With a grateful sigh, Doorkeeper lowered himself into his comfortable, battered leather armchair. He asked little of life, and he preferred tranquil solitude to vigorous debate or studious book-learning. The cheerful fire, whispering and crackling in the grate, and the sonorous tick of the pendulum clock opposite him, soothed the old man's jangled nerves.
The distant, muffled sounds of atrocious weather, kept at bay by the mighty walls of the ancient fortress of Arnor House, served to increase his feeling of well-being, and the old man poured himself a glass of wine from a bottle on the small table beside him. Doorkeeper held up his glass and admired the ruby liquid, seemingly brought to life by the flickering of the fire's flames. He drew in a mouthful of the beverage, rolling it around his palate and savouring the wine before swallowing. He put the glass back on the table and contemplated.
Tick, tock, tick, tock…
Doorkeeper was at peace, comforted by the knowledge that the House was safe within its thick stone walls and sustained by its immutable, ages-old rituals and customs. The effects of a heavy meal and the comfortable, familiar surroundings dulled the old man's senses, and he settled back in his chair with another sigh of deep contentment.
Tomorrow night would not be so tranquil, Doorkeeper reflected, since he would be required to act as Master of Ceremonies at a gathering of mages, representatives of High Lodge among them. Such meetings were always well attended and often noisy. The old man knew there would be demonstrations of magic, sometimes destructive, once the wine had started to flow, as the various mages bragged of their powers, each trying to outdo his peers and prove himself the most powerful mage.
Doorkeeper disliked these drunken revels, since they interrupted his precious routine; as Master of Ceremonies, it was his duty to keep the guests cheerful and well-supplied with food and drink, and he frowned upon the disruption of proper pomp and protocol by what he considered foolish tricks. The aged major-domo liked to tell himself that such childish pranks were beneath him; the truth was that even the very simplest of these 'foolish tricks' was beyond his meagre magical capabilities.
His proper title was Mage Doorkeeper, although, to his endless disappointment, nobody ever seemed to remember the honorific. Despite the fact that he wore a Guild ring and carried a mage staff, he was not a potent master of the arcane arts. For this reason, the old mage tended to dislike talented Specialists from other, richer Houses: men with fine silk robes and bulging purses, who boasted of travels to exotic lands Doorkeeper would never see. He revered the senior mages of his own House, but he tended to disparage the skills of those whom he considered as mere 'Outsiders.' Nonetheless, he was always careful to keep a respectful distance from them.
Doorkeeper had essayed a number of Specialities such as Reader, Healer, Scholar, and Seer, proving quite unsuited to all of them. At the age of fifty, as the oldest Neophyte in the House, he had despaired of ever finding a true magical vocation. It was with great relief that he had accepted lifetime tenure as Mage Doorkeeper of Arnor House, overjoyed to have found an accepted Speciality at last. This also pleased the authorities of the House, since there had been no permanent incumbent in the post for many years. Although the post of Mage Doorkeeper was a symbolic position with few real responsibilities or privileges, any House that could afford to employ one seemed to enjoy a certain cachet within the Guild.
Tick, tock, tick, tock…
The old man had been addressed as 'Doorkeeper' for so long now that he could barely remember the name he had borne before being granted the title. He dressed in fading midnight blue robes decorated with embroidered silver runes, and he bore a handsome head of curly white hair and a long white beard. Image was important to Doorkeeper, and he tried hard to cultivate the air of a master of the arcane arts, but his bulbous, red nose and round, ruddy face ruined the impression he sought to create.
Despite his yearning to be recognised as a venerable magic-user, he knew he gave the impression of a genial, bumbling and slightly senile grandfather, and he announced his presence wherever he went by a chorus of creaking, popping joints. Doorkeeper's habits included rubbing his nose, sudden fits of furious scratching under his robes and muttering to himself, all of which detracted severely from the stern, sorcerous image he tried to display to his peers. However, although the old man was dimly aware of these little tics and foibles, he found himself quite unable to suppress them.
