The White Robe

by Clare Smith

  “That depends on the value of the gift.”

  She nodded in understanding. “I have brought you a magician, the one named Callistares.”

  *

  They sat on their horses at the rim of the valley and looked down at the city below. In the heavy cloud the grey walls looked darker than usual and the bronze dome, always a symbol of their homecoming, looked dull and ordinary. For Dozo the Enclave had always been home. He had been born there and had lived amongst friends and comrades all his life, except for the short periods he had spent away from the city on active duty. On other occasions, when he had sat here waiting for the command to descend into the valley, there would be other armsmen around him. They would talk about which inns they would visit that night or what the first thing would be that their wives would cook for them. Some would ask him to join them for an ale or to sample their wife’s cooking, and all would defer to him for his camp skills and his skills as a healer.

  This time his return was different. For once there was no lively banter or thoughts of warm inns and soft beds and no comrades to slap him on the back and joke about his cooking or thank him for his care. There was only the white robe and his protector, and he was the least amongst them. It wasn’t being their servant which bothered him, far from it; it had been an honour to serve them. What was concerning him was the thoughts of what would happen next. There would be questions about Gellidan’s death and more questions about why he hadn’t returned to the Enclave with the rest of the armsmen as he should have done. Allowyn had promised to speak for him, so with any luck he might just be demoted, but if they thought that he had chosen not to return, then he could be dishonourably discharged or worse.

  Allowyn sat next to the armsman and felt for him. He knew what must be going through Dozo’s mind and would have offered words of comfort, except that his own thoughts were equally as dark. The Enclave hadn’t been his home for many years, but he had grown up there as a boy, learnt his trade inside its walls and had taken his vows at Federa’s altar. He knew every finger length of the city, every street and yard, every shop, inn and most of the people. They knew him too. Next to a magician, a protector was the most honoured of citizens, but only as long as they played their part and kept to their vows.

  There had, of course, been other protectors who had not kept faith with the people, his brother amongst them, but they were the ones who had failed in their duty and had never returned to the Enclave. He was the only one he knew who had disobeyed the command of the High Master, caused the death of the next protector and had the temerity to return. Without asking he knew that Callabris would speak for him, but his master had not commanded him to do what he had done, so there could be little excuse for his actions. He wondered what the prescribed punishment for a disgraced protector would be. If it was hard labour and increased devotions, he would accept it willingly, but if it was separation from Callabris, he would take the High Master’s life and be damned.

  Callabris sat slightly in front of the others staring down at the Enclave. He didn’t have to look at them to feel Dozo’s concern or Allowyn’s anger and, in all honesty, he didn’t feel any better than they did, but for different reasons. The Enclave wasn’t his home although he had studied at the House of Magic and had visited there from time to time. He also had no concerns about the High Master who, in the way of his kind, he outranked. The man was weak in both spirit and magic and had no power over him, or, if he had any say in it, his two loyal servants.

  No, it wasn’t the Enclave or the High Master that concerned him but the wrath of the goddess. He had vowed to serve her and to spend his life upholding right and justice in the six kingdoms and he had failed her. There was no doubt about it or excuse for his failure. He had known what he was doing for Borman was wrong, and that each time he misused his gift she had bestowed upon him, the future of the six kingdoms became darker. He knew and yet he could not help himself, it was as if another’s hand was guiding him. Would Federa accept that as an excuse? He doubted it and if she didn’t there could be only one punishment, but he wouldn’t want to go on living if his magic was taken from him.

  He looked back at his companions and gave them the best smile he could manage. “Shall we?”

  High Master Razarin was not pleased to see them. He sat behind his desk with a disapproving Tressing behind him and glared at the travel-weary white robe sitting in the upright chair opposite. Callabris was not pleased either. He had expected a cold reception, but not one that had been purposely designed to belittle him. They had been stopped at the gates of the Enclave and refused entry, being made to wait in the heavy drizzle for over a candle length. He could have ordered the guards to let them pass or even have forced them to let him enter, but he was trying to be reasonable.

  Once inside the city gates Dozo had been arrested and taken away by the temple guards. He had gone quietly and neither he nor Allowyn had protested; he would be safe enough for now and probably better off than being taken to account by the High Master in his present mood. When they reached the temple they had been made to wait again, standing outside the temple until Tressing came out and demanded that Allowyn disrobe and kneel in penance until he was summoned. He was still there, kneeling in the pouring rain, dressed only in his breeches, offering prayers to the goddess and trying to ignore the humiliation of his position as passersby stared and speculated about the shameful thing he must have done to be treated so.

  Callabris was tired and damp and concerned about Allowyn. He waited for Razarin to tell him for the fourth time that he and his protector were not welcome at the Enclave and then stood. “Enough, High Master, I have not come here to be berated by you.”

