The Man With the Black Robe: A Roger of Conte Bio
Cheezy Frumaja
Chapter 3: First Meal
The Daughters of the convent took Roger in with his luggage, and introduced themselves. The tall, thin one with the slowly graying hair was Tillaine of Marti's Hill, and the short, squat one with the tan, weathered skin and thick, black hair was Rondi of Tasride. Both were cheerfully disposed, and the asked him questions about everything they could possibly think of. Roger was quite overwhelmed.
"Do you like horseback riding?"
"No."
"What about swordplay?"
"I guess..."
"I hear you've already learned to use parts of your Gift. Is it true?"
"Yes."
"And how old are you?"
"Seven years."
"Wow. Did your parents teach you?"
"I hardly know my parents."
At this, all conversation stopped. Tillaine dropped the bag she was carrying, and Rondi's mouth hung open. Roger just stared at the two, wondering why they had suddenly stopped talking at him. Finally, Rondi asked, "Why?"
"Well, I thought all children were brought up by their housekeepers. I never saw my parents until I was one year old, though Helga says my mother held me when I was born. The next time I saw them was two days ago."
"No, honey," Tillaine said, bewildered. "Most children are brought up by their parents. Why didn't you ever see them?"
"Well, for one, they were constantly fighting, both verbally and physically. I don't understand why they didn't separate. So I mostly heard them instead of seeing them."
Rondi and Tillaine exchanged looks. "Oh, dear," they muttered, simultaneously clucking their tongues. Finally, Rondi broke the tension, saying, "Well, well, Roger, let's get you to your new room, and then we'll show you to the mess hall. Dinner will be in a few moments." The two Daughters hurried along ahead of the boy, whispering in hushed voices to each other. After a few more corridors, they reached a door that had Roger's name chalked on a slate upon it. Tillaine extracted a large ring of keys from a belt at her waist, and inserted one into the lock.
"So this is my room?" Roger inquired, looking around. The chamber was sparsely decorated; simple, green curtains hung at the one window, and white and green sheets were spread over the bed. In one corner were a small wooden desk and chair, and by the fireplace lay a green and white braided rug. By the foot of the low bed sat Roger's trunk, unopened, and by the wall nearest the door was a tall chest of drawers. In the far corner of the room, a door led to the privy and changing room. Tillaine set Roger's bag by the trunk, and Rondi began naming a list of instructions regarding care of the quarters.
"There will be no need to lock doors-we are in charge of any keys. In the mornings after you leave for classes, a crew of maids will neaten up your room, so don't bother cleaning. You're here to learn sorcery and not housekeeping. All doors must be closed and all candles out by the last bell of the evening, and no guests in the room after the bell before that. After classes end in the mid-afternoon, you may study in your room privately or in the library with a group of people. Mind you return any books you have used. Proper robes shall be given to you after dinner; you will don them for classes, but you may wear anything you like for meals and free times. And last, and most important of all, if you play tricks on any of the maids, you shall do the rest of your laundry and bedding for the rest of the year. Understand?"
Roger gave one last look at his room and nodded before the Daughters led him through the hallways to the mess hall. Tillaine looked at him for a while as they walked. "Roger, how old did you say you were?"
"Seven years."
"You are very tall for your age. Perhaps the height of an average ten year old."
"Really?" Roger furrowed his brow a bit. "I never noticed. But then, I've never been around children my age before. Or any children, for that matter. Helga, my nanny, says I had two older brothers, but they died in a Scanran raid."
"Oh," said Rondi, pouring sympathy into her voice. "Well, that's too bad. They must have been young."
"I don't know."
Tillaine pushed open a large, wooden door, showing Roger the crowded room. "This, dear, is the mess hall. You'll be having all your meals here, as you can see. Since this is your first year, We'll find you a table with boys closer to your age. Every time, you must sit by the Eastern wall. That is the boys' side of the room. The other side belongs to the girls."
"Okay." Roger was still taking in all the sights of the room; the people lined up with trays and plates of food, the long tables against the walls, and the aging man and woman sitting at their own table at the head of the room. He turned to Rondi. "Will I have classes with the girls as well as the boys?"
