Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe (26 page)

Sarrat glared down at the Stablemaster but for several
moments didn’t speak as he considered his man’s warning. Then he turned to the
waiting guard. “Bring Maladran here, now. And if he’s too slow use your sword
on him. You, Tarris, wait out of sight and watch what he does. If he’s playing
me false I’ll have his damned head.”

The king retook his throne and waited, pounding his
fingers in an impatient tattoo against the throne's ornately carved arm until Maladran
entered the throne room from his doorway deep in the shadows. Only the dark
robe and cloak he always wore whispered against the touch of the stone floor to
announce his presence. He was unused to being summoned at sword point and went
to protest but immediately sensed Sarrat's mood and moved quickly into the
light to be recognised, bowing unusually low to his master.

Sarrat spoke with icy calm in a low voice filled with
menace. "It would seem your little plan has failed, Maladran and I’ve been
left looking like a fool. I don't like being made a fool of, magician,
especially by those who are bound to my service and I don't like it when those
who serve me put their own interests before mine. So what have you to say for
yourself, conjurer?"

Maladran looked up into Sarrat's angry face and tried
to fathom what had disturbed the volatile king who only yesterday had welcomed
him to the castle like a visiting monarch but apart from anger his face was
unreadable. "My Lord knows that I serve only him and my goddess."

"So why do my plans come to nothing? Why am I
still sitting here whilst Steppen gives his kingdom away to Essenland and
brigands steal the very gifts which you tell me to send?" Sarrat stood and
approached the edge of the dais so he could tower over the tall magician.
"Is it because the gifts were never actually sent and instead you line
your own pockets with my wealth?"

"I have no need of wealth, My Lord," replied
Maladran calmly. “You provide for all my needs as is only right.”

"Then you consort with these brigands and thieves
in order to usurp my power?" accused Sarrat.

"My Lord misjudges me; the only power I seek is
that of my calling so that I may do my lord's bidding. I have always offered
you the best counsel I can but I cannot be held responsible for the perverse
nature of those beyond my influence, whether they be kings or thieves."

Sarrat swung around and took his seat back on the
throne, drawing his long, fine dagger from its scabbard at his belt. "You
are meant to be a magician, Maladran, my chosen, the strongest and most
powerful in the six kingdoms and yet you cannot charm a mere slip of a girl
into claiming me as her betrothed or prevent the cursed brigands from robbing
me blind. What kind of useless magic is that?"

"It’s the magic of enchantment and spells, My Lord.
It is not there to control another's mind. It is precise and powerful and it
served you well in the days of your rise to power and since.

Sarrat leaned forward and savagely drove his dagger
into the arm of the throne sending splinters of dark wood tumbling to the floor.
"You forget yourself, Maladran. It needs but one word from me to denounce
you as my magician and strip you of your powers as you took them from Yarrin.
If I think you’ve broken your vow of loyalty to me I will claim a blood debt from
you as I would anyone else.

“Think on that, magician, a slow death at my hands,
tortured and broken until you scream for the release of Federa's embrace and
all it would take would be one word from me. If you have betrayed me that word
will be spoken and none of your powers will be able to prevent your lingering
death."

Maladran took a step up the dais to come level with
the seated king, his features pale with anger and his eyes full of pent up hatred
but Sarrat wouldn’t be intimidated.

"Hate me as much as you want, Maladran, but
remember you cannot hurt me without destroying yourself. Now you will do as I
command. I want Steppen to suffer for what he has done; I want him to know that
his actions have condemned his daughter to death. More than that I want the
spiteful bitch dead, straight away, before she can taste life or the full
flower of youth. I want her dead, crushed and destroyed. Do you understand,
Maladran?"

The magician nodded, too full of anger to reply.

"When you have done as you are commanded I want
that band of brigands who have stolen the gifts I sent swept from the land and
annihilated and then you will return to your tower and not leave again unless I
summon you. Now go!"

Maladran nodded curtly and stormed out of the Great
Hall using his power to slam the ornate doors behind him. Sarrat pulled the dagger
from the arm of the chair and began cleaning the dirt from beneath his nails,
ignoring the magician as he left the throne room. When Maladran’s footsteps had
faded Tarris stepped out from behind the pillar where he had been hiding, a sly
expression on his face.

