The year ended with Grimm in a kind of limbo. He was a Questor, with his black, cowled robe, his unbreakable staff and his blue-gold Guild ring, but he had no Quests to his name as yet; the lack of even a single gold ring on Redeemer marked him as a tyro. His training with Crohn had worked to build up his speed of thought, his willpower and his decisiveness, but he felt quite unable to make up his mind as to what to do with his time.
He wandered through the main entrance hall with its dome of stars, soft thought-music and the pyramidal, obsidian Breaking Stone. Looking around to check that he was alone, he dropped a piece of paper onto the stone's sloping edge. The sheet barely shivered as it split into two, sundered under its own weight.
He then took a double-handed grip on Redeemer and swung it with all his might against the magically sharp and unyielding surface. A ringing sound and a shower of blue sparks were emitted, but Redeemer was as sound as ever. He smiled a little in mild satisfaction, and wandered listlessly back to his room in the West Wing.
"Questor Grimm, you are just the man I was looking for! Do you have a moment?" Grimm turned at the unmistakable voice of Doorkeeper.
"Mage Doorkeeper, what may I do for you on this fine morning?" Grimm spoke with an exuberance he did not feel.
"I am going on a visit to some relatives in Taddleton today, Questor Grimm," Doorkeeper said brightly. "I wondered if you might like to accompany me."
Taddleton lay a scant quarter-mile from the village of Lower Frunstock where Grimm had been raised… a quarter-mile from the grandparents for whom he had spared barely a thought these six years past, he realised with a guilty start.
"Of course I'd like to, Doorkeeper," he said. "When are you thinking of leaving?"
"Would an hour or so from now suit you?" asked the ancient mage.
Grimm gulped. Things seemed to happen so quickly these days; he had not left the Scholasticate for nine years, and he was barely used to being allowed free access to the West Wing and the Great Hall. Now, Doorkeeper was talking about leaving the House. Grimm thought about it, and nearly fainted from an agoraphobic pang that seized his brain in sharp, icy talons. A part of him wanted to scream in refusal, to grasp onto his familiar world and never to let go. Another region of his mind had control of his mouth, however.
"I'd love to, Doorkeeper," he heard himself say. "I shall have to ask Magemaster Crohn for permission, of course. Do you know his whereabouts?"
"I observed him making his rounds of the Student accommodation block about five minutes ago. I believe that he should still be there, Questor Grimm." The old mage's tone was formal and deferent.
Grimm smiled. "Doorkeeper, you're like family to me. I've known you for over half my life and I think I might have lost my mind a long time ago, without you to bring a little order and stability to my world. I haven't changed overnight just because I carry this stick. Please, Doorkeeper; just call me 'Grimm', and drop the Mage Speech? It makes me uncomfortable."
"I'm sorry, Qu… Grimm," the major-domo said, beaming. "I do have to struggle to see you as that frightened, wet thing I first met all those years ago. You have changed a lot, whether you know it or not. You look… confident, powerful, somehow."
"I don't feel like that, Doorkeeper," Grimm declared. "I'm quaking inside at the thought of even stepping outside the House, and I need the old Doorkeeper I know and love to help me with my fears, just like he used to when I was a frightened Student. I know you think sometimes that you're in some way inferior to some of the other mages, but you have a vital role here. You help poor, insignificant Students cope with a strange new world so they can adjust and grow; a vital responsibility that allows the House to continue. Be that mage for me again, please. You helped me to adjust to this world so well that it scares me to think of anything else. I'm terrified."
Doorkeeper ran a hand through his luxuriant, white hair and grinned. "Maybe I can still see a trace of that small, drenched little waif I met in the Great Hall all those years ago; even if you are a real Mage Questor."
"I'm still me, Doorkeeper." Grimm felt a hollow void where his stomach had once been. "There's a big world out there I haven't seen for most of my life, and I'm… I'm scared."
