Grimm stared in wonder as his cuts and bruises faded away. He had seen magical healing at work before, but always to the accompaniment of runic chants and hand gestures. Sister Judan did her work in complete silence, her hands still and hovering inches over the centre of his chest as she crouched over him. As he had been bidden, he lay on his back in the middle of the cell, his arms and legs splayed.
The aches and pains suffusing his body began to shrink, drawing away from the periphery of his body like ice thawing on a lake. He gasped at a sudden, biting pang under his sternum, but it soon passed.
"There,” Sister Judan said, standing and wiping her forehead with a handkerchief. “You are whole again."
"Thank you, Sister,” he said, marvelling at the absence of pain as he sat up. “You are a miracle-worker!"
Judan frowned. “Do not blaspheme, young man!” she reproved him, her voice as prim and affronted as that of the most repressed maiden aunt.
These ladies are a mass of contradictions, he thought. How can somebody engage in torture one moment and be horrified by a few words the next?
"My apologies, Sister,” he said, with just a trace of sarcasm colouring his voice. “I have been under some strain, and my mind must have strayed from my religious sensibilities for a moment."
Judan sniffed. “We will attend your poor, sick friend now,” she said. “It is such a shame for a fit young man to be stricken so."
"Kindly lead the way, Sister,” he said, rising to his feet.
Are they all madwomen here? Grimm wondered.
Judan led him out of the cell to the long corridor outside, where Lizaveta waited. Grimm's heart beat faster as he saw Drex standing beside the Prioress.
"I have instructed Sister Weranda to accompany you and ensure your good behaviour,” Lizaveta said. “Sister Mercia, our resident Herbalist, will be in attendance, and she is not a member of the Score. As far as she is concerned, you are all our honoured guests, and you are not to disabuse her of this belief. Is that understood?"
Grimm raised an eyebrow.
I would have thought a stinking cell and a battered patient would give the game away at least a little, he thought, but he nodded.
"I understand, Reverend Mother. I will tell Sister Mercia that I am here of my own free will."
"I will see to that, Questor Grimm,” Drex said, her face like stone. “You are not to address me except in response to a direct question, and you will keep your filthy hands away from me. If you do not comply, you will soon regret it!"
"Take care, Sister,” Lizaveta said. “Questor Grimm must retain enough freedom of movement to see to the pale man's needs."
Drex curtsied. “As you wish, Reverend Mother."
"Sister Judan; you shall wait outside the door. If anything untoward occurs, it may be necessary to restructure Sister Mercia's memory a little."
"I understand, Reverend Mother,” Judan said, bobbing. “Let us visit the patient."
To Grimm's surprise, the older Sister led him past the main row of cells and down a flight of stairs. “The Reverend Mother had the poor man moved to her own quarters-such is her mercy."
Grimm nodded.
Of course; Lizaveta's just playing the bounteous hostess.
The mage squinted as the dim illumination of the corridor gave way to the well-lit vestibule outside Lizaveta's private chambers.
Drex brought her mouth close to his right ear. “Just remember, Grimm,” she whispered, “I'll hurt you if you step out of line by a single pace. Prioress Lizaveta's taught me a lot, and I can do all kinds of nasty things to you, if I choose. After what you did to me, I'm just waiting for the chance."
We'll see about that, Drex, Grimm thought. I know you're in there somewhere, and I'll bring you back, I swear.
Judan approached the white door and opened it, revealing the marbled splendour of Lizaveta's outer chamber. The mage and the younger nun stepped inside, and Judan closed the door behind them.
Drex opened the inner door to the Prioress’ bedchamber. In the plush, silk-covered bed lay the stricken Tordun, and Grimm almost recoiled in horror at the giant albino's grey, mottled face, his roaming, sightless gaze and his matted hair.
Tordun's really sick!
He rushed to the bed, beside which knelt a young woman, her face a mask of worry and compassion, deep lines of concern etched into her features.
"I am Sister Mercia,” the nun said, turning a pair of large, moist, blue eyes towards him. “Can you help us, Lord Mage? I've tried everything I know."
"What can you tell me, Sister?” Grimm asked. “I am no Mage Healer, but I have studied the properties of herbs."
"His body bears several wounds that look as if they came from the claws of an animal,” she said. “An infection is spreading outwards from them and consuming his flesh. I cannot drive out the infection. He has a very high temperature, and I fear he is slipping away. His pulse is fast, but weak."