"That was well done, Yer Majesty. Everyone got
what they deserved, except Maladran of course. 'Suppose you've got to be a bit
careful wiv magicians like, just in case they turns around an' does somethin'
to yer." Sarrat scowled at his spy. "Well yer gave all the uvers the
chop but all the magician got was a slapped 'and an' sent ter bed, not much of
a lesson ter keep 'im in line. Once ‘e’s done what ‘e’s been told ‘e will be up
to the same old tricks again yer mark me words.”

"So what would you do, my young advisor?"
smiled Sarrat.

"Well, if it were up to me, I'd take 'is
favourite toy an’ smash it an’ then send ‘im the bits. It’ll show ‘im what yer
can do, a kind of lesson if yer know what I mean."

Sarrat scowled and then burst into laughter, "I
assume his toy is still where I put him?"

"Oh yeh, he's still under me eye all right."

"Then you may kill Jonderill in an appropriate
manner but make sure my warning message is clear. Then return his body to
Maladran."

Tarris smiled in satisfaction. "It’ll be a real
pleasure, Me Lord."

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Jonderill eased back behind
one of the massive stone pillars where his faded grey robe, which clearly
designated him as a magician, albeit an apprentice one, couldn’t be seen. If he
hadn’t been feeling so sensitive about the matter he might have laughed at the
inappropriate status which the robe gave him, but after three summers of
practice, study and more practice, the only magic he could perform was still
the intermittent creation of elemental fire. Why Animus and Plantagenet hadn’t
given up on him a long time ago and sent him back to the palace kitchens was a
mystery to him.

If the roles had been reversed he would have thrown
himself out after the first year. Instead they continued with his daily
lessons, always certain that one day he would find what they called 'the
pathway to his power'. Despite their persistence and encouraging words, and
what the white sorcerer had said to him at his apprentice day test, Jonderill
was far less optimistic.

At the far end of the massive throne room the choir
started up, their soprano voices silencing the hum of conversation as every
head turned towards the silver-bound doors, waiting with eager anticipation for
the royal procession to arrive. Jonderill ran his hand through his damp hair
and wished he could have it cut short like the squires or the guards.
Unfortunately Plantagenet was still insisting that magicians had to have their
hair long to give them dignity. As Animus had nodded his bald head vigorously
in agreement, Jonderill didn’t have the heart to argue.

It had been the cause of some joking and ribald
remarks when he first started sword practice with the cadets, but they soon
forgot about it under the Cadetmaster’s stern glare. He was grateful that his
friends accepted his long hair as easily as they did his foreigner's pale green
eyes. His grey robe was a different matter though and after two days of girly
jokes he now changed from his robe into shirt and breeches in an alleyway
between the magician’s tower and the practice yard before each training
session.

If it hadn’t been for the Cadetmaster making him
practice a double-handed guard that morning over and over again after everyone
else had gone until sweat ran down his face and his shirt stuck to his body he
would have had more time to get ready. Then his hair wouldn’t have been wet and
he would have had time to scrape the soft stubble from his chin. As it was he
had to douse himself under the fountain in the palace courtyard after such a
gruelling session to remove the sweat and dust and ease his aching muscles.
That gave him just enough time to get back to the tower, pull on his robe and
get into position in the throne room before the first knights of Vinmore took
their places of honour along the aisles. He wondered if the Cadetmaster had
delayed him on purpose.

With a sigh of resignation he looked down at his feet
and realised with horror that he’d forgotten to change out of his house
slippers, a soft velvet of startling red. If his robe had grown to fit him as
it was supposed to do, they wouldn’t have shown but at sixteen he’d grown tall
whilst the robe had remained just as it was when it was given to him and was
now a good hand span too short for him. Fortunately he was not required to move
into the open, so with any luck he would be able to escape from the ceremony
without anyone noticing his lapse of memory or making embarrassing comments
about him being half dressed.

The sound of the procession drawing level with the
pillar he was hiding behind turned his attention away from the length of bare
ankle and calf which protruded from beneath his robe. King Steppen, as always
on state occasions, led the way but instead of having his two chancellors on
either side, Queen Althea held one arm and Princess Daun the other.

