The White Robe (26 page)

Two guards jumped to obey, emptying the contents of the chest at the foot of his bed and scattering clothes across the floor whilst the third guard remained where he was with his sword hovering just above Jonderill’s heart. One of the guards retrieved the iron blade from under his bed and threw it on the pile of clothes which the other guard was searching through. He found Jonderill’s pouch of coins, counted them out into the palm of his hand and with a satisfied grin pushed them into his pocket.

“Get up,” commanded the leader. The guard with the sword prodded Jonderill with its tip and Jonderill hurried to obey, dragging the blanket off the bed with him to wrap around his body. The leader snatched the blanket from his hands leaving Jonderill standing in his small clothes as the guard ripped the mattress open scattering the rough wool and rag filling around the room.

“You will dress and come with me.”

“Why?” said Jonderill, “Where are you taking me?”

“Silence! You will say nothing until the High Master gives you permission to speak.”

Jonderill nodded knowing it was pointless to protest and eased himself away from between the wall and the tip of the guard’s sword. He started to sort amongst the scattered clothes for a clean shirt and breeches but his hand went automatically to his robe which he pulled out from amongst the crumpled garments instead. Quickly he shook it out and pulled it over his head, found some leggings in the pile and put them on along with his boots. When he stood he was surprised to find that the robe fell to just above his ankles, the smooth, almost white fabric flowing around him as if it was being stirred by a breeze.

Whilst he might have been impressed by the change in the robe, the guard with the sword wasn’t. He gave Jonderill a prod in the back with the sword’s tip and Jonderill followed the squad leader out of the door and down the stairs, thankful for the thickness of the robe which protected his back, otherwise the sword tip would have drawn blood. Outside the inn and along the side of the square, a large crowd had already gathered. Most of the crowd were craft workers who had been attracted by the commotion as they made their way to work. He recognised some as patrons of the inn. There were no armsmen amongst them but the innkeeper and his pot boy stood at the edge of the crowd. He gave the innkeeper a small nod of acknowledgement and whilst the innkeeper didn’t respond he did see him lean down to whisper to his boy who then scampered away.

The guards marched Jonderill swiftly along the main pathways towards the centre of the Enclave and in far less time than it had taken him the previous night he found himself outside of the temple building with a large crowd behind him. He wondered if he would once again have to wait on the High Master’s pleasure in front of the temple. If he had to he was damn sure he wasn’t going to do it in his small clothes like last time. The guards didn’t stop but hurried him forward, up the marble steps and into the temple hallway with the doors closing loudly behind him.

Inside the hallway it was full of guards and instead of the usual grey robes and acolytes moving from room to room there was a strained silence and all the doors were closed and guarded. The guards marched him across the hallway and without hesitating, another opened the door to the High Master’s room closing it firmly behind him. Jonderill took a swift look around the room and the apprehension, which had been building since the guards had woken him, doubled.

The room had changed. All the comfortable chairs had been pushed to one side and the hearth where a fire had burnt on his first visit was empty. The hard chairs had been removed from the room and the array of refreshments had been replaced with a set of leather and bronze armour. Even the books and scrolls on the book shelf looked different; slightly askew as if someone had been riffling through them looking for something. High Master Razarin stood behind his desk with Master Tressing and the Master of Penance behind him. On the desk lay an array of weapons; a baldric of throwing knives, a side knife with a long blade and double swords.

Tissian knelt in front of the desk with his head bowed, his hands bound and with Gellidan standing behind him. A new bruise joined the one on his face which Allowyn had given him the previous day and his bare arms showed fresh bruises and welts. Without his weapons he looked very young and vulnerable and Jonderill could feel his anger replacing the apprehension inside of him at the way the boy had been treated.

“How dare you break into the goddess’s sanctuary?” Jonderill turned his attention back to the High Master who was leaning angrily across his desk. “Did you think that I wouldn’t know that someone had been inside my room without my permission and had entered the goddess’s sanctuary and defiled her altar? Do you think I’m a fool and cannot sense who has desecrated Federa’s holy ground? You and this boy have broken the strictest rule of the Enclave and for that you will be punished. If you want that punishment to be easier on you, you will tell me what the goddess said.”

