Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe Page 8

  “What of the man, what did he call you?” The boy shook his head again but said nothing. “Then I shall have the naming of you. It shall be Jonderill after the man who bravely gave his life for you. May you live long to honour his memory.”

  The boy whispered his given name and slowly the overpowering emotions subsided and Jonderill fell asleep in the magician’s arms.

  For the rest of that night he’d sat with the boy in his arms in the same camp site as now, by the same fire, and had felt something within the boy which he had not felt since. Before the boy awoke he had reached a decision and as a kindness he replaced the boy’s memory block so that he would never again have to see the final moments of his namesake’s life. Now he had to know if Jonderill had used an inner power on him that night or if it had just been the strength of the boy’s emotions that had caused him to be drawn into the boy’s mind. It was appropriate that he should choose this place for the testing and with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension he called the boy to him.

  Jonderill came eagerly. Garrin played rough and tumble, taught him to swim and ride and do the other things a boy should know how to do and the servant’s motherly wife cared for him but it was to the magician he had given his heart, mind and soul. In the two summers since the magician had taken him into his isolated tower atop a steep hillside he had tried to be what the magician wanted him to be.

  At first he thought that would be an unpaid servant, the bound slave which was his position in life but the magician had sought other things from him. Now, although he had only seen ten summers, he was an adequate philosopher, a skilled debater when required and an affectionate boy with the insatiable curiosity of the young. Happily he pulled on his shirt and straightened his unruly hair before answering his master’s summons.

  Maladran smiled at his approach and patted the ground beside him. Jonderill sat cross-legged and looked up at his friend. He looked like an eager puppy and made the magician smile even more.

  “Do you remember this place, Jonderill?”

  The boy nodded, “Yes, sir, it’s the place where you gave me my name.”

  “Do you remember what else happened here that night?”

  A shadow crossed the boy’s face and for an instant a flicker of fear showed in his pale green eyes. “I saw into my past, to the man you named me after.”

  “And do you still remember nothing about what you saw?” The boy shook his head. “That’s good. Do you remember how you saw what happened?”

  Jonderill looked concerned. The nightmares had gone and he had no wish for them to return again, yet if the magician asked him to, he would.

  Maladran guessed his concern. “I don’t mean what you saw but how you saw it.”

  “It was like a small light in the darkness which grew bigger and bigger until I could see what was happening.” He looked at Maladran, unsure if this is what he wanted. The magician smiled in encouragement.

  “And what happened when the light tried to go out?”

  Jonderill hesitated before he answered. It was something he had thought about often but had never understood. “I don’t know. Something inside of me wouldn’t let it go until I had seen everything.” He swallowed hard but could not suppress the shudder which shook his body.

  Maladran could feel the boy’s apprehension growing but pressed on relentlessly. “Have you ever felt like that since?” Jonderill shook his head. “Would you like to? Would you like to control things and change the way people are? Would you like to be a magician?”

  Jonderill looked at him in excitement, his eyes full of anticipation. “Yes, if you would like me to.”

  “You must be what you want to be, not what I want,” he admonished, “but most of all you must have the ability to do what you want. It’s the same with magic; there must be a natural ability otherwise any amount of teaching will be wasted. Shall we see if you have that ability, my boy?”

  Jonderill nodded, slightly apprehensively and then watched in awe as the master magician turned his attentions to the kingsguard sitting around one of the fires playing dice. Quietly he put them to sleep, one by one. Garrin was the last to roll over on his side, stretch lazily and drift into a contented evening slumber.

  “Now, Jonderill, do as I say and let’s see what you can do. Close your eyes and concentrate on darkness or nothingness so deep it has no beginning or end and no boundaries to hold it there. It is a darkness which is thick and heavy and would crush you if you let it, only your mind holds it in check, ready for the pure light of power to come and fill its emptiness. Think of nothing but the darkness.