Rondi chuckled kindly. "Only dancing, for that requires a partner. Everything else you will be learning with the boys-magic, etiquette, mathematics, history, and writing and reading. The girls will be busy learning womanly crafts, which I'm sure you wouldn't be bothered to do."
Roger shrugged indifferently, and picked up a tray and plate at the end of the food line. "I wouldn't know. I've never tried them."
"Well, dear, that's a given." Rondi shook with silent laughter and picked up her own plate ware. Tillaine had already managed to get to the head of the line. "Here, Roger, try the chicken. It's always good. And don't forget your vegetables."
'She sounds like Helga,' Roger mused, obeying. When his plate was full, he followed Rondi as she wound her way around the tables. They reached one that was nearly full except for two seats, and they sat down. But no sooner than they had done that, the old man at the head of the room stood up. All around Roger, everyone else did, too. He followed suit. The man spoke.
"Mother Goddess, we thank thee for the meal which you have placed before us. So mote it be."
"So mote it be," the hall chorused, and they sat down again. At once, Rondi explained,
"Roger, the man that gave the blessing, that's Lord Alexander of Giram."
"Oh, I see. He runs the school?"
"Yes, him and his wife, Lady Rebeka. You're to be presentable whenever you're in their presence. If you're in trouble, it's Lord Alex you'll answer to."
"Ah." Roger nodded, and started to eat, relishing every bite, and eyeing Lord Alex. He had white hair, very little of it in a short-cropped crown around his shiny, bald head. He had a small goatee framing a strong jaw, and practically no eyebrows above his gray eyes. His wife still had chestnut brown hair, though it was dominated by steel gray streaks. Gracefully arched eyebrows sat high above soft, emerald green eyes. The two of them had commanding appearances, and had an aura around them that people seemed to respect.
Roger then took a look at the boys around him. He felt as though he was taller than all of them, though all were sitting. Left of him sat Rondi, the only female at the table. At his right sat a pudgy, pompous looking boy of about eleven, his black hair cropped close to his head. His small black eyes were sunk into his head, and his nose turned perfectly upwards. He reminded Roger of a badger.
Across from him was a boy of twelve with unruly blond hair that stuck up at odd angles and a thin face. He donned a wry smile even while he was eating, and chatted loudly with friends to his left and right, his olive green eyes dancing. His friends were just as cheerful, one with wavy brown hair and friendly hazel eyes and rosy, weathered cheeks, and another with darker blond hair and bright blue eyes and dimples on his cheeks. The three of them appeared to be joking about some prissy girls across the room from them.
"Oh, just look at THAT one, she practically stabs at her food because her fork's completely straight! The other one looks like a miniature queen, or something. Just look at her face! She just looks down her nose at everyone, even when she eats! I don't know how the rest of them can stand her."
"Well, I can," said the brown haired boy to his left. "At least she doesn't try to lead when she dances! I couldn't say the same for most of the others."
"Oh, shut up, Henri, you're covering up!" yelled the dark blond. "You LIKE her. Remember last week, trying to make her a rose using your Gift? And it burst into flame when you gave it to her?"
Henri, as Roger now knew he was called, grinned and stared at his rapidly emptying plate, stabbing at a piece of asparagus. "I can name a few sweethearts of yours, Jakob," he replied evilly.
"Yeah, I could, too," contributed the blond.
"Keep out of this, Gavin," Jakob warned, beginning to frown. "Let's forget about all this anyway. Anyone know who the kid is across from us?"
Roger was startled to hear himself referred to, but stayed silent, looking at each of them.
"Well, what's your name?" asked Henri. "Are you new?"
"I'm Roger of Conte. And I just got here today."
"Conte...Conte...sounds familiar, doesn't it?" Gavin said, thinking aloud.
"Of course it does," Jakob snapped. "He's the king's nephew!"
"Wait, wait...the king's nephew?" countered Gavin. "That would have to mean he's only seven! Maybe it's a different Conte."
Roger started to shake with silent laughter. A different Conte? No wonder Gavin got made fun of, if he was always like this.
"Mithros! I never knew anyone as stupid as you!" Henri shouted, a bit too loudly, smacking his forehead. To Roger's left, Rondi gave the boy a reproving glare. "Sorry, Rondi," he mumbled. Roger decided to intercede.