Jonderill glanced down at Tissian and wondered what he had already told the High Master. He didn’t want to get him into any more trouble than he was already in by saying the wrong thing so he said nothing. The High Master glared at him and after a moment he picked up the long knife and slammed it down, point first, into the desk in anger.

“Speak to me, boy. I know that the goddess spoke to you, now what did she say?” Jonderill still remained silent. “If you won’t speak to me then the boy will.”

He nodded to Gellidan who pushed Tissian to the floor with the sole of his boot and drew one of his swords.

“Federa’s words were for me and me alone,” spat Jonderill angrily. “Tissian heard nothing that the goddess said to me, so it doesn’t matter what you do to him, he will not be able to tell you.” He took a threatening step forward. “And I’m not going to tell you what Federa said either.”

Razarin glared at Tissian who had struggled back onto his knees. “Is this true?”

“Yes, High Master.”

Razarin turned back to Jonderill. “And what about the torc you took, where have you hidden that?”

“The torc is mine, a gift to me from Maladran. The thing is evil so I’ve put it somewhere safe where it cannot be found and cannot be used by others to cause harm.”

The High Master sighed in exasperation and glared at Jonderill over the desk. “You will not defy me, boy; you will tell me where the torc is.” Jonderill folded his arms and glared back at Razarin. “Very well, if you will not cooperate I will have to teach you both a lesson you will not forget and make Tissian’s punishment your punishment too. Tissian, has it always been your wish to be a protector?”

Tissian looked up hopefully, “Yes, High Master.”

“And have you always worked extra hard to achieve your greatest desire?”

“Yes, High Master, always.”

“Then this will be your punishment.”

Tissian looked on in horror as the High Master held his hands over his weapons until they shattered into splinters. On the dresser the leather in his armour smouldered and turned into ash and the bronze plates melted into small puddles of liquid metal which dripped onto the floor. Tissian hung his head and wept.

“You were sent here to be apprenticed to a weaver but you lack the honour to do even that. Now you will spend the rest of your days sweeping, cleaning and labouring in the weaving sheds. You will be confined in the cells until a place can be found for you in the servants quarters and think yourself fortunate that it was just your weapons that I destroyed for your disobedience and not your life.”

“You can’t do that,” said Jonderill belligerently. “Being a protector is what Tissian lives for, it’s his life.”

“I do what is right for the Enclave. I should never have listened to Callabris when he begged me to take this boy to train as a protector; he has been nothing but trouble. Master of Penance, take him away and lock him in a cell until he can be reassigned to his new duties as a servant.”

Gellidan pulled Tissian to his feet with a satisfied smirk whilst the stern Master of Penance bowed briefly to Razarin. “You, boy, will come with me. From now on you will do as you are told and you will only speak when you are commanded to do so.” He opened the door and marched outside without another word. Gellidan roughly pushed Tissian out into the hallway after him.

“As for you,” continued Razarin glaring at Jonderill, “You are foolish boy, foolish and naive. You try to pretend that you have no magic but you break into warded places that not even Master Tressing could enter. And just look at you, everything about you says you are one of Federa’s chosen. I suspect that if you try to pick that knife up or touch that sword your whole body would shake with revulsion, but have it your own way and go. We don’t want you here; you are a bad influence on those with weak minds, like that boy.” He turned to Gellidan. “Your time has come. You will go with Jonderill and you will do as you must until the day that death releases one of you.”

“I don’t want his protection,” stated Jonderill firmly. “I can take care of myself.”

“What you want is immaterial. Gellidan has been assigned to you. Gather your things and go and do not return to the Enclave until you have learnt what it is to be one of Federa’s chosen.”