There was a common saying within the Guild, power and presence complete the mage, and the old man knew he had little of either, to his continual chagrin. One of the outward signs of a Guild magic-user's 'presence', apart from his staff and his Guild ring, was 'Mage Speech'. This was a formal, rigid manner of delivery, without contractions and heavy on polysyllabic verbiage, intended to raise an invisible barrier around the speaking mage, so as to maintain an air of aloofness that demanded respect. From an early age, the Magemasters in the Scholasticate hammered into each House Student the need to adopt this mode of speech when on official House business and when dealing with Seculars such as tradesmen, but Doorkeeper never seemed to have found the knack. Despite his best efforts, he always ended up repeating himself, stammering, or lapsing into vernacular speech.
The ancient mage had few formal duties, but he regarded each of his obligations as essential for the smooth running of the House. Among these was the responsibility to be on hand to welcome any mage returning home after leave of absence, and Doorkeeper regarded this responsibility as paramount.
The heavy, black oak door that led to the Great Hall had neither handle nor lock, but it swung open at the merest touch of anyone bearing a Guild ring. Whenever a member of the House approached the portal, a soft chime sounded in Doorkeeper's chamber, enabling him always to be ready to greet a returning member of what he regarded as his true family.
Tick, tock, tick, tock…
Doorkeeper felt his eyelids growing heavy. He gave a deep yawn and stretched luxuriantly, to the almost musical accompaniment of protesting joints.
Nobody's going to be travelling tonight in this weather, thought the major-domo. Best I have an early night, so I can be ready for tomorrow.
Opening his mouth in another cavernous yawn, he forced himself to his feet, stretched again, picked up his glass and downed the remainder of its contents at a gulp. As he walked over to damp down the fire, he heard the gentle musical tones signalling the arrival of a House mage.
Who in the world can that be? he wondered. Oh, well, duty calls, I suppose.
"You'd think a few more people round here would appreciate my efforts on behalf of the House. Work, work, work; that's all I ever seem to do," he muttered in a peevish tone. Grumbling under his breath, he gathered his voluminous robes around him, belched and rushed to the main hall to discharge his ceremonial duty.
The small boy felt enormous relief and a sense of victory as he reached the huge portal. His brown, homespun robes were soaked and mud-spattered, clinging to his thin legs and body like some avaricious octopus unsure of where to begin devouring him. His long, dark hair hung in a dripping mess across his face. His legs were sore; indeed, his whole body ached after the long trek up the winding mountain pass, a journey that had appeared much less onerous at its outset than it had proved to be. The black fortress was far larger than he would have believed and, therefore, at a much greater distance than he had thought.
Two hours of being lashed by needle-like rain, being whipped by unseen barbed branches and being flayed by a frigid, howling wind had sapped much of his strength. By the time he reached the door of the monstrous edifice at last, he was fighting the temptation to turn tail and flee back to the warmth, security and comfortable familiarity of the forge that had been his home for all of his short life. As he craned his neck, taking in the vastness of the fortress, he gulped, realising that there could be no turning back now.
Although it seemed unlikely to him that anyone inside the fortress would hear any sound he might make, the boy raised his fist to pound on the black oak portal. He felt a shock of surprise as the door swung open before his hand made contact. His astonishment at this fortunate occurrence was exceeded only by his relief at the prospect of shelter from the vicious tempest. He staggered inside with gratitude, and the door swung smoothly back into place with a decisive thump, cutting off most of the clamour of the storm. Despite his exhaustion, the drenched and exhausted child gazed in wonder at his surroundings. Warm, orange light illuminated a vast entrance hall paved with hexagonal slabs of blue and gold. High above him, the boy could see a deep blue vaulted roof studded with star-like, silver points. Soft, almost inaudible music drifted through the hall and he could see a seven-foot high obsidian pyramid, exuding a gentle blue glow. Entranced by his opulent, fabulous surroundings, several minutes passed before the lad become aware of a tall, blue-robed man staring at him, at first sight the very image of a mighty wizard.
Remembering his manners, he managed a courteous, if awkward bow.
The tall man regarded the waterlogged apparition with curiosity. "Which mage opened the door for you, child?" he said, his voice tinged with mixed concern and puzzlement.
