The Black Robe (The Sword and the Spell) (61 page)

His eyes turned to the tall building that could just be seen over the city’s walls. The corner he had set fire to had been repaired, but the new roof tiles hadn’t weathered as much as the others. He remembered the time he’d spent beneath that roof, bowing and scraping to the masters who knew even less about controlling his gift than he did. For almost a summer and a winter, he’d tried so hard to please them and to master the gift the Goddess had given him, but nothing he did made any difference to his control or how they treated him.

It was setting the building on fire which had sealed his fate, even though it was an accident. He had been beaten and denied food for a seven day for his lack of control, and that is when they discovered how to suppress his power. The Master of Penance was particularly diligent and took pleasure in abusing him when he was weak and helpless, but then he discovered there were ways to kill a man other than burning him to a cinder.

A cloud drifted across the sun, its shadow falling across the temple’s dome and turning the bronze to the colour of dried blood. Razarin had known what was going on but had turned a blind eye to the Master of Penance’s abuse, even when he found him tied across the master’s table with the master inside of him. Knowing what the master did, Razarin could have forgiven Sadrin for his desperate act of self preservation if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t. Instead he had sat behind his desk and watched as the temple guards beat him until he couldn’t move, and then bound his hands in wire once again.

It was Razarin who had condemned him to the horrors of Essenland’s deepest silver mines until death released him, and it was Razarin he had come to kill. Revenge wasn’t enough though. He wanted the masters to bow and scrape to him, he wanted the people to abase themselves at his feet, and he wanted to wear the crimson robe and be honoured by the rulers of the six kingdoms. Above all else, he wanted to hear the words of the Goddess and understand why she had burdened him with such a terrible gift. He pushed his horse forward down the steep roadway and the men behind him mounted in a hurry and scrambled to catch up.

*

They should have waited until dark to escape the city but they didn’t have time. If Vorgret had already been sighted, then he would arrive at the Enclave in less than two candle lengths, and if Razarin had betrayed them, as they were certain he had, then the temple guard could be despatched to take them prisoner at any time. Transport was their biggest problem. If they’d had enough coin to purchase horses, Jarrul and Birrit could have ridden, but Tarraquin was still recovering from childbirth, and the two magicians were too old to ride a horse. The wagon they had arrived in had been sold to pay for their keep, and in any case, loading a wagon with their few possessions outside the House of Learning would draw too much attention down upon them.

In the end it was Birrit who came up with a solution. The market traders who had come in from the countryside would be going home with empty wagons, and after the day’s riots with empty purses too. It should therefore be possible to find one who would rent them their horse and cart for the small amount of coin they had left, leaving Jarrul to ride their own horse which hadn’t yet been sold. Once they were well away from the Enclave they could leave the horse and cart for the trader to find and disappear somewhere on foot. It wasn’t a brilliant plan, but for now it would have to do.

Jarrul and Plantagenet left first, hurrying as fast as the old magician could manage to the largest of the nearby markets, the one where Birrit had been that morning. If the traders had already packed up and left, their plan wouldn’t work, so it might have been quicker if Jarrul had gone alone, but Plantagenet had insisted that he went too. If their coin was insufficient, a little compunction spell might prove very useful.

The others packed up their few belongings into small bundles which could be easily carried and they set off together, slipping out of the doorway of the House of Learning and into the shadows as carefully as they could. Across the road, from the opposite building, the acolyte, who had been set to watch them, saw them go. Keeping as close as he dared, he followed them for a short while, until he was certain that they intended leaving the city, before disappearing down a side street in the direction of the temple building..

It would have been quicker for them to go straight to the main city gate, but that would have taken them passed Federa’s temple, and in any case, that was where Vorgret would enter the Enclave. Instead they headed west through the craftsmen’s quarter with its neat houses and brightly painted doors. Usually at that time of day the narrow streets would be busy with men returning from their work, and children playing in the streets before the sun set, but everywhere was eerily quiet and deserted.

