The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (40 page)

Life had improved for him too. Not only had he bathed but his hair had been trimmed, his borrowed clothes and boots had been replaced and his wounds had been treated so that the pain had subsided to a dull ache. Tozaman had insisted on doing that himself, although the brotherlord was still hurting from the beating he had taken. It had been a painful process, but he was glad that it had been Tozaman and not some stranger who had seen him cry as he bound Jonderill’s stumps and the full realisation of what had been taken from him filled him with despair. Tozaman had cried for what had been taken from him too, but at least a lost love could be replaced in time.

For a time he’d hidden himself away and shunned the company of others, even his friends, but then a remarkable thing happened. On the day after Tozaman had pared away the burnt and dead flesh around his stumps and had rebound them with healing balm and clean cloths, he had brought Jonderill a small bundle wrapped up in an old green shirt with a darned hole in the shoulder. He recognised it instantly. It was the one he’d been wearing when Tissian had rescued him outside an inn in the Enclave. He knew what would be inside the bundle, but it still took him a long while to unwrap it.

As he had thought, the bundle contained his few possessions; some items of clothing, a purse of coins and the cloak pin Tissian had given him when his had broken. The other item was the torc that Maladran had once worn, still in its black bag. He didn’t open the bag, but carefully hid it away from anyone’s sight. The only thing which was missing was the old iron blade, but he guessed that Tozaman hadn’t given it to him because of the memories it held.

To have his possessions back, which he thought were lost forever, was remarkable enough but best of all was that Sansun had been returned to him too. The horse had carried his belongings safely in his saddle bag until thirst drove him into the oasis at Astazin. Such a magnificent animal was welcomed by the brotherlords, and whilst he wouldn’t let anyone on his back, Sansun had earned his keep by servicing the herd of breeding mares. Jonderill had been to see him every day since, and with Tozaman’s encouragement, and the aid of a special saddle made by one of Sandstone’s leather workers he could now ride and not fall off too often. The freedom it gave him lifted his spirits more than anything else could have done. That is except for one thing; the final completion of the task the Goddess had set him and the realisation of his hopes.

He hadn’t told anyone, not even Rothers, of what he hoped would happen once his task was completed. Despite walking the difficult path of hurt and pain, he’d managed to kill a god and set a people free. Now all that was left, was for him to bring the people of Sandstrone back to the Goddess so they could worship her as they had before Talis had stolen them away. He was certain that when his work was finally done, the Goddess would give him the one thing he wanted above all else, to be whole again. The people of Tilital and Astazin had gathered and now he waited for the brotherlords to summon him to the temple.

As the flaps of his spacious tent parted and Rothers stepped inside his heart raced with anticipation. Rothers too had changed. Gone was the cringing slave he’d first met with the tattered rags and the look of a whipped cur. Instead he was dressed in a dark tunic and breeches which had been specially made for him. At his side was a sword which Oraman was teaching him to use.

There was an air of confidence and purpose about him too, gained from the part he’d played in the liberation of the people and the decisions he had made about his future. When he’d regained some of the weight he’d lost through starvation, and his hair and eyebrows had regrown where they had been singed by the heat of the burning pavilion, he would look more like the heir of Northshield than he ever had done before. Then Borman would have to watch out.

Rothers smiled at him. “Are you ready, Lord? The brotherlords are waiting at the city gate with what must be the entire population of Tilital and Astazin behind them.” Jonderill returned the smile and stood with his robe flowing around him. That was the one thing which hadn’t changed. Despite being washed and scrubbed the robe was still as dark as it had been when he’d walked away from Tallison’s pavilion to kill a god.

“Lord,” Rother’s hesitantly stepped forward to stop Jonderill from leaving the tent. “Lord, I know it is not my place to question you, but are you certain this is what should be done?”

If it had been anyone else he would have dismissed the question, but Rothers deserved better. He’d been there when the brotherlords had asked him to use his power to revive the magic that his father and Callistares had used to build Tilital. They were certain that his magic alone would save the crumbling stone city so that the people could return to their homes and rebuild their lives. Rothers had also been there when he’d refused.

Perhaps he should have asked the question then, and perhaps he would have told him that he needed the people of Sandstrone to call on the Goddess to work this miracle. If he’d been able to restore the stone city, and he wasn’t sure if he could, then the people would have no reason to turn to the Goddess and he would have failed in his task. However, if they needed her, Federa would see that he had brought the people back to her, and she would reward him and make him whole again. He knew that refusing to help had been wrong, but he just couldn’t take the chance that the reward he longed for would be withheld.

“Yes, my friend, for the sake of all that I am, this is what must be done.”

“Then you had better come. The brotherlords and the people are waiting for you to lead them into Tilital.”

Rothers stepped to the side and held the door back for Jonderill to pass through into the brilliant morning sunshine. He could feel the presence of the people and hear the twelve brotherlords walking behind him as he made his way through the entrance to the city and along its dusty, rubble-strewn streets, but he took no notice of them; he had only one thing on his mind. The dome of the temple towered high above any other building beckoning him onwards, and he didn’t stop until he stood before its closed doors.

Slowly he mounted the steps listening to the dust and sand grinding beneath his boots and the murmur of the people as they waited for him to open the temple doors. He was the first magician to have walked these steps since his father had left the temple, sealing the doors behind him. It was before Tallison had become the Rale, and he wondered if Coberin had an inkling of what his fate and the fate of his friend, King Duro, was destined to be. He could almost feel the spells which bound the doors closed, looping like chains around the two massive door rings and criss-crossing from side to side.

In his mind he could see their light and colours, and the intricate weave of thought and intent, and yet, there were flaws where the colours had faded, and the links of the chain didn’t quite join together. He marvelled that he could see them so clearly, and was amazed that he understood how they were constructed. Callabris had told him that his father had been a great magician with explosive powers which had weakened him as he aged. He could see it now in the faded colours and broken links. Tallison may have killed him, but Coberin was already dying when he worked this last piece of magic.