Jonderill forgot about his wet hair or short robe or
any other reason he was hiding behind the pillar and eased forward to get a
better view of the princess as eagerly as any other man in the vast hall. The
Princess Daun was stunning. Her golden hair, studded with diamonds, fell to her
waist in silken waves, framing a face of near perfection. Sea blue eyes, offset
by long lashes, sparkled alluringly and her lips seemed to invite every man there
to fall down before her. She was even more beautiful than he remembered and, at
that moment, he could have happily given his life for her.

Ignoring the rest of the procession which followed the
royal family down the long aisle to the dais with its triple thrones he
followed her with his eyes and suddenly wished he hadn’t refused his master's
offer to stand with them at the foot of the raised platform. Then he hadn’t wanted
to be seen, but now, the closer he could be to the woman of his dreams the
better. Perhaps if his master had forgotten something he could run and fetch it,
and when he returned, he could take up a position next to them.

A day never went by without one of them forgetting to
wear or carry an important item. Animus was particularly bad; once he became
involved in one of his experiments he would even forget to dress if Jonderill
was not there to remind him. Jonderill gave them a quick appraisal. He’d seen
to the pressing of their best robes and had put everything out for them ready
to dress so it was unlikely that they would forget anything.

Plantagenet was as immaculate as usual, looking every
part the ancient and wise sage, even if the blank look in his eyes did mean he
had drifted off to contemplate other matters. Animus was different, shifting
excitedly from one foot to the other, eager to join in the betrothal ceremony.
Jonderill looked him over carefully and then spotted it, or at least the lack
of it. The place at his belt, where his wand should have hung, was empty.

How on earth could Animus forget his wand! It was the
most important part of a magician's attire and, at the end of the ceremony, he
would be required to use it. Surely he must have felt undressed without it. As
if he had read Jonderill's thoughts, Animus touched his hand to the place where
the wand should have been; startled with surprise and looked anxiously around
the crowd as if expecting to see it in someone’s hand.

That was Jonderill's cue. With whispered apologies to
those around him he pushed his way to the side of the throne room, easing
people aside and squeezing through gaps that were really too small for him to
get through. As he stood on yet another set of toes, receiving a hiss of disapproval,
he was glad to be wearing his house slippers instead of his boots after all.
Not that anyone would retaliate. He might only be an apprentice magician but
nobody would dare offend someone who might be able to turn them into a stink
toad. Jonderill slipped through a small doorway, getting a brief nod from the
man on guard. Once outside there were far fewer people about than normal and
within no time he had run to the magicians’ tower, retrieved the wand and his
boots, and once again stood outside the throne room, only this time at the door
closest to where his masters stood.

Barrin stood guard outside the throne room door
dressed in parade armour, holding his halberd perfectly straight and instantly
recognised Jonderill. Being the most promising swordsman to have recently
joined the guards, he too had the dubious privilege of being at the morning’s
long, tiring sword practice. He’d been Jonderill’s reluctant partner as they
repeated the double-handed manoeuvre over and over again. Barrin gave him a quick
grin of shared sympathy as he flexed aching shoulders and opened the door wide
enough for Jonderill to slide through.

The throne room looked considerably different from
this angle, much brighter as the rows of bunting shimmered in the sunlight and
peoples’ beaming faces reflected soft candlelight. He eased forward between two
tall veteran guards who instinctively went to draw swords on the unannounced
intruder but then smiled knowingly as Jonderill showed them the wand and
pointed to Animus. Everyone indulged Animus and his forgetfulness and most of
the guards had shared a joke on more than one occasion with Jonderill as he
retrieved his master's lost or misplaced belongings from the most unlikely of
places.

Jonderill eased forward, unsure if he should make his
presence known by handing Animus his wand or if he should keep well into the
shadows, ready to dash forward and hand it to him when it was needed. In the
end he decided on a compromise and moved far enough forward so that he was in
easy reach of Animus but still out of the limelight. More importantly it gave
him an uninterrupted view of the princess as she sat next to her father, less
than a dozen paces away.

He could have feasted his eyes on her beauty all day
if it hadn’t been for the loud fanfare from the far end of the hall. That made
two knights in full armour move forward to stand either side of the princess
blocking his view. With a little annoyance and much curiosity he turned to
watch the new procession enter, glad that he was tall enough to see over the
top of Animus's bald head.