"Wait a minute, all of you. I AM seven years old, and there ISN'T another Conte besides the duke and the king."
The three boys just stared at him agape. Roger felt himself shrink. "You're seven years old?" Jakob whispered, mystified. "But-how-you must be some kind of genius!"
"trust me, all I know how to do is light a pile of sticks on fire with my Gift, and that's it. I'm NOT a genius, at least as far as I know."
"By Mithros, yes, you are!" Gavin said, disagreeing. "I couldn't light sticks on fire until I was ten, and a teacher had to direct me through it! And you're telling me you're not a genius?"
"Wait, though, Gavin. Maybe he's lying and he really is ten," Henri argued.
"Aw, shut up. We all know Roger of Conte, son of Duke Firenze, was born seven years ago," Gavin explained, punching Henri's shoulder for emphasis. The two of them were fighting the rest of the meal, and so Roger ignored them and talked with their friend Jakob.
"So, Roger, you really wanted to become a sorcerer, eh?"
"Well, actually I hadn't thought about it. Once my parents saw that I could do stuff with my Gift, they thought I might cause accidents around the house and wanted me out. So they sent me here. But now that I think about it, I really do want to be a sorcerer. What about you?"
"Well, since I'm extraordinarily clumsy, I didn't think it a good idea to be a knight like most boys. So I told my parents I wanted to do something with my Gift that I'd inherited from them, and they sent me here. So it was really both of our decisions. But still, I couldn't do anything with my Gift until I was ten as well. It seems to be the universal age of Giftedness." Jakob cracked a smile, making his cheeks dimple again. "I really want to be a healer."
"Not I," replied Roger. "I don't know, but healing seems boring to me. Just the idea of being a powerful sorcerer, able to do things at my will...it would make me feel like a god, I guess."
Their conversation went on even as they filed out of the mess hall and headed toward their rooms, until Rondi caught up with Roger.
"You have to get fitted for robes," she reminded him, and she took Roger by the shoulders and led him the other way down the hall. Roger and Jakob waved at each other as they headed in opposite directions, and Roger hoped he'd see him and his cheerful friends again that night.
Cheezy Frumaja
Chapter 3: First Meal
The Daughters of the convent took Roger in with his luggage, and introduced themselves. The tall, thin one with the slowly graying hair was Tillaine of Marti's Hill, and the short, squat one with the tan, weathered skin and thick, black hair was Rondi of Tasride. Both were cheerfully disposed, and the asked him questions about everything they could possibly think of. Roger was quite overwhelmed.
"Do you like horseback riding?"
"No."
"What about swordplay?"
"I guess..."
"I hear you've already learned to use parts of your Gift. Is it true?"
"Yes."
"And how old are you?"
"Seven years."
"Wow. Did your parents teach you?"
"I hardly know my parents."
At this, all conversation stopped. Tillaine dropped the bag she was carrying, and Rondi's mouth hung open. Roger just stared at the two, wondering why they had suddenly stopped talking at him. Finally, Rondi asked, "Why?"
"Well, I thought all children were brought up by their housekeepers. I never saw my parents until I was one year old, though Helga says my mother held me when I was born. The next time I saw them was two days ago."
"No, honey," Tillaine said, bewildered. "Most children are brought up by their parents. Why didn't you ever see them?"
"Well, for one, they were constantly fighting, both verbally and physically. I don't understand why they didn't separate. So I mostly heard them instead of seeing them."
Rondi and Tillaine exchanged looks. "Oh, dear," they muttered, simultaneously clucking their tongues. Finally, Rondi broke the tension, saying, "Well, well, Roger, let's get you to your new room, and then we'll show you to the mess hall. Dinner will be in a few moments." The two Daughters hurried along ahead of the boy, whispering in hushed voices to each other. After a few more corridors, they reached a door that had Roger's name chalked on a slate upon it. Tillaine extracted a large ring of keys from a belt at her waist, and inserted one into the lock.