"Ah, you're not the first youngster to face that problem, you know," Doorkeeper replied. "It's funny how most of the Students here would do anything to escape but, once they're free to come and go as they please, they just want to hang on to it. Especially the charity boys like you; at least the rest get out for a short while every year. I can't make you feel any better right now, but I will tell you that when you come back you'll be utterly changed. I'm very happy for you, and I won't feel that you're really one of my flock until I greet you properly as a returning mage."
"I think that's what I'm looking forward to most, Doorkeeper," said Grimm. "At least it'll mean I've really done something for the House, instead of taking from it. I wonder if you could cast a spell of Inner Calm on me. One of the limitations of Questor magic is that I can't act on my own mind, because that's where the magic comes from."
"Oh, no, no, no, young Grimm!" Doorkeeper cried. "You've got a really good brain; you don't want to go messing around with it, goodness me, no! If there's one thing I've always missed, it's a first-class mind. If I had a brain like yours, I'd really want to take care of it. A daft old thing like me, I'd probably be no worse off for a little tinkering in the brain-box, but not you. Leave that head alone, I say!"
"You only had to say, 'I don't think that's a good idea,'" Grimm replied with a broad smile, holding his hands out in a placating manner; Doorkeeper's accustomed prattle had soothed his inner anxiety more than a little.
"Oh well, you know me, jabber, jabber, jabber!" Doorkeeper's smile was as broad as ever; somehow, the major-domo found a little comfort in his eccentricity, even if he tried to deny it. "But if you do get bothered by the big open spaces, just focus on the next tree or fence in front of you and see it as a wall. Then go onto the next one and look for the next marker.
"My brother, Ennis, used to do the same thing when he was running for long distances as a foot messenger for Earl Toomey. He'd say 'I won't give up running until I've reached that tree.' Then he'd focus on the tree after that and do the same again. So he didn't run fifteen miles in one go, but just lots of thirty-yard stretches. It works if you get bothered about how far away you're getting from what you know. Just remember each tree and then, when you're coming back, you'll get a real sense of getting closer by the minute. Before you know it, you'll be back home to a warm welcome."
"Thank you, Doorkeeper." Grimm felt as if his heart were almost bursting from gratitude and fellow-feeling. "I don't know what I'd do without you! That's good advice, and I'll follow it whenever things get too bad. If you'll excuse me, I'll see if I can find Magemaster Crohn."
Crohn, whose duties seemed endless, was checking the soap and towel allocations in the paying Student block when Grimm found him making check marks on a sheet of paper.
"Good morning, Questor Grimm," Crohn said, looking up from his work. "May I help you?"
"Good morning, Magemaster Crohn. Mage Doorkeeper has asked me to accompany him on a journey outside the House. I know I am still, technically, your responsibility, and so I thought it only proper to seek your approval."
"You are no longer confined to the Scholasticate, and you do not, therefore, need such approval," the Senior Magemaster replied, his face blank. "I am sure I explained that to you."
"You did, Magemaster Crohn, but I thought it a prudent exercise, nonetheless, since my intention is to visit my grandparents. I have received but a single letter from them during my time here. I would guess that my grandfather Loras would come under the strictures concerning 'Association with persons inimical to the aims and precepts of the House.' That is rule of the House, not merely of the Scholasticate." Grimm's tone was cool and formal, but his troublesome, agoraphobic inner demon wished desperately that the Magemaster might refuse his request. At the same time, Grimm was berating himself for harbouring such a craven attitude. He did yearn to see his family; it was only the prospect of the journey that troubled him so.
Crohn pressed his forehead hard enough to show livid finger marks, outlined in red, when he removed his hand. He took a deep breath and said, "It is your family, Afelnor. Of course you must go, and with my blessing. That rule was not formulated with this particular circumstance in mind, and it is my privilege as Senior Magemaster to override such a rule. I therefore rescind the rule with regard to your grandparents. Go, and forget the House for a little while. I regret that, as a Questor who has not yet Quested, you will have to return to the House by nightfall. Lord Prelate Thorn would be displeased if you chose never to return, for you still owe a great debt to the House for your education here. Worry not; I will ensure that Lord Thorn knows of my decision."