As they hurried by the craft workers’ houses they supposed the streets were deserted because the foundries and weaving sheds were working day and night. However, they sometimes saw women and children peering out at them from half closed shutters giving the place a tense atmosphere, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

The walk took longer than they expected as they had to keep stopping whilst Animus caught his breath and Tarraquin rested her back. By the time they reached the armsman’s gate, Animus was breathing heavily and could barely take one step in front of another. He was red in the face and had to be propped up by Birrit on one side and Tarraquin on the other. Desperately tired, they stopped by a small well where they could see the gate and the roadway leading to it.

Birrit poured Animus some water whilst Tarraquin anxiously studied the wagons which rolled forwards and were checked by the two gate guards before they left the city. This was where they had agreed to meet, but despite the time it had taken them to walk to the well, there was no sign of Jarrul and Plantagenet in any of the passing wagons. Birrit wanted to go and search for them, but Tarraquin wouldn’t let her in case she missed them and they became separated. So they sat by the well and waited, their anxiety increasing with every wagon which passed.

The sun was setting behind the hills, turning the clouds red and gold and making the city walls sparkle pink, before Jarrul and Plantagenet arrived. Most of the wagons which were going to leave the city that day had already passed through the gate, and the two guards were preparing to shut the gates for the night when Plantagenet, driving an ancient two-wheeled cart, drew to a halt by the well. He looked dusty and tired and Jarrul, who sat on a sway backed nag which had seen better days, looked worse.

They hurriedly climbed into the back of the cart trying to ignore the smell of rotting vegetables which wafted up from the dirty floor, and did their best to look just like any other family returning from a day at the city markets. Birrit and Tarraquin pulled shawls over their hair and kept their heads low. When they were waved through the gate, their disguise seemed to have worked, although one guard spent a long time staring at them before he shrugged and let them through. Once they were outside the city, they gave a sigh of relief, all except Birrit who was certain she recognised the guard from earlier that day. As the cart gathered speed, she kept her fear to herself and prayed to the Goddess that she was wrong.

*

Razarin had changed from his crimson robe into something more suitable for travelling. It was dark but not black, spun from the finest wool and the matching cloak and deep hood was trimmed with winter hopper fur. He thought it was very fetching and made him look younger. More importantly it would help him blend in with the royal party, so that when Vorgret left, he could join them and slip away from the Enclave without a lot of fuss. Of course Tressing knew that he was leaving, but the man wasn’t going to say anything. He already had a crimson robe folded neatly away in his clothes chest, just waiting for the moment when he could step into the High Master’s shoes. If the Goddess rejected Tressing as her voice, it was just too bad; he would be well gone by then.

His plan was a simple one. When Vorgret arrived he would hand over the girl and her brat, and would suggest to the king that he accompanied them to Vorglave for respectability’s sake, where he could collect his reward at the same time. That, combined with the gold he’d packed ready to be carried on a spare horse, would get him to Shipside in style and comfort, with a large enough escort not to be bothered by brigands or opposing armies.

From there he would take the gold he’d hoarded in one of Shipside’s larger counting houses and cross the Southern Ocean. The land across the ocean was not as refined as the six kingdoms, but gold would remedy that problem and then he would be free. Free of Vorgret, free of the Enclave, and best of all, free from the complaints and demands of the Goddess.

He was still admiring himself in the silver-backed mirror when there was a loud knock at his door. Quickly he removed his cloak. He didn’t want Vorgret to get the wrong impression and think he was eager to leave, otherwise he might lower the price he was prepared to pay for the girl. He called for his guest to enter and then muttered a curse as one of the lower level acolytes trotted in. The man looked vaguely familiar but he couldn’t remember his name.

“Your Eminence, I have to report that the woman I was set to watch has left her lodgings at the House of Learning and appears to have taken her child, her belongings and her household with her.”

For a moment Razarin couldn’t think what the man was talking about and then realised that he was talking about Tarraquin and her child. Vorgret’s Tarraquin. “Where in Hellden has she gone?”

“I don’t know, Your Eminence. I was just told to report to you the moment she tried to leave.”

