The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (78 page)

She must have thought it was a fitting punishment, but she had underestimated him; he still had magic, the small flame still burnt in the corner of his mind protected behind the wall he had learned to build as Tallison’s prisoner. It wasn’t much, not enough to hold his broken body together or to leave as a gift for Callista. However, it would be enough to see him through to the end, and when Federa finally called him to account for his crimes, it would be enough to do what had to be done. Until then, he would watch his daughter grow and wait.

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FINALE

FINALE

It was just as he remembered, the vaguely pink walls, the bronze dome and the sweep of steps leading up to the huge, iron bound doors. The last time he’d been here he had been hardly more than a boy, and magic had been but a promise. Now he was an old man, a despoiler of magic and the last of his kind. No, that wasn’t true, he wasn’t an old man at all. It could only have been four or five summers since he’d last stood here in the temple’s looming presence. He wasn’t sure of the exact number of summers which had passed, he’d lost track of time, but the child was still small enough to climb into his lap, so the cycle of the seasons had to be few and not the lifetime it seemed.

When he was last here, Tissian had been with him. He could remember him crossing the marble courtyard and smiling at him as he offered his cloak to keep him warm. Now Tissian was gone, taken from this life before he’d had a chance to live. There were others too; Nyte, who might have been his sister, Callabris, his uncle, mentor and friend and Allowyn who had stood by him until the end and had given his life to protect him. None of them deserved to die, not even Maladran for all the evil he had wrought.

And for what had they given their lives? Just to bring him to this place and this time. Then there were the others, the thousands who had died in the final battle, dead at Sadrin’s hand and the creatures he had called forth from the pillars. At least their deaths couldn’t be laid at his door; it was Borman and Vorgret and others like them who had driven the people to rebel and fight for their freedom. But even that wasn’t true, they were just pawns of the Goddess, part of her unfathomable plan to get him to complete the task which Callistares had been given but hadn’t had the courage to see through to the end.

Did so many people have to die just to honour her will? Would it have mattered if Tissian had grown old, or Nyte had wed the man who loved her, or Stanner had given Dozo a son? He supposed it would. Every person colours the future by their presence, just as drops of blood will colour a stream. And then there was him. Was it really necessary to take everything from him and leave him with just this one last act of vengeance as the only incentive for him to take one breath after another? If the Goddess had asked, wouldn’t he have done her bidding without the need for all the hurt she had caused him? He was sure he would have if he’d known why, but instead Federa had chosen to destroy him and in doing so had unknowingly set in motion her own destruction.

He tapped sharply on the side of the palanquin and the four men Jarrul had hired to carry him lifted their poles and moved forward. If it had been possible he would have preferred to have walked into the temple and confronted the Goddess on his own terms. But it wasn’t possible. His crumpled spine and useless legs would not carry him up those steps and beyond, so he had to rely on his faithful servant and the four strangers who were terrified of him.

At least Jarrul waited at the top of the steps with his wheeled chair so that the four men could be sent away to safety. Jarrul would have to go too, which he wouldn’t like, but too many of those who had been close to him had died, and he wouldn’t have another accuse him of taking their life from them as he was dragged to hellden’s halls. With Jarrul’s help he transferred to his chair and waited until the bearer’s footsteps had faded to nothing before he allowed his friend to push him to the threshold of the massive doors.

Jarrul had told him that the doors of the temple had sealed shut the day he had released the spell and had used it as a reason why he shouldn’t come here, but what was a sealed door to one who had once had the power to destroy a god? He looked at the doors, thought of them being open and the two doors swung back to let him enter. When he’d last been in the temple building, the hallway had been full of temple guards searching for the intruder who had sneaked into the sanctuary to hear the words of the Goddess without the permission of the High Master. The irony of his position made him smile. Here he was again, sneaking into the temple without permission, only this time there was no High Master, and he wasn’t here to hear the Goddess’s words. 

His friend pushed him across the silent, empty hallway to the double doors on the far side which opened almost in welcome as he approached. If the temple hadn’t changed then the High Master’s room had. The heavy furniture favoured by High Master Razarin had gone along with the hard, straight-backed chairs. In their place was an assortment of soft chairs, lounging couches and small tables which could be easily moved. Even the dresser by the door on which Razarin had destroyed Tissian’s armour had gone, replaced by shelves with biscuit jars and sweet bowls.

There was a sword rack with shining blades which had never seen use and a small document chest with a large lock. The once plain walls were now adorned with paintings of fine horses and a long tapestry showed a beautiful woman who looked rather like Tarraquin blessing a crowd of people; he assumed she was meant to be the Goddess. Razarin would have hated it and would have had it torn down and burnt. It had to be Sadrin’s work, and he could almost feel his presence and smell the aftermath of his terrible gift despite the fact that he was no more. Jarrul could feel it too; he could sense the man’s fear and loathing.

He would like to send Jarrul away with the knowledge that what was to come was his own decision. He would like to say thank you and let him know that he had been well provided for, but he knew Jarrul wouldn’t go and leave him on his own if he gave a hint of what he was going to do. Instead he would have to lie, even though the man deserved better than this one last betrayal.

“Jarrul, my friend. Take my purse of coin and go and find the bearers. They deserve a drink for their efforts.” Jarrul hesitated, sensing the lie. “I need to be alone with my ghosts so go well away from here so your presence does not disturb them and return in a candle length, I should be finished by then.”

Jarrul waited as if he needed more reassurance, but then bowed and took the purse of coin. There was enough there to purchase an inn’s worth of drinks and still have enough to get him back home again in some comfort. He listened as the man’s footsteps faded and the temple doors had closed behind him for the last time. His friend thought he was helpless and that when he returned he would still be there where he had left him, thinking of the past and those he had once known.