Grimm gave a deep, fluent and courteous bow; Magemaster Faffel's lessons in Courtly Graces had not been a complete waste. "Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Senior Magemaster Crohn. I greatly appreciate your forbearance and your understanding."
Crohn nodded. "Now, if you would be so kind as to leave me to these tedious logistics? Between the two of us, this is not my favourite activity, for I have little talent for numbers."
Grimm almost started at the revelation that the formidable Magemaster had admitted to a weakness, but he managed to maintain a neutral expression, as Crohn returned to his check sheet.
"You did what, Crohn?" the Prelate exploded. "Loras Afelnor is a traitor to the Guild; you know that!"
"He is also Afelnor's grandfather, Lord Prelate," Crohn said, a hint of censure in his firm, unwavering voice. "Having dared to send the boy to this House for education, it seems improbable in the extreme that Loras would try to plant seditious thoughts in the new Questor's head. I have told Afelnor he must return here before nightfall. I trust that you realise it would be highly prejudicial to my authority, were you to rescind my permission. Under such circumstances, I would have little choice but to resign my post."
Crohn held Thorn's gaze, unblinking; he seemed unshakably sincere in his words. Thorn felt deep misgivings, but he knew it would not sit well with High Lodge were he to accept the resignation of his Senior Magemaster: the very man who had raised the House's first Mage Questor in a decade.
The Lord Dominie himself, the head of the entire Guild, had expressed a desire to send some of his new Students to Arnor House, with the specific hope that they might be tutored by such a man. Thorn remembered his mother's frequent admonishments that Loras knew nothing of the treachery that had been visited on him, but he knew also that Grimm was now a potent Questor: a mage who could exert powers beyond the realms of ordinary magic. Then again, if even Loras, a Questor of the Seventh Rank, had been unable to divine the truth, what chance did a callow youth have of doing so?
"Very well, Crohn," he said, nodding. "I accept your decision. Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention."
Crohn nodded, doubtless satisfied that his authority had prevailed. "By your leave, Lord Prelate?" he said. "There is much to do, if we are to be ready for the new intake of Students. The numbers this year are greater than we have seen for some time."
Thorn smiled. Crohn was correct; eight charity Students, each one a potential Questor, and thirty-five fat fees from doting parents seeking the best education for their darling, pampered progeny. Arnor House was becoming fashionable once more. Thorn thought of seeking the advice of his mother, Lizaveta, but he dismissed the idea. He was Prelate of Arnor House and a Seventh Level Questor, and he would make his own decisions.
"Thank you, Senior Magemaster Crohn," he said, glancing again at his encouraging account sheets. "Please return to your duties. A busy year lies ahead of you in the Scholasticate."
Doorkeeper reined in the horses. "Here we are: Lower Frunstock, Grimm. I will meet you at this crossroad in four hours. Enjoy yourself."
Grimm stepped from the cart on which he had been riding for three hours and stretched luxuriantly. Waving a friendly goodbye to Doorkeeper, he took stock of his surroundings. A single street led into the small village where he had been born, but a myriad of paths and lanes ran from it. The village green, where maypoles and swings were erected during the summer pageant; that much he remembered. Granfer's smithy is the third turning on the left… or is it the second turning on the right? he wondered.
With a firm step, Grimm selected the former option and began to take his bearings. The village was so much smaller than he had remembered it! He recognised the shop of Huret, the baker, no different than he recalled, with its ever-faded sign and dusty windows. He ran through distant, dim memories of playing hopscotch with other boys in the baker's flagstone yard in his carefree youth. Squeezing nascent tears into oblivion, he strode into the village.
He saw people busying themselves with their daily trades, most of them responding with respectful bows to the sight of a tall, cowled figure with a mage's distinctive, brass-shod staff.