Four pages in green and gold livery came first
carrying velvet cushions. At first glance the cushions appeared to be empty but
as the pages approached sunlight glittered from the priceless jewels resting on
top of them. Behind the pages came two men, arm in arm and as different in
appearance as it was possible to be. The elder of the two reminded Jonderill of
Animus, small, round and with a cheerful smile which at this moment beamed in
pure benevolence. If it were not for the richness of his clothes, the silky
white hair and the slightly tilted crown on his head he could well have been
mistaken for the magician. Jonderill had only seen him once before but guessed
who he was by the appearance of Prince Pellum at his side.

Without a doubt Pellum was amongst the most handsome
of young men in the kingdom and he knew it. He was of above average height with
a slender, athletic build and his light brown eyes matched his carefully cut
and waved hair. His easy smile and brief bows of acknowledgement gave the
prince an air of charm and chivalry which disguised his arrogance. Jonderill
hated him. He hated him for his gracious manners and sun-bronzed good looks. He
hated him for his fine clothes and bejewelled gifts. He hated him for the young
women who willingly gave themselves to him but, most of all, he hated him
because he was a prince and could have the one thing in life Jonderill wanted
most of all but could never have, the Princess Daun.

Jonderill glared at the approaching prince with his
entourage of loyal knights and wished he would trip up and impale himself on
his silver sword. More than ever before he wanted to be a magician so he could
turn the smirking prince into a bleating goat or a croaking toad or something
even worse. Then they would see who the princess would turn to. His jealous
thoughts flowed from him like a river and so strongly that they disturbed the
sensitive Plantagenet, interrupting his pleasant contemplations.

The tall magician turned abruptly to give his apprentice
a rare look of stern disapproval making Jonderill step back into the shadows
feeling guilty and contrite. He’d forgotten how sensitive those with the power
could be to his emotions. Plantagenet’s clear look of disapproval made him pull
back to where the two veteran guards stood so he could no longer see Daun or
Pellum or the betrothal ceremony.

He was the only one in the entire hall who did draw back
though, everyone else turned forward eagerly to witness the betrothal ceremony.
Even those suitors who had offered gifts in the hope of being chosen as the
princess’s future husband watched with interest, knowing their rejected offers
of marriage had nothing to do with unrequited love but more with the importance
of making a good strategic alliance.

Pellum bowed to King Steppen and his wife and then
turned all his attentions to the princess. He had to admit she was beautiful
and, as heir to the wealthiest of the six kingdoms, her allure was irresistible
but for all that, she was still only a child. Pellum kept his charming smile
glued to his face and wondered what her body would feel like when he took her
for the first time on their wedding night. He was already well experienced
whilst she would be a novice and a virgin too.

Perhaps he should get some more practice in over the
next few years just to make sure that the wedding night experience was the best
it could be for him. The thought animated his smile and he was glad that his
tunic was long enough to cover the growing bulge in his tight breeches. He
stood from his kneeling position and placed an emerald and diamond circlet on
the princess’s head. It was the first of the four traditional betrothal gifts
he had brought for her.

It seemed to Jonderill, standing miserably in the
shadows, that the betrothal ceremony dragged on for an eternity. From where he
stood he couldn’t see what was happening but somehow Pellum's voice came
through painfully loud and clear. With the circlet he promised to guard her
throne and with the pendant, her life. As he placed the golden girdle around
her waist he promised to honour and obey her and finally, with the betrothal
ring, he promised to love and be true. Jonderill could have cried at the
unfairness of it all; even if he became the most powerful magician in the six
kingdoms he could never have her now.

A loud fanfare echoed around the immense hall and the
crowd cheered until the ancient stone of its thick walls vibrated with their
celebration. Pellum offered the princess his hand and led her from where she
sat on the smallest of the three thrones to the front of the dais so all those
gathered could see the betrothed couple who would one day be their king and
queen. As the cheering ceased and the fanfare faded away musicians high up in
the gallery began to play gentle lilting music. Those who had been invited to
witness the betrothal left their seats in an orderly line and began to present
their gifts to the young couple.