If Jarrul had known differently he would never have left, but he’d planned it well and had kept the small amount of mobility he had mastered to himself. Even Sadrin’s rearrangement of the room could not prevent him from doing what had to be done. He thought of movement and where he wanted to go and his wheeled chair moved slowly forward towards the book case and the hidden door which opened to let him through into Federa’s sanctuary.

It too was as he remembered, the soft glow from the walls, the bronze dome high above and the absolute silence. He moved away from the door so he could see the area under the crowning dome clearly in the dim light and realised that he had been wrong, the temple had changed. When he’d been here last, five chairs had surrounded the altar which had been made of smooth stone with its top half black and half white and with a crimson disk at the centre. Now the chairs had gone, replaced by dust and splinters, and the altar was just a plain grey pedestal made of pitted stone.

Even with the changes it seemed wrong to bring something as mundane as his wooden chair into this sacred place where only the feet of those blessed by Federa’s gift had ever trod. The thought bought a grim smile to his lips. What he was about to do was the ultimate sacrilege that would make the presence of his chair as nothing. By the time he’d finished, there would be no sign that he or the chair had ever been there. Of course some would know what he’d done and others would guess, but only the Goddess herself would witness his final act. He wondered if she would try to stop him.

He took a deep shuddering breath as the fear he had tried so hard to repress, rose within him. It was strange, for so long he’d wanted to leave this life, but now the time had come something within him longed to linger on. The Goddess knows he wasn’t afraid to die, his body was broken, and the only thing that had kept him alive was the thought of his revenge. It wasn’t the manner of his death either, there were slower and more agonising ways to leave this life.

It was the thought of what came after, the eternity of torture and torment in hellden’s halls for what he had done and for what he was about to do. Memories of being beaten and abused flooded his mind, the desperation of hunger and thirst and the fiery agony of losing his hands. Above all, there was the nightmare of being caged and feeling gnawers crawling over his skin and tearing at his flesh.

For a moment his resolve weakened and the desire to turn around and leave this place almost overwhelmed him, but it was no use, there had to be an ending and when it was done and his life was taken from him, he would pay whatever price was demanded of him. He swallowed back his fear and tried to move his chair forward again so he could at least touch the Goddess’s altar but the chair wouldn’t move. It didn’t matter, he could do what he needed from where he sat, or from anywhere in the temple if it came to that. It was just that to touch the Goddess’s altar and feel her presence one last time would have been a comfort, but he understood why that would be denied him; you didn’t come to kill a Goddess and expect her to welcome your presence.

He closed his eyes and let the flame in his mind grow until it flooded his thoughts with brilliant light releasing the power he had accumulated within him. It came slowly at first, just as he had planned, seeping from him and spreading across the floor and walls and soaking into the stone. He could have released it faster or in a spectacular explosion of power but the Enclave was a living city full of people and too many of them had already died at his hand.

As his power spread he released more and more feeling it drain away from him like water from a sieve. His heart beat faster, labouring to keep him alive until his task was complete. He tried to hold the power back a little so that he would have some left to sustain him until the end, but the stones of the temple pulled it greedily from him until there was nothing left, and he slumped forward barely conscious. Even that one last comfort had been taken from him.

“Callistares.”

Jonderill lifted his head and listened to the voice he had surely imagined.

“Callistares, my chosen, come to me.”

He couldn’t believe it; the voice was in his head and all around him, insubstantial as a whisper but every word clear. In the soft light he could see the stones of the temple begin to crumble and flakes of brown and orange bronze fall from the dome above like autumn leaves. He knew he should have begged Federa for forgiveness, but all he could think of was the one question the answer to which would make sense of everything which had happened to him.

“Why?”

“To give you the strength that Callistares, the greatest of all magicians lacked and to harden your resolve to do what must be done.”

He should have succumbed then and let his stuttering heart fail, but there was still one last spark of defiance burning within him. “My name is Jonderill not Callistares and I still don’t understand.”

“The pact between the gods and the rulers of the six kingdoms was broken beyond repair and the struggle between the sword and the spell was tearing the land apart. Something had to be done but neither gods, nor kings nor magicians, will give up their power willingly. Callistares, your grandsire, was chosen to restore the balance but the love of his friend and master betrayed us. Neither Callabris nor Coberin had the strength to do our will and we had learned of the weaknesses of men and magicians and would not make the same mistake twice. Orphaned, friendless and alone you were chosen to set the six kingdoms free from the hold that the sword and the spell had on men and the hurt which was given to you was the fire which would temper the iron blade into steel.”

Jonderill closed his eyes and tried to accept what she had made of his life whilst behind him the grinding of shifting stone became louder and the dome above cracked into an infinity of fine scattered lines. He shook his head in denial and the beginning of anger. “And what of me, must I pay for an eternity for your mistakes?”

The Goddess’s voice was soft and forgiving.

“Didn’t I tell you that in the darkest of times when all that you have been has been taken from you and you are no more that I would be the light and would always be with you? Now come, Jonderill, there are others who wait for you in my halls; Callabris, Allowyn and Tissian and your father who you have yet to meet, they all await you there.”

A stone behind him groaned and crumbled and the dome cracked open allowing the light of a new moon to illuminate Federa’s temple. Jonderill stood, took the three steps to the altar and placed his hand on its smooth surface whilst the building collapsed around him and he knew, in that moment, that the Goddess was wrong. The power of the sword and the spell to turn men’s hearts would last forever.

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The Black Robe

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