received every time the Housecharge was out of hearing from the yard boys and cadets. The mocking boy pulled himself up straighter to stand a good head taller than he was.

  “What’s it like to be a slave boy and sleep under the table in the kitchen and eat from the slops? It’s not the sort of thing normal folk do but I suppose you’ve got used to it, having done it since your worthless father was executed.”

  Something in Jonderill snapped and he charged the boy, head down, catching him in the stomach and knocking him over backwards. He rolled on top of him and before the boy had a chance to recover Jonderill had hit him twice with his soiled hands and added blood to the slime on the boy’s face. Jonderill went to land a third blow but the boy had recovered from his shock and grabbed his wrists using his extra weight and height to push him to the side. He rolled over but held onto the boy’s jerkin and together they rolled around the yard, knocking the bucket of bones over and narrowly missing the slop bucket for the pigs. The boy landed a blow on Jonderill’s jaw, making his lip bleed and Jonderill grabbed the boy’s hair and yanked it hard enough to make him cry out.

  “Enough of this!” shouted the stern voice of the Housecharge. His strong hands grabbed the back of Jonderill’s tunic and hauled him off his opponent. The tall boy scrambled to his feet and wiped the blood from his nose on to the back of his hand. “What do the pair of you think you’re doing? I’ve a palace full of demanding visitors, children and their maids under everyone’s feet and the princess screaming blue murder and you two are rolling around the yard! I’ve a good mind to tell the Cadetmaster about you, Barrin and let him find your idle hands extra work to do. As for you, boy, I don’t agree with using a heavy hand on those who work for me but perhaps a good thrashing will teach the likes of you that no one fights in my household.”

  He spun Jonderill around pressing him up against the wall and unclipped the cane which hung from his belt at his side. It was only meant to be ceremonial; a sign of his position in the royal household but it would do very well for what he had in mind.

  “Don’t hit him, sir,” pleaded Barrin, step
ping forward. “It wasn’t his fault. Me and the others have been goading him on and I suppose I went a bit too far.”

  The Housecharge released Jonderill and looked sternly at them both before pointing and wagging his finger at Jonderill. “I’ll not have fighting here again, do you understand? Next time I see you raise a hand to anyone or find you have been fighting I’ll have you publicly beaten and sold to a slaver from Essenland. Now get the yard cleared up and Barrin, you helped to make this mess so you give him a hand. I want him back in the kitchen to turn the spits as soon as he’s finished out here.”

  With an angry grunt the Housecharge marched off, leaving the two boys to face each other in an awkward silence. Jonderill started collecting the scattered contents of the bucket and Barrin helped him until the yard looked reasonably tidy.

  “Look, I’m sorry about what happened, I didn’t mean to get you into trouble with the Housecharge. I suppose I shouldn’t have picked on you like that but I didn’t think you would have the courage to react as you did. I’ll not do it again, I promise.”

  “Thanks,” said Jonderill doubtfully. “Why did you stop him from thrashing me, I thought that’s what you and your friends wanted?”

  “No, we just wanted a bit of fun. See, we’ve never had a slave, er, I mean a bound servant here before so we had a bet you wouldn’t have the guts to fight back, even if I pushed you too far.” He looked ashamed and shuffled his feet. “I never thought the Housecharge would get so angry. He’s never struck anyone before, I don’t think he’s even allowed to, so I sort of saved him as well.” He rubbed the side of his cheek where a bruise was starting to blossom and gave Jonderill a broad grin. “You really pack a hard punch. Perhaps when you’re finished for the day you’ll come and have an ale with me and show me how a little squirt like you can hit so hard.”