Jonderill glared at the High Master and then stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Gellidan, this is not the pairing I would have chosen for you, so if it turns out that Jonderill is unworthy of your protection, I release you from your vows, and would expect you to deal with the matter as you see fit, and then return here. Now go with him and make sure that he leaves the city before the sun is high. If you haven’t found reason to part company with him beforehand, it should take you no more than six days to take your charge to your cousin. I am sure he will find the boy a suitable place.”

The High Master reached inside the drawer and withdrew Maladran’s torc which he put in its black, silk bag and passed to a surprised Gellidan. “Tell Vorgret that the boy is a gift from me and that once that torc is around his throat he will have full control of what little power the boy has. Once that is done you will be free to return here until a white robe with real power requires a protector.”

Gellidan took the black silk bag which Razarin held out to him, bowed deeply to the two masters and left.

“You had the torc all along?” questioned Tressing.

“Of course I did; the thing was made by the goddess and calls to me so it was a simple matter to find where the boy had hidden it.”

“So why the charade?”

“I needed to test Jonderill. I needed to make sure that his power is limited to making elemental fire, opening doors and the occasional party trick. If he had any real power he would have been able to sense the presence of the torc.”

“I see, and what happens when Vorgret puts the torc around the boy’s throat?”

“If he has any magic he will become Vorgret’s property and if not and he lives that long the torc will do Gellidan’s work for him.”

~   ~   ~   ~   ~

Protectors

Jonderill and Gellidan sat either side of the fire staring silently into the flames. In the two and a half days they had been travelling together they had said barely a dozen words. Gellidan had taken over setting up the fire and cooking the food after Jonderill failed to produce elemental fire on their first night together, whilst Jonderill cared for the horses and set out their bedding. Even that arrangement had come about without a word being spoken between them. Gellidan gave an irritable sigh and drew one of his swords. He took the whetstone from the pouch clipped to his belt and ran it down the already sharp edge of the blade.

Jonderill looked up as the noise grated on his nerves. “What are you doing here, Gellidan? You know that I am no white robe who needs your protection.”

“The High Master has commanded me to stay with you,” muttered Gellidan without looking up.

Jonderill sighed in frustration. “Do I look like a magician? Do I act like one? Have you seen me do anything which is even remotely magical?” Gellidan remained silent and continued sharpening his sword. “You are wasted here, Gellidan. I don’t need you and I don’t want you.” He suddenly stood. “I’m leaving Gellidan and going south. Go back to the Enclave or go to your cousin’s. Go anywhere but don’t follow me.”

Jonderill turned and walked away from the fire to where the horses were tethered. He’d rubbed them both down earlier and had fed and watered them, but he’d kept Sansun bridled with his saddle close by. He propped his sword up against the tree, picked up the saddle blanket and saddle, and placed them on Sansun’s back with his small roll of belongings already attached. Sansun waited patiently, not at all perturbed by moving on again so soon. Jonderill bent to fasten the saddle girth and then froze as the tip of a sword prodded him in the back.

“Don’t do this Gellidan, just let me go.”

“I can’t do that, I have my orders from the High Master. Now turn around slowly.”

Jonderill felt the pressure of the sword tip being withdrawn and finished fastening the saddle before turning around. Gellidan was fully armed with both his swords drawn, his long knife at his side and his baldric of eight throwing knives across his chest. The only thing that was missing was his armour.

“Pick up your sword.” He waited until Jonderill had retrieved the blade from where he had propped it up against the tree to which the horses were tethered. “I know you’re not a magician otherwise you’d not be able to pick up that sword. I’ve watched you for two days and there’s nothing there, not the slightest hint of magic. You’re an imposter who wears a white robe without ever having earned it. High Master Razarin was right, you’re not worthy of me so now I’m going to kill you.”

With careful movements Jonderill eased himself away from the horses to give himself more room, and took up a defensive stance as he had been taught. He’d never seen Gellidan fight, but he guessed that he would have all a protector’s usual skills, in which case, he didn’t stand much of a chance.