"Have you tried feverfew or dragon-tail?” he asked, searching his memory for suitable febrifuges.
"Both, Lord Mage,” Mercia said. “I also applied tincture of sea-balm. Nothing seems to work."
"I need to see the wounds,” Grimm said, and the young nun drew back the covers.
The mage gagged as a musty stench filled the air. Holding his breath, he leant closer. He saw a series of five black, gaping wounds along the left side of Tordun's ribs, bordered in angry red and exuding pus. They ranged from just above the warrior's left hip to just under his armpit. The smell appalled him: it seemed as if the wounds were growing in length and width as he watched, eating up Tordun's’ muscular body.
This has to be something to do with those undead monsters they faced. It has to be!
Tordun groaned, as if from the depths of some nightmare, and Grimm turned to Drex.
"I need to speak to Necromancer Numal immediately,” he said, his voice firm.
"I will take you, Lord Mage,” Drex said. “Sister Mercia, you stay with the patient."
Numal lay back on a straw mattress, but he leapt to his feet as Grimm and Drex entered the noisome cell. His clothes and hair were dishevelled, but he seemed otherwise unhurt.
"It's good to see you, Questor Grimm,” Numal said. “What's the matter with Tordun? I heard he was sick."
"I don't know, Brother Mage,” Grimm said. “I think it must be something to do with your zombie friends; Tordun's blood seems to be poisoned, stemming from the wounds he received fighting them."
Numal gulped. “I've heard of that; I was taught to invoke a warding spell whenever dealing with them; something to do with keeping the tainted air away. I'm using one now."
"Tordun's dying,” Grimm said. “What can we do to save him? Do you know anything that may help?"
The Necromancer responded with a despairing shrug. “I'm only a Second Rank Necromancer,” he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
"I didn't ask what you are, Necromancer Numal!” Grimm snapped. “I asked what you know!"
The Necromancer nodded. “I'm sorry, Questor Grimm; I didn't mean to be defensive. There is a disease of the blood that can arise from contact with the dead; some kind of corpse-dust. Normally, it's only a problem when inhaled, or if it enters the body through an open wound. It is not contagious. Have no fear on that score. I may be able to help more if I may see Tordun; I was given some training in the treatment of this disease, since it is of great relevance to Necromancers."
Grimm turned to Drex. “With your permission, Sister?"
"I suppose it can do no harm,” she said and sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead and closing her eyes, as if in pain. “Do what you must."
Grimm led Numal from the cell without waiting for further response. The two mages hurried along the corridor and down the staircase as quickly as their robes would allow.
Sister Judan, standing outside the door to Lizaveta's apartments, frowned. “Who is this, Questor Grimm? And where is Sister Weranda?"
"This is Necromancer Numal,” the Questor said. “He may be able to help; Sister Weranda gave her permission. She is just behind us."
Judan nodded and waved the two mages through the door as if shooing away flies, putting a hand over her nose and mouth as she did so.
The young nun, Mercia, looked up.
"Numal may have some knowledge that will help to save this man,” Grimm said, indicating his companion. “Numal, this is Sister Mercia."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mage Numal,” the nun said in a small voice. “Are you a Healer?"
Numal shook his head. “No, Sister, I'm a Necromancer,” he said, throwing back his cowl and revealing his bone-white, hairless head and dark, sunken eyes.
Mercia started a little, her eyes wide, but she said nothing. Numal drew back the covers to reveal the warrior's ravaged form.
The Necromancer recoiled and looked at Grimm with wide eyes. “This is the disease,” he said, his voice tremulous, “but it should never have advanced so far in such a short period. No Guild Necromancer would raise the dead without taking at least basic precautions; this looks like a Resonance in the spell."
The stink of death seemed even worse to Grimm than it had a few minutes before, and he had to fight to retain the contents of his stomach. The red-black, oozing wounds had now blurred into each other, so that he could no longer distinguish where one ended and the next began.
He had never felt so helpless in his life, as he gazed in horror at the sight of the proud, valorous warrior twitching on the stained bed.” What can be done, Numal?” he pleaded. “There must be something!"
Numal leaned over Tordun once more; perhaps he was more accustomed than Grimm to such smells.
"Certain fungi can help,” he said. “Black Boletus, Bishops’ Agaric or Monks'-cowl."