  “Then why have you come at all?” asked Razarin peevishly.

  It was a good question; he didn’t need to kneel at Federa’s altar to ask her forgiveness. That could be done anywhere if his penance was real. So why had he come, why had he left Borman’s service so suddenly and travelled almost without rest to reach this place? It was as if the Enclave had been calling him.

  “I have come to speak with the goddess.”

  “Razarin looked surprised and then angry. “I cannot allow that, Callabris, you of all people should know that the goddess only speaks through me and I’m disinclined to accommodate your request.”

  Yes, he did know but that didn’t matter. It was why he had come to the Enclave. “Federa has called me.”

  The High Master gave a cynical laugh. “If the goddess wanted to speak with you she would have told me and I would have sent for you. I’m sorry, Callabris, the temple is closed to you and I cannot allow you to defile her sacred ground with your corruption.”

  “I’m sorry too, High Master, but I don’t think you can stop me.”

  Callabris raised his hand, palm outwards and both Razarin and Tressing froze. Callabris dropped his hand again and stepped towards the hidden door in the book case. If the goddess didn’t want him to enter her temple, then the door would remain closed but it didn’t. He stepped through into the temple and the door closed behind him.

  It was just as he remembered from the few other times he had been inside the temple, small and quiet with shimmering, almost pink walls, and a white floor that looked like freshly fallen snow. In the centre of the temple stood the stone pedestal, and around it, four chairs made of golden weiswald. He was wrong though, something had changed. The last time he had been here there had been five chairs, but now two of the chairs lay broken into small pieces on the floor. He frowned at them, trying to discern their significance and then approached the pedestal. When he had last been there he had placed his hands on the altar and Federa had spoken to him, but now he knelt until his forehead touched the floor. He stayed like that for a long time, hoping the goddess would speak first and trying to find the right words to say.

  At last he sat back on his heels and sighed, there was really only one thing he wanted to say. “Forgive me, My Lady, for I have strayed.”

  All about him the light increase
d in brilliance and when the voice came, it was all around him and inside him too.

  “Callabris, the most gentle of my servants,

  there is nothing to forgive for everything

  you have done has been to one end and

  you could have done nothing else.

  Now I have one last task for you and

  when it is done you may come to me and

  greet your brother and be at my side always.

  You must return to that place you fear

  so much to enter. At its centre there is

  something which he who sleeps guards for me,

  something which others have tried to take.

  You and your protector must guard it until

  Callistares holds it again, even if it means

  your lives. Do not fail me, Callabris;

  the future of the six kingdoms rests in your hands.”

  The light faded and Callabris slowly stood, the words of the goddess still ringing in his ears. Behind him the door opened and he had a sudden and urgent need to be away from this place. He hurried through the door and was surprised that night had started to fall although he was certain he had only been in Federa’s sanctuary for a short while. Inside Razarin’s room nothing had changed. He clicked his fingers and the High Master leant further across his desk.

  “Do you hear what I say, Callabris, you will not enter the temple.”

  Callabris shrugged. “So be it, High Master, now if you will excuse me I have urgent business elsewhere.”

  Razarin looked surprised at the sudden change of heart and was confused at the unexpected darkness outside. He went to protest. but Callabris had already left.

  Outside Allowyn was where he had left him, soaked through and shivering with his dark hair plastered to his head and dripping water over his closed eyes. Callabris touched him gently on the shoulder, his skin as cold as ice. Allowyn looked up, relieved to see his master smiling down at him.

  “Come Allowyn, collect your armour and weapons and find Dozo, we have work to do.

  *

  Tissian flowed into the last movement of his devotions, a dance of swords he had practiced every day since he had been strong enough to lift two blades above his head. The steps had been taught to him by the swordmasters at the Enclave and honed to sharpness by the days spent with Allowyn, but they were all his own. Each slight variation, each fraction of a step left or right designed and tested to smooth the flow of movement and to achieve the perfect balance. The two swords, held firmly enough not to fall but lightly enough to respond to any changes in the dance, whirled and twisted around him, a blur of motion reflecting flashes of light in the early evening sun.

  He moved into the last steps taking the swords from an ankle-scything sweep through a decapitating turn and a clash of blades high above his head before moving into the final double extension on one knee. Tissian held it there, the blades an extension of his arms, their length parallel and their tips unwavering. Or at least they should have been. As he held the final position with his eyes closed and his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, he could feel the vibration through his arm as the tip of one sword began to fall. He concentrated on steadiness putting everything else out of his mind but it was no good, the blades were no longer parallel and if he waited much longer the tip would touch the ground, defiling his blade and making his devotions worth nothing.