Gellidan came at him with both swords held high. Jonderill parried one and ducked under the other which came so close to decapitating him that he could feel the moving air ruffle the hair on the top of his head. He scuttled backwards and took his defensive stance once more. Gellidan gave him a predatory smile and attacked again with both swords at waist height, preventing any attempt at ducking underneath. Jonderill tried to parry both swords at once but felt a shock run up his arm as his sword became trapped between the two blades. He pulled his sword free to the screech of grinding metal and retook his stance.

With a derisive laugh Gellidan came forward again, but this time Jonderill was ready for him, and instead of parrying, he lunged under the slicing swords and buried a finger width of steel into Gellidan’s thigh. Gellidan stepped back with a look of surprise on his face, and waves of nausea hit Jonderill as if he had been punched in the gut. His sword point dipped and he staggered slightly as he fought to control his heaving stomach and clear the sparking lights in front of his eyes.

“So you can use a sword well enough to score a hit, which proves you are no white robe. Now there is no doubt, I can stop playing with you and do this properly. Prepare to die imposter.”

Gellidan came at him so fast that Jonderill barely saw the movement in time to move and only saved himself from being sliced in half by throwing himself full length onto the ground in front of his opponent. He rolled and came unsteadily to his feet, his sword twisting in his hand. Before he had the chance to adjust his grip, Gellidan attacked again with both swords at waist height. Jonderill tried to repeat his earlier move of blocking both blades, but this time his sword became completely trapped. With a simple sideways move Gellidan dragged it from his hand and flicked it into the air to land out of arms reach.

Jonderill scuttled backwards until he stood against the hard trunk of an everleaf, and Gellidan gave him a grim smile of satisfaction. He raised one of his swords above his head and bought it down in a diagonal stroke designed to cut a man from shoulder to hip. Helpless to do anything about it, Jonderill clenched his eyes closed and waited for the blow to fall, but instead of the sharp cut of steel ending his life, he was showered with leaves and twigs and twisted branches which pushed him to his knees.

When his heart had slowed enough that he could catch his breath, he pushed the debris on top of him to one side and stumbled to his feet. Around him the outer reaches of a huge branch covered the ground. He looked around him in disbelief, and pushed more twigs and branches out of the way until he found Gellidan’s crumpled body beneath the shattered remains of one of the trees huge spreading limbs. From the blood that trickled from a cut on his head, it was clear that he had been felled by the falling bough. Jonderill placed a hand over Gellidan’s heart and then wasn’t sure if he was pleased or not when he found a strong beat.

He searched amongst the fallen debris and found Gellidan’s swords which were buried in leaves and twigs. When he’d freed them, he removed his attacker’s long belt knife and used it to cut through the man’s baldric. He carried the weapons to where the horses stood and returned to Gellidan with a length of rope from one of the saddle bags. With a huge amount of effort, and not much care, he bound Gellidan’s hands and dragged him across to the fire, where he propped him up against one of the logs they had been using as seats. Using a bit of cloth he had torn from Gellidan’s shirt, he dabbed at the cut on his opponents temple until it stopped bleeding, and waited for him to regain consciousness. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with Gellidan after that, but every time he thought about cutting his throat, his head pounded and his stomach roiled.

Gellidan had just opened his eyes and was groaning miserably when the sound of horses pushing their way through the undergrowth made Jonderill grab his sword and jump to his feet. Ignoring the waves of sickness that rolled over him he waited anxiously for the horsemen to show themselves, but sighed in relief when Allowyn rode into the clearing. Behind him were a small group of armsmen, and behind them rode Tissian. Jonderill put his sword down and gave Allowyn and Tissian a relieved smile of welcome.

Allowyn pulled his horse to a halt and looked around the untidy camp site before returning his attention to Gellidan and then to Jonderill. “What’s going on here, Jonderill? Why is this man bound?”

Before Jonderill could reply Gellidan clambered to his feet and took a step towards the protector. “He used magic! He used magic to tear that branch from the tree. Razarin was wrong; he really does have magic.”