"So this is my room?" Roger inquired, looking around. The chamber was sparsely decorated; simple, green curtains hung at the one window, and white and green sheets were spread over the bed. In one corner were a small wooden desk and chair, and by the fireplace lay a green and white braided rug. By the foot of the low bed sat Roger's trunk, unopened, and by the wall nearest the door was a tall chest of drawers. In the far corner of the room, a door led to the privy and changing room. Tillaine set Roger's bag by the trunk, and Rondi began naming a list of instructions regarding care of the quarters.
"There will be no need to lock doors-we are in charge of any keys. In the mornings after you leave for classes, a crew of maids will neaten up your room, so don't bother cleaning. You're here to learn sorcery and not housekeeping. All doors must be closed and all candles out by the last bell of the evening, and no guests in the room after the bell before that. After classes end in the mid-afternoon, you may study in your room privately or in the library with a group of people. Mind you return any books you have used. Proper robes shall be given to you after dinner; you will don them for classes, but you may wear anything you like for meals and free times. And last, and most important of all, if you play tricks on any of the maids, you shall do the rest of your laundry and bedding for the rest of the year. Understand?"
Roger gave one last look at his room and nodded before the Daughters led him through the hallways to the mess hall. Tillaine looked at him for a while as they walked. "Roger, how old did you say you were?"
"Seven years."
"You are very tall for your age. Perhaps the height of an average ten year old."
"Really?" Roger furrowed his brow a bit. "I never noticed. But then, I've never been around children my age before. Or any children, for that matter. Helga, my nanny, says I had two older brothers, but they died in a Scanran raid."
"Oh," said Rondi, pouring sympathy into her voice. "Well, that's too bad. They must have been young."
"I don't know."
Tillaine pushed open a large, wooden door, showing Roger the crowded room. "This, dear, is the mess hall. You'll be having all your meals here, as you can see. Since this is your first year, We'll find you a table with boys closer to your age. Every time, you must sit by the Eastern wall. That is the boys' side of the room. The other side belongs to the girls."
"Okay." Roger was still taking in all the sights of the room; the people lined up with trays and plates of food, the long tables against the walls, and the aging man and woman sitting at their own table at the head of the room. He turned to Rondi. "Will I have classes with the girls as well as the boys?"
Rondi chuckled kindly. "Only dancing, for that requires a partner. Everything else you will be learning with the boys-magic, etiquette, mathematics, history, and writing and reading. The girls will be busy learning womanly crafts, which I'm sure you wouldn't be bothered to do."
Roger shrugged indifferently, and picked up a tray and plate at the end of the food line. "I wouldn't know. I've never tried them."
"Well, dear, that's a given." Rondi shook with silent laughter and picked up her own plate ware. Tillaine had already managed to get to the head of the line. "Here, Roger, try the chicken. It's always good. And don't forget your vegetables."
'She sounds like Helga,' Roger mused, obeying. When his plate was full, he followed Rondi as she wound her way around the tables. They reached one that was nearly full except for two seats, and they sat down. But no sooner than they had done that, the old man at the head of the room stood up. All around Roger, everyone else did, too. He followed suit. The man spoke.
"Mother Goddess, we thank thee for the meal which you have placed before us. So mote it be."
"So mote it be," the hall chorused, and they sat down again. At once, Rondi explained,
"Roger, the man that gave the blessing, that's Lord Alexander of Giram."
"Oh, I see. He runs the school?"
"Yes, him and his wife, Lady Rebeka. You're to be presentable whenever you're in their presence. If you're in trouble, it's Lord Alex you'll answer to."
"Ah." Roger nodded, and started to eat, relishing every bite, and eyeing Lord Alex. He had white hair, very little of it in a short-cropped crown around his shiny, bald head. He had a small goatee framing a strong jaw, and practically no eyebrows above his gray eyes. His wife still had chestnut brown hair, though it was dominated by steel gray streaks. Gracefully arched eyebrows sat high above soft, emerald green eyes. The two of them had commanding appearances, and had an aura around them that people seemed to respect.
Roger then took a look at the boys around him. He felt as though he was taller than all of them, though all were sitting. Left of him sat Rondi, the only female at the table. At his right sat a pudgy, pompous looking boy of about eleven, his black hair cropped close to his head. His small black eyes were sunk into his head, and his nose turned perfectly upwards. He reminded Roger of a badger.