Of course he wasn’t the first person to enter the temple since Coberin had sealed it; Nyte had been in there too along with the two brotherlords. He could see now where the binding chains of spells had been disrupted to allow her and the brotherlord’s to pass. Tozaman had suggested that Nyte might have been his half sister, but he’d dismissed the idea as foolishness. His father had never wed, and as far as he knew, he’d never been to Sandstrone. It was for the love of his friend, King Duro, that Coberin had made it possible for Nyte to pass into the safety of the temple. When he sealed the temple doors, he must have known what was to come and he wondered if King Duro had known too, not that it mattered now; all three of them were dead, their murderer along with them.

Jonderill shook his head to push the unwanted thoughts from his mind and took a step forward to study the binding chains closer, not certain how to release the spell, but he needn’t have bothered. The chains sparkled and glittered then faded away like sunlight on water when a cloud passes over the sun. He stopped and steadied his breathing, pushing down his excitement. There was so little left for him to do before he would be made whole, before he would be Jonderill again and complete. For that he would happily forgo his gift of magic. He took another step forward, the door opened for him and he stepped inside.

The temple was the same as the one at the Enclave, cool and round and the pink glow was gentle on the eyes but it was different too. There had been bright lights when he was in the temple in the Enclave, and he could almost feel the presence of the Goddess, but here the light was dimmer and the presence less obvious, as if it were skulking in the shadows. For the first time he felt a tremor of uncertainty as he stepped hesitantly forward to the stone pedestal at the centre of the temple.

That too was different and unsettling; it was totally black and almost mocking. When he’d been inside the temple at the Enclave Tissian had been by his side as he had placed his hands on the altar and the Goddess had spoken to him. Tissian was gone now and he had no hands, but surely Federa would understand and would speak to him. He waited to hear the Goddess’s voice as he had waited once before, but now there was only silence.

When he at last spoke his voice sounded small, like that of a frightened child. “Federa, Goddess of magic, I have come as your servant to kneel before you and offer my devotions.” He knelt and closed his eyes, waiting to hear her voice but instead there was only a whisper, like faint laughter. He tried again. “Goddess, I have walked the difficult path of hurt and pain that you have made for me, and everything which I have had and have loved has been taken from me; my family, my friends, even my hands. There is nothing left of what I was.”

He stopped again as the laughter became louder, coming from every part of the temple, harsher and more mocking. “Lady,” he pleaded “I have done everything you have asked of me and have completed the task that you set. Will you not speak to me? Will you not make me whole again”?

The cynical laughter became louder, echoing from the walls, bitter and cruel, beating at his mind until he could take it no longer. He staggered to his feet trying to block out the noise with his arms over his ears and stumbled backwards away from the pedestal until he reached the door which opened at his touch allowing him through before it slammed shut behind him.

Jonderill turned slowly on the top of the steps with the sound of the mocking laughter still echoing through his mind until it faded into nothing but a memory which he would rather forget. Before him Sandstrone’s people shifted restlessly, waiting for the Goddess’s words whilst the whispering of falling sand and dust filled his ears. Their city crumbled to dust and yet the temple still stood, solid and untouched by the passage of time and the erosion of the desert sands. He understood then what was happening, that the temple was sustained by the magic which had been created to hold the buildings together. It was like a giant parasite sucking the life from the city, returning it to the desert and destroying the hopes and the dreams of its people.

He had been tricked. The Goddess had used him to destroy a rival not to save a people. Talis was evil but was the Goddess any better or did she just play with people’s lives for her own amusement? If the High Master was to be believed, it was Federa who had created the six kingdoms and ordained the kings which ruled over them. It was Federa who gave magic to the land to be wielded for the good of the people in fairness and justice. But there was no fairness or justice, just greed and ambition and a never-ending struggle for power in which the people were just pawns in the game.

The memory of the Goddess’s mocking laughter echoed through his mind and he could feel anger rising within him. The Goddess had used him and had taken everything from him. She had broken his body and destroyed what he had been and finally she had mocked him, laughed at his naivety, sneered at his helplessness and slammed the door shut behind him. He looked out across the crowd of starving, devastated people who were waiting for the comfort of her word and he knew that she had used them too. Everything she created; the Enclave, the rulers of the six kingdoms, even the magic, was there to repress the people, to control them and ensure they were never strong enough to oppose her will and be free to live their own lives.

He knew now what he had to do, why he had been through the fires of hellden to become what he had become and it had nothing to do with being the Goddess’s servant. They were all corrupt; Federa, the kings of the six kingdoms, even the magic. Before him was a dark and twisted path and he knew that his only reward for success would be eternal damnation, but to turn from that path would mean that people, like those who stood so hopefully before him, would never be free of greed, fear and repression.

Behind him he could feel the temple pulling at the magic to sustain itself. He could feel its stones, so tightly fitted together that the temple walls were seamless, and yet they were not, there were holes and fissures where the soft red stone had crumbled to dust. Above he could feel the crazy pattern of cracks overlaying the bronze roof where the soft metal had rotted away, the beams beneath nothing but dust held together by magic sucked from the homes of the people around him.

Jonderill closed his eyes and felt the magic. He touched it and tasted it and pulled it away from the temple, deflecting it from his body and back into the crumbling city. Now he could feel the temple pulling harder, trying to replace the magic as he drained it away. It pulled at the magic trying to fill the gaps and hold together the grains of dust but there were too many grains for the magic to hold in place. Slowly the temple shimmered, its outline becoming insubstantial and with a sigh like a last exhalation of breath it collapsed within itself and sank to the ground.