  Jonderill closed his eyes tightly and thought of blackness but his darkness was full of bright twinkling lights and brilliant flashes which jumped and moved every time his eyes blinked behind their tightly shut lids. An ant crawled up his leg and he wondered where it was heading for. Perhaps when Maladran had finished he could go and see if he could find its nest or the queen. The magician’s voice droned in the background reminding him of bees outside the tower in their hives. He hoped Garrin had packed some honeycomb and his stomach rumbled in agreement. His blackness seemed to be getting lighter and now little circles of light crossed his vision.

  “Into the darkness in your mind comes a small flame, so tiny that at first it is just a pin prick but it grows until it hovers at the centre of your darkness, waiting to obey your command.”

  Jonderill tried to envisage the light but there were so many other flashing lights in the darkness one more would have made little difference. His eyes were beginning to hurt from being squeezed together too tightly and the ant had moved up passed his knee and was making its way beneath his tunic.

  “Take the light and push it slowly outwards until it hovers as elemental fire above your hand.”

  He tried to push the lights out of the darkness but they stubbornly refused to budge, despite gritting his teeth tightly and screwing his eyes up as hard as he could. When Maladran placed a hand on his arm Jonderill jumped in surprise.

  “Relax, Jonderill, you must let the power flow into your mind and then, where you want it to go. Let me show you.”

  Instantly the flickering lights in his vision were gone leaving an empty blackness which was more frightening than moving from daylight to the depths of a dark cave. He shook with fear and immediately a small flame illuminated the darkness.

  “Now you have the flame of my power to light your darkness, all you have to do is push it outwards and you will never have to face darkness again.”

  Jonderill tried. He thought of pushing against the flame, of wheeling it away, of dragging it out with horses but the flame wouldn’t move, unlike the ant which was becoming unbearably ticklish.

  “You’re not trying, Jonderill, and for that you must be punished.”

  The flame inside the blackness of his mind began to expand and the extent of the darkness became apparent and alarmingly close to the creeping edge of the fire. Jonderill forgot the ant and tried to contain the flames but to no avail. When the first tongue of fire touched the confines of his mind he screamed in pain and tried to push the conflagration back with every thought he had but the flames never faltered and more tongues licked at his mind. He screamed again and then once more before the flame was suddenly extinguished and the blackness was replaced by the dancing lights behind prickling eyelids. He opened his eyes and tears ran down his cheeks and his head hurt as if he had fallen and hit it. Maladran wrapped him in his arms and held him tightly until his brief sobs faded and he could wipe his tears on the back of his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” said the magician, helping Jonderill to his feet. “I had to make sure you were holding nothing back and to do that I needed to threaten your inner being. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

  “It doesn’t hurt now,” lied Jonderill. “Did I do what I was meant to do?”

  “Yes you did what all but a very few do when they are tested. Nothing.”

  “You mean I don’t have the ability to be a magician?” Maladran shook
his head, carefully hiding his smile of relief beneath a sombre expression. “I’m sorry. I’ve failed you.”

  “Nonsense, boy,” laughed Maladran, “you’ve failed no one, not even yourself. There are far better things in life than being a magician, believe me, but learn from this lesson Jonderill. Never let anyone into your mind as you let me in because they could destroy you as easily as a sword could slice your flesh and end your life.”

  He went to say something else but was interrupted by a string of invective from Garrin who had woken up and was now rummaging in the saddle bags.

  “Curse those thieving ants, they’ve damn well eaten the honeycomb I packed for the boy’s tea.”

  *

  Jonderill sat on his piebald pony and looked around him, an odd fear, almost forgotten after two summers, knotting his stomach so that his last meal felt heavy and uncomfortable although it had been eaten some time ago. The High Lord’s magnificent stable yard was just as he remembered it; white, gleaming and spotlessly clean. Proud heads looked over stable doors, disdaining the common animals ridden by the kingsguard as they waited at the far end of the yard. In a scurry of activity the senior stablemen, in their grey and green livery, ran forward to take charge of the horses before the perfection of the stables could be sullied.

  Of the army of kingsward who scrubbed floors and shifted middin there was no sign but Jonderill knew they were there. In the background, hidden from view, they would be labouring at their menial tasks for leftover scraps and a cold hayrick for a bed. He felt a sudden pang of guilt that he should be mounted on a fine pony on this side of the stable yard whilst they grovelled in the dirt on the other side.