“Gellidan tried to kill me,” said Jonderill calmly.

“No! No I didn’t, you’re mistaken. You needed to use your power before we could be bonded as white robe and protector and that’s what I made you do. Now we are bound I’m truly your protector. Allowyn, untie me so I can serve my new master.”

Tissian pushed his horse through the group of armsmen and stopped next to Allowyn, staring disdainfully down at the bound man. “No true protector would try to kill their master.”

“I didn’t,” pleaded Gellidan. “Allowyn, you know how these things work. Didn’t you test Callabris’s power before you were bonded?

“Yes.” said Allowyn slowly, “but I didn’t try to kill him.”

“And not twice,” muttered Tissian under his breath.

Gellidan returned his attention back to Jonderill. “Jonderill, you must release me. I’m your protector now and the High Master has paired us until the day death takes one of us. It’s the way it is with our kind and it cannot be undone.”

“Is this so?” asked Jonderill. “Must I have him even if I don’t want him to be my protector?”

Allowyn nodded. “It is the way the goddess has ordained it. The pairing can only be undone by the death of the master or the protector, although if the protector is killed another may take his place.”

“So that is what must happen,” said Tissian determinedly. He slid from his horse and walked to confront Gellidan. “Gellidan, you have betrayed your calling and I challenge you for the pairing of this white robe.”

“No!” interrupted Jonderill. “You can’t do that, he’s older and more experienced than you. He will kill you.”

Tissian smiled. “He may be older and have more experience, but I’ve trained longer and harder.” He looked to Allowyn. “Can it be done?”

Allowyn frowned, unhappy to be put in such a situation. “It could but such a fight is to the death and must be fought with your own weapons. You have none, Tissian and we are not permitted to give you ours.”

“I’ll have two swords if Jonderill will gift his own weapons to me.”

Jonderill nodded and walked to where the swords were stacked. He picked up his fine sword and Plantagenet’s old iron blade and returned to where Tissian stood, handing him the blades. “Please don’t do this.”

“It’s the only way.”

Allowyn shook his head but dismounted and released Gellidan from his bonds. “This man has been hurt and needs time to recover and we have been riding hard and need to set up camp. Tomorrow, when the sun rises, Gellidan and Tissian will fight for the honour of being this white robe’s protector.”

*

In less than a candle length the clearing had changed from a hastily made overnight stop to a purposely built, orderly camp. The fire had been extended and edged with stones, and the branch, which had saved Jonderill’s life, was cut and neatly stacked. Dozo and one of the armsmen tended the cauldron on the centre of the fire, stirring it occasionally or adding something from small packets kept in a waterproof skin bag. Flatbread cooked on a stone at the edge of the fire and the smell of its cooking drifted across the camp. Under the tree where the two horses had been tethered, there was a picket line of twenty horses or more, and armsmen worked on brushing coats and checking hooves. A shelter had been erected to one side of the camp, and bedrolls and other gear had been neatly stacked under its protection in case it rained.

It wasn’t just the physical appearance of the clearing which had changed. Instead of just the two of them glaring at each other across the fire, there was bustle and activity, and instead of silence, there was the buzz of voices as men went about their duties. An armsman at the edge of the camp whistled whilst he dug a waste pit, and further out, two guards called to each other as they walked the perimeter. The only thing that hadn’t changed, was the atmosphere, which was still full of waiting and tension.

Jonderill looked up from the shirt he was mending and watched the activity. In the flickering light from the fire it was difficult to do a good job of mending the holes where the acolyte’s sword tip had pierced his shoulder and side, but he’d borrowed needle and thread and had set to his task to take his mind off what was to come. Apart from that, everyone else was busy and the activity was infectious. He looked up when he heard Dozo call Allowyn’s name, and watched the protector cross the camp to where Dozo handed him a cloth and clean shirt. Allowyn removed his sweat soaked shirt, took the one offered and crossed to where Jonderill sat, breathing hard. He sat a little way from Jonderill and wiped himself down.