"I'm sure they don't grow in this region, Lord Mage,” Sister Mercia said, her eyes moist. “Are there any herbs which could provide a cure?"
Numal straightened up and faced the nun. “I don't know,” he confessed. “I'm no Herbalist, I'm afraid. Even the fungi don't cure the condition; they just strengthen the patient so his own bodily processes can fight it."
Grimm thought back to his youthful studies of plants in the Arnor House Scholasticate Library. “What are the signatures of the fungi you mentioned, Numal?” he said. “I know herbs."
Numal licked his lips and scratched his bald pate. “Um… the primary attributes are ‘bitter', ‘frangible’ and… ‘fumiferous', if I remember correctly,” he said. “Secondaries include ‘clarificatory', ‘spirit-strengthening’ and-what is it?-ah, yes, ‘forceful'. I don't know the tertiary attributes; I haven't gone that far yet. They're complex rune sequences, and I couldn't hope to invoke them without months of dedicated study."
Grimm clenched his fists in frustration. All mages other than Questors relied on complex sequences of runes with which to accomplish their spells; Questors only had to visualise a spell's effects in order to be able to cast it.
His right hand strayed towards a small pouch hanging around his neck by a leather cord. He looked down at the bag of herbs, which he had carried with him ever since his deliverance from the vile addiction he had suffered after defeating the demon Baron, Starmor, on his first Quest. He had only defeated the emotion-hungry Starmor by using one herb, Trina, to dull his emotions, and another, Virion, to strengthen his sense of purpose. He had sworn never to take either of the potent herbs’ smoke again since his addiction; how could he consider the possibility of leaving another in their thrall?
He knew both herbs had medicinal applications, but he had no idea of the required dosage; perhaps Sister Mercia would know better.
I must act quickly! he thought. Tordun's dying!
"Dried Virion matches the primary and secondary attributes, Sister,” he said, resolved to do whatever it took to arrest this terrible disease in his friend and companion. “Do you know the proper dosage for such a substance, applied as smoke?"
Mercia shook her head. “The application of psychoactive substances is forbidden within the Order, Lord Mage,” she said. “Nothing is allowed which might interfere with a Sister's religious conscience. Such herbs are proscribed, although I know something of them from my former life in the World."
"Tordun is dying,” Grimm replied, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable. “He is not of your Order, and Virion may be his only hope. Will you let him die?"
The nun sighed. “I cannot allow an honoured guest to die,” she said, shaking her head. “A quantity of dried Virion sufficient to cover a thumbnail is the normal pharmaceutical dose, I believe."
Grimm blinked; he had used a whole handful of the substance, since he had had no idea of the effective quantity; such information was not included in the House literature.
Mercia took a small, ceramic crucible from a pocket in her robes. “Do you have fire?” she asked. “I have no flint."
The Questor raised his right hand, but he then remembered the restrictions placed upon him; he could not cast magic without the ensorcelled Drex's permission. He turned around, but she was not in the room.
As he opened his mouth, he heard a distant, muffled cry, almost a scream: “Sister Weranda is diseased! She has the sickness!” The voice was distant, but the words acted as an imperative on the Questor.
His mouth dry and his heart pounding, Grimm turned to Numal, tearing the bag from his neck and tossing it to the Necromancer, who caught it clumsily. “You can cast Fire, can't you, Numal? Just do it! Use the dark grey herb, not the yellow one."
Without waiting for an answer, he ran from Lizaveta's rooms, up the stairs and along the corridor, to see Sister Judan standing over the slumped figure of Drex. Grimm's heart surged, and he gasped at the sight of his lover's flushed, expressionless face.
"Where is Prioress Lizaveta?” Grimm demanded. “I need to talk to her!"
Judan raised a teary, blotched face towards him, damning him with her eyes. “We are locked in!” she said. “There is no way out of here; we are all going to die! I hope you are happy with the Names’ judgement on your filthy ways!"
The nun raised her right arm, allowing her long sleeve to slide down. The angry, red marks on her triceps showed the incipient path of the disease that had already begun to claim Tordun and Drex.
Grimm fell to his knees, giving way to his emotions, sobbing at his utter inability to affect the situation. All his mighty Questor powers could not stop the march of the virulent germs the Prioress had unwittingly released.
"Damn Lizaveta!” he screamed. “This is her fault, for playing with powers she didn't understand! Damn you! Damn your bloody Order!"
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