Margen's Grocery now seemed to be a chandler's establishment, and the Black Boar Inn Grimm had known in his childhood had been renamed the Bold Archer; nonetheless, the village was much the same as Grimm had remembered it. He heard hammering, the crisp sound of steel on steel, and he stepped into a narrow alleyway.
The tears would not be stemmed; it took a mighty effort of will to regain a Questor's composure. 'Power and presence, power and presence!' he chided himself, brushing the moisture from his eyes.
The smithy was there; smoke pouring from the chimney, the old, tiled roof with the dip in the middle that he remembered. Chickens pecked and cackled in the yard. He was finally home.
What could he say? How should he introduce himself? These questions were made moot by the exhortations of a gruff voice that stirred his sleeping memories:
"Is that you, Joran? If you have neglected to bring that damned bar stock again, there will be trouble between us-oh, please accept my apologies, Lord Mage. We see so few of your kind here, these days." A broad-shouldered, grey-haired bear of a man stood, bowed, before Grimm Afelnor.
"Granfer Loras, it's me, Grimm! I'm home!" Grimm's voice was as hoarse as it had been when it had broken.
The old man started upright, evidently stunned. "Grimm! It's you? By the Blessed Names, let me hold you!"
Grimm fought to regain his composure, but, at last, he surrendered to his emotions.
"Granfer, Granfer, it's so good to see you!" he cried, running to Loras. The burly smith was a good three inches shorter than his grandson, but he grasped Grimm in arms as strong as the iron stock he needed, and he lifted the Questor clean off the ground.
"It is you; it is!" Loras crowed. He looked around himself and, his tone conspiratorial, he whispered, "A Questor, then? So the blood ran true within you!"
He held Grimm at arms' length, almost as if suspecting that his grandson had absconded from the House. He seized Grimm's left hand to see the Guild ring, held it and kissed the ring. "That is my old ring, is it not, Grimm?" he breathed.
"It's yours, Granfer," Grimm confirmed. "Mine now. Don't worry; I'll see that no harm comes to it." His voice was husky and emotional.
With tears in his eyes, Loras turned his strong, Questor gaze on his grandson. "Have the Magemasters forsaken Mage Speech these days?" he chided. "Power and presence, boy, do you not know that?"
Loras seemed almost to be pleading, and Grimm realised that all his grandfather's hopes for the future were vested in him: the last of the line; the last bearer of his name.
"You are a Guild man, first and last, Grimm. Always remember that!" Loras was a Questor of the old school, fierce and proud, but the tremor in his voice could not be denied.
"I am a Guild man, Granfer," said the new Questor, his tone stern and sincere, "I will never forget that. I have sworn it.
"Come now, I don't want another Ordeal, least of all at your hands."
He matched Loras' Questor gaze with his own. "I only have four hours, and then I must go back to the House. Don't lecture me, please. I've been through an awful lot."
"My apologies, boy." Loras sighed, wiping a grimy hand over his sweating forehead. "I am babbling; I just feel so proud of you that part of me fears it is some fantasy. Come now, I must present you to your grandmother. She will be so pleased to see you."
Grimm had to duck as he passed into the smithy, which smelt warm, smoky and friendly.
"Loras? You haven't gone and let that Joran bilk you again, have you, you old fool?" came a cry from the kitchen. Drima rushed out with her hands on her hips. "If you've-" At the sight of Grimm, she stopped short. "Grimm? It is you! I didn't think they let you boys out. They have let you out, haven't they?"
"Gramma." Grimm felt his emotions surge anew. "I'm a mage, a Mage Questor. I'm not a Student any more." Grimm held up his left hand, and Drima saw the ring. "I'm a Guild man now," he said, looking firmly at Loras, "but I will always be an Afelnor."
Over a hastily assembled lunch of bread, cheese and wild leeks, Grimm told his grandparents an edited version of his Ordeal. He reasoned that Loras would know the whole truth of the matter and that Drima did not need to know the depths of despair to which he had sunk during those dark days and months.