  Maladran dismounted from his big bay gelding and Jonderill did the same, keeping two paces behind and to the right of the magician as Garrin had taught him. Two stablemen hurriedly took their horses away whilst the Stablemaster walked briskly across the yard to greet his exalted visitor. He ignored Jonderill as if he didn’t exist but bowed deeply to the magician.

  “My Lord Maladran, you are most welcome here. I have sent word to the High Lord and he will be pleased to welcome you into his home.”

  Maladran smiled at the thought of the kind of welcome the High Lord would like to give him after what had happened during his last visit. “You may inform the High Lord that I am on the king’s business and I will converse with him here. You may also tell him my time is short and my patience shorter and I wish my business concluded here within the hour.” He beckoned Jonderill forward. “The boy wishes to see the stables, you have no objections I assume?”

  “No My Lord, I will find him an escort.”

  “That will not be necessary, Stablemaster; the boy remembers this place and his time here under your tutelage well enough.”

  The Stablemaster began to give a brief bow to Jonderill, assuming that he was the son of someone of importance but stopped in mid-movement as he recognised the boy. His mouth dropping open in surprise. Maladran gave an ironic laugh and put his hand on Jonderill’s shoulder. “One candle length and keep out of trouble.”

  Jonderill looked up at him and smiled and then slipped away to the rear of the building. The place was just as he remembered it, row upon row of stables, each of which had to be cleaned and scrubbed daily, no matter how hot or cold the weather was. Some of the rear doors stood open and he could hear the sounds of hard labour and heavy breathing. Bales of hay were being carried across the yard from the hay rick which had once been his sleeping chamber and two boys in ragged sacking worked on the pile of middin in the centre of the rear yard, their feet bare and their arms grimed to the elbow. He looked at them carefully hoping to recognise them but they were both strangers.

  On the far side of the yard the kennel gate stood open and a cacophony of excited barking announced the arrival of dinner for the pack of fierce hunting dogs kept by the High Lord. He wondered how many starving kingsward had been driven by hunger to eat at their trough today, as he had done on several occasions. The memory was an unpleasant one and he felt almost as if he were reliving it. He could feel the hunger and the weariness and the constant nagging fear. The excited yelping of the hounds only added to his strange feelings of being disembodied, almost as if he expected to see himself being kicked out of the kennel door by Tarris.

  Needing to escape from the recollections of misery he crossed the yard to the grain room and slipped through the half open door into a pleasanter world. This had been his haven when the cold and wet had made him shiver uncontrollably or lack of food had made him too weak to shovel middin. The grain room had provided shelter and sustenance, at least that was until he had been discovered and beaten for being where he shouldn’t be. Like then, he sat on top of one of the grain sacks, a windfall apple in his hand watching the dust mites dance in the sun’s rays which streamed through an open window.

  The hand which caught him a sharp blow on the side of his head was hard and callused and sufficiently strong to knock him sideways off his perch and onto the dusty floor. Care and affection had robbed him of his need to be constantly on guard along with his instinct for escape, so that a booted foot crashed into his middle before he had chance to protect himself. He groaned with the pain of the blow and curled into a ball but his attacker was ruthless and heaved him to his feet by a brutal hand around his neck.

  “Stealin’ apples an’ lazin’ around when there’s work ter be done are yer? Well I’ll teach yer not to be a skivin’ thief.”

  The strong hand twisted Jonderill around and thrust him across the grain sack he had been sitting on, holding him down by his neck making any sudden or strong movement impossible. With his other hand the man undid his leather belt and deftly folded it in half, an action which was much practised. With considerable force he brought it down on his captive’s back and laughed in satisfaction as the boy’s body jerked under the impact. Jonderill struggled to escape but his head was pushed further into the sack of grain, the rough sacking and the dust almost choking him. Another blow cut across his shoulders and his body jerked again in pain and fear.

