The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (41 page)

He felt the push of air against his back and staggered forward slightly, his legs unsteady from the effort of what he had done. When he opened his eyes again, everything was still and silent. The dust had settled and the crowd were frozen in place with awe. Above all, the sound of running sand and dust had ceased, the magic once again returned to the city where it belonged. He smiled to himself. His work here was truly done, it was up to the brotherlords now to rebuild their land and their people. He had other work to do.

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PART THREE

Freedom

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Tower

Jonderill lifted the small stone he’d selected to around the height of a man’s head and then propelled it forward as hard and as fast as he could. The stone, a flat pebble that had been washed smooth and flat over a millennium on the bed of a nearby stream, hit the tree with a loud thwack and buried itself deeply into the trunk so that only the outer edge showed. The tree was softer than metal armour, but at head height the missile would be deadly. It wasn’t the only stone to be embedded in the tree. All up and down the trunk flat river stones stuck out at different angles, and the stones scattered in a wide fan around the tree bore testament to the three moon cycles’ practice it had taken for Jonderill to levitate the stone and hit his target every time.

He raised another stone and then held it where it was, hovering in the air as he heard a tuneless whistle behind him. Rothers always whistled when he approached just in case he should startle the magician into sending one of his missiles in his direction. Of course he never said that was why he whistled, that would have been a betrayal of the trust they shared, but Jonderill knew. He let the stone drop to the ground as Rothers approached, two long-eared hoppers dangling from one hand and a plump wood clucker in the other. If Jonderill had changed in the three moon cycles they had lived in the deserted rebel camp, then it was nothing compared to the changes which had been wrought in King Borman’s cousin.

Rothers held up the wood clucker in a gesture of triumph and smiled at the magician. He would have liked to have called Jonderill his friend but he was too in awe of him for that, and in any case their relationship was one which would make open friendship uncomfortable. Perhaps companion would be a better description, although even that didn’t fit well. He was more like a servant doing the hunting and cooking and most of the menial tasks around the camp, but at the same time he didn’t have a master, since Jonderill never asked him to do anything.

It had been like that since the day they rode out of Tilital laden with gifts from Tozaman, and supplies which the people of that devastated city gave willingly, but could ill afford. Jonderill had ridden in the lead knowing exactly where they were going and he’d ridden behind with the two pack horses, just as he used to do when he accompanied Borman on his travels. The difference was that when they stopped to make their first camp at the edge of the Stone Hills, Jonderill hadn’t ordered him around. Instead he had slid from his kneeling horse and had looked around himself helplessly.

He might be a magician, but there are certain personal things that a man with no hands cannot do and has to have them done for him. When they had both been Tallison’s prisoners living in degradation and expecting to die at the Rale’s whim, dignity didn’t matter much. However on their first day of real freedom, in the gritty sands of the foothills, it was a different matter, and that is what had established their relationship. Helping Jonderill with his personal needs didn’t bother him half as much as it did Jonderill, but on the other hand he wasn’t the one who had to rely on someone else to help him in the most private of moments.

At the time he had just done what needed doing and hadn’t thought about it until later, after they’d arrived at the woodland camp and he was on his own, he’d wondered how the old Rothers, the dandy with manicured nails and painted lips, would have reacted. In his heart he knew the answer to that, and was just relieved that the old Rothers was long gone and the new version was a different person.

Becoming that other person had been hard and painful, and if it hadn’t been for Jonderill, he could have easily fallen back into the effeminate lordling he had once been. The Goddess knows Tozaman had given him enough gold and gems to live a life of opulence, including purchasing a new estate in Northshield if Borman had assumed him dead and had disposed of his holdings. Jonderill had saved him from that fate by his need of him, and by the hours he spent convincing him of what he could be and not reminding him of past failures.

That was why he was holding the wood clucker up so triumphantly. He’d brought it down with a huntsman’s bow. He, Rothers, who had always disdained anything which might break a painted nail or cause him to perspire, had done it on his own. Now he could hunt, use a bow, cook a meal and do a hundred things he couldn’t do before. The work was putting muscles on his shoulders and strength in his legs. He was still lean, it took some time to recover from being almost starved to death, but the food which had been stored in the disused camp and his hunting was slowly having its effect.

More important than the physical change was the different outlook he now had on life. Living your life in constant fear and being close to death every day made being alive more valuable, and with Jonderill’s help the whining pessimist he used to be had been replaced by someone with plans for the future. That those plans included revenge against Borman for his betrayal only made the future seem just that much more worthwhile.  

“You know that tree will die if you turn its trunk into stone, don’t you?”

“We all die in time,” replied Jonderill and then silently berated himself for his morose comment. How could he expect Rothers to look forward to the future if that was the most positive thing he could say? “Wood clucker for dinner I see. They take some bringing down. How many attempts did it take?”

“Only three and the other two only just got away. How do you want it cooked, stewed or spitted?”

“Let’s have it spitted, then I can have another go at using a knife.”

Rothers nodded. Using a knife strapped to Jonderill’s arm had been his idea and he’d made a harness to hold the knife steady when it was strapped in place. Unfortunately it hadn’t worked as he thought it would, as the first time Jonderill had tried to use it the straps had rubbed his forearm raw and his stump had bled before he insisted that Jonderill gave up. He’d made some adjustments which should make it more comfortable, but if they didn’t work then neither of them were going to give up on it. They would make it work even if it took another moon cycle.

Jonderill followed Rothers up the pathway from the stream to the circle of small huts around a central area where they had a fire pit surrounded by stones. It was already stacked with wood which Jonderill had gathered that morning. The task was one of the things he could do, that and lighting the torches when darkness fell. It angered him that he couldn’t do more, not even take care of Sansun, but he tried and with the constant use his magic was becoming stronger and easier to call.