The waif, who looked to be about seven or eight years of age, wore a nervous and yet earnest expression, as if he might have been wrongly suspected of some prank. His chattering teeth all but robbed him of the power of speech, but Doorkeeper was impressed that the child persevered at delivering his answer; this was no lily-livered milksop.
"N-n-nobody, s-sir, I p-promise. I n-knocked at the d-door, but it opened all by its-s-self. Are you the Ch-ch-chief W-wizard?"
Doorkeeper shook his head, and studied the dripping, shivering child. Explanations could wait; it was plain the boy intended no mischief, and he was clearly in need of food and warmth.
The old man tried to adopt a grave, sorcerous tone. "I am the Mage Doorkeeper. You may call me Doorkeeper. Ordinarily, I would advise you to go back down the mountain and seek food and shelter in the town, but I wouldn't leave a dog out in a night like this, let alone a small child like you. A horrible night it is, dear me, yes, a horrible night."
Doorkeeper felt a pang of frustration, as he realised his babbling tongue had betrayed him again, robbing his speech of the grave solemnity he had been trying to project. At least the child did not seem to have noticed his lapse, and so the old mage continued.
"Come with me, lad, and I'll try to find you some food and a bed for the night. We can talk about how you came here in the morning."
"Sir… Doorkeeper, I'm here to learn how to be a wizard. I have a letter for the Chief Wizard from my Granfer, see." The boy held out a wet, sealed package, clutched in a grubby fist.
Doorkeeper felt a little annoyed that the boy, although polite, did not seem cowed in the least by the mage's mighty presence. However, the major-domo took the damp parcel, with some distaste at the slimy feel of its clammy, waxed surface. He was about to slide it into his pocket when he felt a lump in the parcel and a slight, distinctive tingle up his arm. He realised now how the boy had managed to open the door; inside the bundle must be a genuine House ring. He examined the package with more care, and noted the fluent, educated script on its surface:
'Lord Thorn Virias, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Iron-willed, Honoured Prelate and Acclaimed Master, Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges.'
The old mage knew that no mere Secular would be likely to know the Lord Prelate's full, official title, and he looked with new interest at the child. Despite the boy's wretched appearance, his dark, intense eyes seemed to burn with an inner strength that reminded Doorkeeper of someone he had known long ago.
"What's… what is your name, boy?"
"Grimm Afelnor, Doorkeeper."
The name of Afelnor was somehow familiar to Doorkeeper, echoing and resonating in his head, although he could not quite remember its significance.
The old man furrowed his brow. "Was your father a mage here, Grimm?"
"No, sir, he was a blacksmith, but I don't really remember him. He and my mamma died when I was little. Granfer Loras looks after me now. He's a smith, too."
Sudden realisation flooded into Doorkeeper's mind: Loras Afelnor, the Oath-breaker!
Once the brightest star in the House firmament, Loras had fallen from grace some forty years before, and he had been stripped of all magic before being banished from the Guild. Now, Doorkeeper knew how the child had come by the ring.
Whilst he harboured the gravest doubts that Lord Thorn would accept the grandson of the Traitor as a Student, Doorkeeper still felt some kinship for his disgraced former Guildbrother, and he remembered the dignity with which Loras had submitted to the humbling and agonising ordeal that marked his expulsion from the Guild.
"Grimm, I promise I will take your grandfather's message to Lord Thorn as soon as I can, tomorrow morning. Tonight, you must eat and rest; I will accept no more argument on the matter."
For once in his life, Doorkeeper sounded as grave and serious as he had so often yearned to be; if the lad had a tenth of the power of his grandfather, a long and arduous road might lie ahead of him, and the grizzled mage felt sorry for the bedraggled boy.
Loras had been a Mage Questor, the most powerful and valuable class of Specialist, and Doorkeeper knew the making of a Questor was a turbulent and torturous affair. If there was any chance that Grimm might be subjected to the Questor Ordeal, as his grandfather had been, this intelligent, earnest child might be turned into a neurotic paranoid or worse, and the old man felt a frisson of distress at that gruesome prospect. However, Doorkeeper regarded Lord Thorn with nothing less than absolute trust, and he accepted that, sometimes, difficult choices had to be made for the good of the House.
Even if regrettable mistakes might be made on occasion.