If he’d had a knife to hand the man would be dead. Instead he screamed in rage and frustration. “Get every man in a grey robe, every acolyte, servant and guardsman and search for her, she cannot have gone far. I’m not bothered what happens to her household or her brat but she must be returned here immediately.”

The acolyte bowed and hurried out of the door and as he did so, a commotion broke out in the hallway beyond. It had to be Vorgret. Who else would dare to push their way into the temple unannounced and expect everyone to jump to his commands? Razarin smoothed down his robe and walked to his desk where he could greet the king, as if his appearance was just an everyday occurrence of little consequence. He had hardly sat down when Tressing hurried into his office with a look of alarm on his face as if he had seen a ghost, and a pretty nasty one at that. Before Razarin could do anything but stand, two of the king’s guard entered, stood to one side and bowed as Sadrin swept into the High Master’s office.

For a moment Razarin had no idea what was going on. He had expected the King of Essenland to enter, but instead a black robe stood in front of him, tall and slim and vaguely familiar. But there were no black robes left! Maladran had been the last to be blessed at the Enclave by the Goddess’s touch unless…. His heart skipped a beat and he could feel the blood drain out of his face. It was impossible though, the boy was surely dead by now. No one escaped Essenland’s deep mines alive, and Vorgret had assured him the boy was chained to the wall of the deepest mine in his kingdom. Then the realisation hit him. Dear goddess, Vorgret had betrayed them all and had taken the black robe for his own. Had the man no sense?

“I see you remember me,” said Sadrin quietly, walking further into the room and looking around him. It was just as he remembered it, nothing had changed, not even Razarin, although he looked a little paler.

Razarin swallowed hard and tried to compose himself. “Yes, I remember you, the pyrocaster who was a danger to himself and everyone around him. Clearly the decision to keep you safe until you learned to control your gift was a good one.”

Sadrin gave a bitter laugh. “As I remember it the sentence was confinement in Essenland’s deepest mine until death took me. Fortunately Vorgret had more patience than you and your masters did.”

“So it would seem. Now you’re Vorgret’s pet magician and you dance to his tune. I suppose being the king’s lackey and licking his boots is better than being a miner and digging his silver.” He looked passed the black robe looking for Vorgret. “Where is your master? I was expecting him not his servant.”

“The king is dead, burnt to a crisp and his ashes blown away on the wind, and now I have come for you, but I will be kind, I will kill you quickly and not leave you to die slowly as you were going to do to me.”

Razarin looked horrified. The life of a king of the six kingdoms was sacrosanct and no magician would ever dare to turn on their master for fear of suffering the Goddess’s wrath. It was the same with the High Master. No one would ever dare to harm him because of the Goddess’s retribution. The boy needed to know these things before he made a terrible mistake.

“You cannot do this! I am the Goddess’s representative, I am her voice and she will not let you harm me.”

“You are wrong, Razarin. The Goddess will not protect you because you have turned away from her. Don’t think I don’t know about the things you have done; the petty betrayals, the hoarding of gold and the sale of your acolyte’s bodies for the pleasure of your visitors. If you had been the true servant of the Goddess, you would never have let your masters abuse me and the Master of Penance use me for a whore. You would have sought the Goddess’s forgiveness for what I was driven to do to protect myself.

“However, you are not the Goddess’s voice. You are just a greedy man who wants to rule, but has not been born a king. When I wear the crimson robe, all that will change, I will be the Goddess’s true voice, and she will make me as powerful as any king. People will kneel down in front of me and do as I say, not because I hold their lives in my hands, but because I offer them the simple, devout life the Goddess has ordained for the people of the Enclave and the six kingdoms.”

The High Master stepped forward, his anger and outrage returning the colour to his face. “You will never rule the Enclave or anywhere else. Someone like you wouldn’t know where to begin. You are just an untutored boy born from a peasant whore and a drunken father with a magic so perverted that everyone will look down on you and despise you. I pity you, Sadrin because you are nothing, less than nothing, just dirt beneath my feet.”