Across from him was a boy of twelve with unruly blond hair that stuck up at odd angles and a thin face. He donned a wry smile even while he was eating, and chatted loudly with friends to his left and right, his olive green eyes dancing. His friends were just as cheerful, one with wavy brown hair and friendly hazel eyes and rosy, weathered cheeks, and another with darker blond hair and bright blue eyes and dimples on his cheeks. The three of them appeared to be joking about some prissy girls across the room from them.
"Oh, just look at THAT one, she practically stabs at her food because her fork's completely straight! The other one looks like a miniature queen, or something. Just look at her face! She just looks down her nose at everyone, even when she eats! I don't know how the rest of them can stand her."
"Well, I can," said the brown haired boy to his left. "At least she doesn't try to lead when she dances! I couldn't say the same for most of the others."
"Oh, shut up, Henri, you're covering up!" yelled the dark blond. "You LIKE her. Remember last week, trying to make her a rose using your Gift? And it burst into flame when you gave it to her?"
Henri, as Roger now knew he was called, grinned and stared at his rapidly emptying plate, stabbing at a piece of asparagus. "I can name a few sweethearts of yours, Jakob," he replied evilly.
"Yeah, I could, too," contributed the blond.
"Keep out of this, Gavin," Jakob warned, beginning to frown. "Let's forget about all this anyway. Anyone know who the kid is across from us?"
Roger was startled to hear himself referred to, but stayed silent, looking at each of them.
"Well, what's your name?" asked Henri. "Are you new?"
"I'm Roger of Conte. And I just got here today."
"Conte...Conte...sounds familiar, doesn't it?" Gavin said, thinking aloud.
"Of course it does," Jakob snapped. "He's the king's nephew!"
"Wait, wait...the king's nephew?" countered Gavin. "That would have to mean he's only seven! Maybe it's a different Conte."
Roger started to shake with silent laughter. A different Conte? No wonder Gavin got made fun of, if he was always like this.
"Mithros! I never knew anyone as stupid as you!" Henri shouted, a bit too loudly, smacking his forehead. To Roger's left, Rondi gave the boy a reproving glare. "Sorry, Rondi," he mumbled. Roger decided to intercede.
"Wait a minute, all of you. I AM seven years old, and there ISN'T another Conte besides the duke and the king."
The three boys just stared at him agape. Roger felt himself shrink. "You're seven years old?" Jakob whispered, mystified. "But-how-you must be some kind of genius!"
"trust me, all I know how to do is light a pile of sticks on fire with my Gift, and that's it. I'm NOT a genius, at least as far as I know."
"By Mithros, yes, you are!" Gavin said, disagreeing. "I couldn't light sticks on fire until I was ten, and a teacher had to direct me through it! And you're telling me you're not a genius?"
"Wait, though, Gavin. Maybe he's lying and he really is ten," Henri argued.
"Aw, shut up. We all know Roger of Conte, son of Duke Firenze, was born seven years ago," Gavin explained, punching Henri's shoulder for emphasis. The two of them were fighting the rest of the meal, and so Roger ignored them and talked with their friend Jakob.
"So, Roger, you really wanted to become a sorcerer, eh?"
"Well, actually I hadn't thought about it. Once my parents saw that I could do stuff with my Gift, they thought I might cause accidents around the house and wanted me out. So they sent me here. But now that I think about it, I really do want to be a sorcerer. What about you?"
"Well, since I'm extraordinarily clumsy, I didn't think it a good idea to be a knight like most boys. So I told my parents I wanted to do something with my Gift that I'd inherited from them, and they sent me here. So it was really both of our decisions. But still, I couldn't do anything with my Gift until I was ten as well. It seems to be the universal age of Giftedness." Jakob cracked a smile, making his cheeks dimple again. "I really want to be a healer."
"Not I," replied Roger. "I don't know, but healing seems boring to me. Just the idea of being a powerful sorcerer, able to do things at my will...it would make me feel like a god, I guess."
Their conversation went on even as they filed out of the mess hall and headed toward their rooms, until Rondi caught up with Roger.
"You have to get fitted for robes," she reminded him, and she took Roger by the shoulders and led him the other way down the hall. Roger and Jakob waved at each other as they headed in opposite directions, and Roger hoped he'd see him and his cheerful friends again that night.