He told them of Madar and Argand, Kargan and Crohn, Dalquist and the Library. Loras in particular seemed to soak up every last item of news, and Drima looked at her husband with misty eyes. At a break in the conversation, she said in a soft voice, "It's your ring, isn't it, Loras?"
Loras purpled, blanched, worked his mouth, but all that came out was a strangled "What?"
"I know, my love," she said, her eyes brimming over. "I know. I never mentioned it during the years Grimm was away as a Student, but I must say it now. Loras, rejoice that there's finally another Afelnor to resurrect the name on the Guild rolls; I know you have a burning need to know that. Remember, Grimm, you promised me you would make the name of Afelnor a name of which the House can be proud."
"I know, Gramma," Grimm said, feeling more like a five-year-old child than a Guild Questor. "I've never forgotten it, and I never will. Granfer, I know the truth, and I want you to know I am proud to think that I am carrying on in your name. I will never do anything to make you or Lord Thorn ashamed of me, no matter what."
Grimm felt uncomfortable to see his powerful grandfather break down in hot tears. Loras' shoulders shook as Drima held him like a baby.
"It's all right, my love," she crooned, as if addressing a newborn baby. "I won't tell anybody else. Your secret's safe with us, isn't it, Grimm?"
Grimm nodded, incapable of speech, and he waited while Loras dried his eyes. On sudden impulse, he held out Redeemer to his grandfather, his eyes questioning. For a few heartbeats, Loras hesitated, but then he stood and grasped the magical weapon.
For the first time in forty years, Loras Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, held a Mage Staff in his hands, marvelling at the cool tingle of magic that the ensorcelled wood sent through his arm, accepting and welcoming it. He held the tableau for some time, and then handed the staff back.
"What is your staff's name?" he barked.
"Redeemer, Granfer," said Grimm, smiling. "I named it that for you; for all of us."
"It is a good name." Loras' voice was gruff but wistful. "Thank you, Grimm. Thank you, Redeemer. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And thank you, my love, for putting up with the odd whims of an old fool."
"Let me look at you, my two Questors," said Drima, paying no heed to the tears running down her cheeks. "I'm proud of you both, and I always will be."
Grimm and Loras stood at the crossroads, waiting for Doorkeeper's return.
"I may not have much time to see you in the near future, Granfer," Grimm said. "Dalquist, Xylox and I are the only active House Questors at this time. I'm going to be needed."
"I understand, boy. I would have it no other way. Just see us and write when you can. I know only too well that the life of a Questor is uncertain at the best of times. All in all, I'm not sure whether I prefer the life of a blacksmith or not."
At that moment, the cart hove into view. Pulling up, Doorkeeper stared at Loras, his mouth open but unspeaking.
"Hello, Doorkeeper," Loras said. "It is good to see you again."
Still, the major-domo said nothing, his eyes wide. Grimm was put in mind of a small child who had been caught with his hand in a jar of honey.
"I understand if you cannot talk to me," the smith continued. "I imagine I am not too well thought of in Arnor."
"Questor Loras… I mean, Loras," Doorkeeper croaked, finding his voice at last. "You look well." Doorkeeper's tone was guarded and uncertain. "I… I shouldn't really be talking… that is…"
"It's all right, Lord Mage," Loras said. Doorkeeper blinked, and Grimm wondered if anyone had ever called him that before.
"Be so good as to take care of this Guild Questor, and take him back home." Loras' voice was thick, but steady. "Take care of yourself, too."
Grimm took his grandfather's hands in a firm grasp. "I'm going now, Granfer. I'm going back… home."
"Take care, Questor Grimm."
"And you, Questor Loras."
Grimm looked back at his grandfather until he was out of sight. Then he looked forward; forward to life as a Mage Questor, a true weapon of the Guild and redeemer of his family name. The sun glared, red and baleful on the horizon, marking the end of one day and the beginning of another.
As the wagon rolled back towards Arnor House, Grimm whispered, "I won't let you down, Granfer. The name of Afelnor will shine again; I swear it."