  “I shouldn’t do that if I were you, Tarris,” said a soft voice as the Stablemaster’s son lifted his arm for another blow. “This one’s not yours, he’s the son of a visiting lord come to see my father.”

  Tarris froze as the consequences of what he had done dawned on him and he pulled his prisoner upright so he could look into his eyes. Then a broad grim of pure malice creased his hard mouth as he recognised the boy and knew who the lord had to be. “Well, if it ain’t the middin boy ‘imself, come back to mock us poor bastards who are still ‘ere doin’ an honest day’s work. Thought yer could escape me by becoming a magician’s play fing did yer? Well yer wrong, if ‘e can ‘ave ‘is pleasure wiv yer then so can I.”

  He adjusted his grip on Jonderill’s neck and once again pushed him across the sack of grain only further this time so his feet were off the ground. Jonderill struggled as much as he could but he was no match for a man twice his size. Tarris dropped the strap and leant his body across his struggling captive. “Is this ‘ow ‘e does it then?” hissed Tarris into Jonderill’s ear. He looked up with an eager sneer into the girl’s eyes. “Yer better leave now miss, this aint no sight for a lady.”

  “What do you think you’re doing, Tarris? His father will have your back skinned when he finds out what you’ve done.”

  “’E aint no lord’s son, ‘e’s just a pet. Anyway ‘is master aint goin’ to find out ‘cause the boy aint goin’ to tell ‘im owt. Yer see ‘is master won’t want to keep ‘im if ‘e’s been wiv a common stable ‘and in case ‘e catches something an’ that means if the boy squawks ‘e comes back to me, so ‘e aint goin’ to say a word.”

  “He won’t but I will,” announced the girl with determination.

  “No yer won’t, ‘e deserves all ‘e gets suckin’ up to the magician like ‘e did.” The girl’s eyes widened in shock. “Yer got it lady, ‘e belongs to Maladran, the one who murdered yer brover.” He turned his attentions ba
ck to Jonderill. “Now I’m goin’ to make yer squeal like yer never done before.”

  He ignored the girl and pressed his arm across Jonderill’s back so he couldn’t move. Almost choking and barely able to breathe Jonderill struggled against the hand which roughly held him down. He wanted to scream as his tormentor pulled at his leggings but he was powerless to resist. A howling noise filled his ears and bright lights flashed in front of his tightly shut eyes and he wanted to vomit but instead of the pain he expected there was a loud crack and Tarris shot across his body as if he had been thrown. Released from the stifling grasp Jonderill slid to the floor on legs too weak with fear to hold him upright. Tarris scrambled to his feet cursing and clutching his backside. Next to him a girl in a skirt and knee length tunic clutched a length of planking like a weapon.

  “Magician’s pet or not he’s still a guest and I won’t have you causing trouble and bringing shame into my father’s house. Now get out of here before I use this again.” She brandished the piece of wood threateningly.

  Tarris looked down at Jonderill, his eyes full of malice. “Don’t think you’ve escaped me, Middin. The time will come again when you’re mine an’ then I’ll make yer pay for this.” He glared at the girl and stormed out of the dusty room.

  The girl propped the plank up by the sacks of grain as if she might need it again and hurried to the small water pump by the door. When she returned Jonderill was sitting on the floor with his back propped up against a grain sack. His pale face and shaking hands were the only sign of his recent ordeal and narrow escape. She handed him a deep bowl of water and waited for him to drink. It was not a proper drinking vessel but a scoop to measure out oats, only she had been unable to find anything else. Jonderill was grateful for its size and slowly emptied its contents as he studied her over its rim.

  She was about the same age as he was, or perhaps a summer or two older, and almost a hand taller. Her face was round and plain with deep brown eyes and a wide mouth which made her look pretty when she smiled. Unlike the few girls Jonderill had encountered, her hair was cut short like a boy’s and had it not been for the ankle length skirt she wore beneath her tunic instead of leggings she could have been mistaken for a boy. She took the empty scoop from Jonderill and handed him a wrinkled, windfall apple before sitting on the floor at his side.