  Tissian snapped to his feet, crossed the blades in front of him in salute and replaced them in their scabbards in one single, fluid motion. As devotions went, his prayers to the goddess hadn’t been bad, that’s if he had been a novice, but he wasn’t, so the sense of failure sat heavily on his shoulders. If Allowyn had been there he would have made him repeat each step again, pointing out the shortfalls, and all the times his swords hadn’t done exactly as he had told them to do. Fortunately Allowyn wasn’t there, and he was too sore to go through the dance again.

  Instead he moved into his stretching exercises, his eyes closed and concentrated on the shape and feel of every muscle as he worked out the tension and thought about his final extension which had been a finger length too short. A finger length didn’t seem much but against an accomplished opponent it was the difference between life and a blade tip in the heart.

  The problem was his shoulder, not his arm as he thought it might have been. His arm was still painful and stitches still held the flesh together in places, but that was just external and could be ignored. It was the internal damage which was causing his extension to shorten and the tip of his blade to dip. When the fang hound had sunk its teeth into his upper arm and pulled him around, something had torn in his shoulder and whatever had parted, hadn’t repaired itself properly. Tissian could feel it now, a pulling sensation around a hard knot of tissue. He wished Dozo was here.

  Jonderill had seen it too, that fractional hesitation, the ring of the blades not quite in tune, the slight dip at the end of the extension. As Tissian’s master he had the right to watch his protector’s devotions as no one else did. He did watch whenever he could, partly to show Tissian that he cared, but mostly because of the breathtaking grace and beauty of the movements. To anyone who had not seen Tissian work before, they would have been amazed by the performance, but he knew that things were not quite right and that left him in a quandary. If he said nothing and walked away, Tissian would take it as a reproach, but if he stayed and commented, Tissian would be shamed.

  It reminded him of a master baker he had once known in Alewinder’s royal kitchens. When his hands became too stiff to kneed bread any more, others would do it for him whilst the rest would look away in pity and embarrassment. In the end he could take it no more and one day he failed to turn up for work and was never seen again. That wouldn’t happen to Tissian of course, his end would be much more brutal.

  He put that thought out of his mind and decided it would be best if he returned to his own studies. Perhaps if Tissian came to watch him they could both share their failures and get some solace from feeling miserable together. He wandered off to the other side of the camp and sat on a boulder staring at the pile of wood he and Tissian had gathered the first day they had come here. It was meant to be a bridge, not that it looked like one, but it was close enough that he could sit there and imagine that three horsemen were charging across it intent on ending his life.

  It was Tissian who had come up with the idea whilst they were sitting in the Crosslands inn sharing a pitcher of Vinmore’s finest ale. Tissian should have been in bed recovering from his wounds, but his fever was still high, and so a pitcher of cold ale had seemed a good idea. It had been too, and the second, but perhaps not the third or fourth. Jonderill chuckled to himself; it was all very well a white robe never having to pay for his food and drink but that didn’t mean the innkeeper had to be happy at having two slightly drunk lads over indulging on his best ale. They had decided that the temptations in Crosslands was too much for them to resist and had moved on the following day.

  Whilst they had been enjoying the comforts of the inn they’d had the chance to analyse what had happened during the battle at the two bridges. It had started with Tissian asking him what he had seen and how he could improve his battle tactics if they were ever in a similar situation again. He remembered the battle at the first bridge quite clearly and they discussed if Tissian had changed from bolt bow to knives at the right time or should he have waited longer. His memories of the second bridge had been far less detailed, mainly because he had spent most of the time stretched out on the grass being sick and wishing he could die. From there the conversation naturally went back to the first bridge and the explosion.

  Something had happened to him at the bridge, but when he tried to put it into words, the memory of it disappeared. That is why Tissian had suggested that they recreate the bridge so he could put himself back in that position and perhaps recall what it had felt like to release so much power. So far it hadn’t worked. He had spent several days staring at the pile of wood but so far nothing had happen
ed. That wasn’t exactly true. He had become bored and irritated, angry and frustrated and for one fleeting moment he had felt something stir inside of him. Unfortunately it had gone before he’d been able to grasp hold of it and the feeling had never returned.

  Now he had almost given up. It was like the rest of his magic; if it was there inside of him, it was buried so deeply that it was impossible to find. He wondered if his father had the same problem. Strangely he hadn’t thought about his father until now. For all his life he had thought that Jonderill, the protector and warrior, had been his father but he wasn’t, it was a magician. Coberin the white. He wondered what Coberin had been like, he didn’t know much about him, or did he?

  Callabris had talked about him, and so had Sadrin, so he tried to put the pieces together, to build a picture of his father. Coberin was Callabris’s younger brother whose explosive magic felt like plunging into icy water. He remembered Callabris telling him that it had taken his father three summers to bring his magic under control which had weakened him when he became older. He also had a strong aversion to weapons. Jonderill chuckled to himself, they had more in common than he had thought. His laughter faded as he thought about the few other things he knew about him.