He could feel it within him all of the time now but not like the warm glow Callabris had described or like being in sunlight after a dark night as it had once felt. It was more like a tight ball waiting to spread throughout his being or explode from him in an awesome display of power. The only problem was that since the day he had destroyed the Goddess’s temple in Tilital, he’d never been able to get the solid ball to expand. He secretly wondered if it was Federa’s punishment for what he’d done.

When he needed magic, he could draw on it, but there were always limits, as if the power were caged. It made him shudder to think of something so alive being so confined, as he had once been. If he was ever going to do what needed to be done, if he was ever going to be whole again, his power had to be freed. It was why he had taken the decision to leave their safe haven. As he watched his friend prepare the wood clucker, he wondered if Rothers would agree to his plan. If not, there was little he could do about it; without Rothers he was as helpless as the first day Tallison had held him in his cage.

He waited until they had finished eating before broaching the subject of leaving their forest camp. The wood clucker had been excellent, hot and succulent with a dark, crispy skin, and the assorted roots cooked at the edge of the fire pit had helped to soak up the fat which had dripped from the cooking bird. Unfortunately the knife hadn’t worked as well as they had hoped, and Rothers had to strip the meat from the carcass for Jonderill to stab.

Now they sat companionably around the fire watching the flames dance and flicker and drinking the last of the wine they had carried with them from Sandstrone. It had been part of Tallison’s private store, purchased from Vinmore for the Rale’s exclusive use, when Sandstrone’s people had been forbidden to trade with the unbelievers who didn’t worship Talis. Jonderill sipped it through his hollow water reed which gave it a strange taste, especially as the last dregs contained gritty sediment. He gave up trying to suck up the last of the wine and lowered his pot to the ground with a dissatisfied sigh.

“I think we need to purchase some more wine, and we’re running low on oats for the horses.” Rothers threw the dregs of his wine into the fire making it spit and hiss.

Jonderill nodded and looked to where Sansun and the other horses stood. During the daytime they foraged for the thin forest grass and edible leaves, but they still needed a feed of oats each day to keep them fit. In a way it was a bit like their own supplies; the forest could supply most of their needs, but the extras, like flour for their bread and herbs for their tea, had to be bought. Wine was especially important for keeping their spirits up. “Yes, you’re right. If we’re going to leave we need to replenish the stores we have used so they are here for others who might need to stay in this safe haven.

It was Rothers turn to nod in agreement not picking up on the reference to leaving. He knew that beneath his robe, Jonderill still had sores which hadn’t healed despite the balm which Tozaman had given them, and the memory of his missing hands still troubled him, especially at night. Jonderill’s depressed mood had to be caused by more than that though. Despite all his words of encouragement, Jonderill still hadn’t come to terms with what had happened to him. His recollection of being whole was still too fresh and the nightmares too constant and vivid for him to move on and think of starting a new life.

“Perhaps I could ride into Tarmin and purchase what we need?” As soon as he said it he could have kicked himself for his thoughtlessness. It would take two days to ride to the city and two days back and Jonderill couldn’t manage on his own for so long.

“No, I don’t think so.” He hesitated trying to think of the right words so that his decision wouldn’t sound like a demand. “I would like to go to where I spent my boyhood. I was happy there and there will be knowledge which will be of use to me.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad. Where is this place?”

“Maladran’s tower.”

“Maladran’s tower!” Rothers felt terror leap into his throat. He’d heard all the stories about the evil black magician and had even met him once when Borman had sent him with a message to Sarrat’s court. The dark-eyed man had terrified him and the thought of being inside his tower filled him with horror. When he spoke again he couldn’t keep the quiver out of his voice. “Couldn’t we go somewhere else, like somewhere on the outskirts of Tarmin and then visit the tower from time to time? We have enough gold and gems to get the best room at a good inn and we could have our food brought up to us and move only at night so you wouldn’t have to meet anyone unless you wanted to.”

“No, I need to go to the tower and search for answers and that’s going to take time. I also need to find myself a new robe.” He looked down at the mottled grey robe which, like him, had not fully recovered from being Tallison’s prisoner. “Maladran’s tower is the only place I know where there is magic enough for my robe to be restored to its former condition, except of course for the Enclave, but I am not ready yet to confront the Goddess.” He hesitated. “Will you come with me?”

It wasn’t what he wanted to do but he owed Jonderill his life. “Yes, Lord, I will go with you but please, can we not stay too long?”

Jonderill smiled. He had no intention of staying there for long; he had other things to do.

*

The tower had changed almost beyond recognition. When he’d been a boy the tower had been made of close-fitting dark stone with two wooden doors on either side and windows which let in the light to each floor of the high circular building. As a boy he’d played on the short grass that surrounded the tower, or had laid back against a low bank at the edge of the woods so that he could see the top of the tower where the stone dragon had encircled the dome above Maladran’s work room.

It had been his boyhood dream to ride the winds as the beast flew across the great forests of Leersland and over the southern oceans to the lands beyond. Maladran used to chide him for his daydreaming instead of tending to his books, and then at dinner, the black magician would talk about dragon spells or strange distant lands or pirates that plied the seas between Tarbis and the southern continent. For a moment he wondered where all his dreams had gone.

Of course he’d known that the tower would have changed; he’d seen its darkest side on the night he’d rescued Jarrul and Prince Pellum from the cells beneath the tower where Maladran had held them prisoner. That night the tower had been completely black except for the single light at the top, the rest swallowed by the dark stone just leaving the two metal doors as access into the tower. The soft grass had gone too, replaced by sharp, serrated rock which had burst from the ground in razor peaks making access to the tower a deadly affair. He hadn’t been able to see the dragon in the black night, but he’d felt its brooding presence like never before.