Grimm ran through a golden, billowing field, hand in hand with a laughing, smiling Drexelica. His heart felt so full he half-expected it to burst from his chest at any moment, to fly away from him into the cloudless, sapphire sky.
"Stop, Grimm!” Drex gasped. “Stop!"
He came to a halt and looked down at his lover. “What's the matter, Drex?"
"Nothing,” she said. “Just this…"
Standing on tiptoe, she planted a sweet, warm kiss on his lips, and he took her into his arms, giving himself over to the moment. Paramount among his swelling emotions was a glow of deep gratitude: how good it felt to be running free in this scene of bucolic beauty, feeling the soft breeze ruffling his hair; how pleasant to be free from all worry and responsibility; how blissful to be alone in this glorious field with the woman he loved!
"Are you awake, Questor Grimm?” Her voice was soft and inviting, and he savoured its heady melody.
"I don't know,” he admitted, gazing into her large, dreamy eyes, “and I don't care. I don't want to be anywhere else or with anyone else. We are all that matters in this world right now. The Guild and the House can go to Perdition for all I care."
"Just relax,” Drex said in a breathy whisper. “You will be all right…"
The meadow began to spin gently around him, and he laughed, turning with it and holding Drex at arms’ length so that her legs flew out behind her. Faster and faster he spun, until he could feel Drex's fingers begin to slip from his grasp. With growing panic numbing his bones, he realised he could not stop this mad, accelerating dance, and lost his hold on his beloved's hands. She flew away into the darkening sky, her arms and legs flailing as she disappeared into the distance, laughing as she did so.
Still he rotated, feeling the corn growing and ensnaring his ankles. The sky was now a deep black, blacker than the darkest night, but the field was still lit in a glorious, golden light.
The corn reached the level of his chest, winding around his torso and constricting his breathing.
I can't… BREATHE! Help me… help me, somebody…
He saw a widening, white line descend from the ebon sky, reaching to the distant horizon, and he heard a booming voice that shook the ground.
"Your doom… your doom… your doom…"
The voice had a metronomic, hypnotic cadence, and Grimm felt himself drifting towards the glaring chasm, fighting for breath, his sight dimming.
"The day's travails are behind you, but the struggle begins anew!"
The words of his former tutor, Magemaster Crohn, spoken as Grimm awoke after his Outbreak, burst into his head: a loud, staccato shout.
Grimm drew a desperate, whooping breath and jerked his eyes open, clenching his fists in blind panic.
Yourdoomyourdoomyourdoom… He realised that this ominous chant was the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He saw nothing for a moment, as various pains clamoured for his attention, each fighting for supremacy. Grimm drew another deep breath, which he found a little easier this time, despite the tightness in his chest, and full awareness came to him.
He was looking into the drawn, worried face of Sister Mercia, looming over him under an improvised canopy of sticks and broad leaves.
This is the real world, he told himself, a sharp pang of realisation spearing his heart. The world where Drex hates me, where there is pain, suffering and duty.
He squeezed his eyes closed, as if he could blot out the harsh reality of the mortal world, and he felt a single hot, bitter tear run down his right cheek.
"How are you feeling, Questor Grimm?"
Grimm sighed and opened his eyes again. “I hurt, Sister,” he said in a dull monotone. “I suppose that is a good sign. It's what life is all about, isn't it?"
Mercia smiled. “I was a little worried about you, Lord Mage. You drifted away from us for a while. You have been unconscious for a day and a half."
"And now I am back.” The dull words fell from his mouth like lead pellets.
He tried to sit up, but Mercia's small hand pushed him back onto the grass with gentle persuasion.
"Please don't try to move, Lord Mage. Your neck and lower spine may be damaged. Do they hurt?"
"No more than the rest of my body, Sister."
"I can administer Trina fumes, Questor Grimm. They should ease the pain."
Mercia held out a small pouch he recognised only too well.
"No!” This time, Grimm overpowered his nurse and jerked himself into a sitting position, his eyes blazing. He had struggled under the iron grip of an all-consuming hunger for that herb and its antagonistic companion, Virion, too long to risk re-addiction now.
Mercia flinched and scurried backwards from the fury of his shout, but he held his hands out to her, his palms downwards in a placatory gesture.
Not daring to look her in the eye, he said, “I'm sorry, Sister. That pouch belongs to me. If you don't mind, I'd like it back."
"Why?” Mercia's voice was the barest of whispers.
"To remind me,” he told her, his tone rueful as he raised his head back up. “To remind me of what it is to be alive."
Her frightened expression giving way to one of puzzlement, she extended the bag again, her fingers limp. Grimm nodded and drew it away from her and placed it back around his neck, feeling a certain comfort in the familiar sensation of the rough pouch lying against his chest.
"Thank you, Sister."
"Please, Lord Mage; do not mention it. At least it seems that your spine is not badly damaged, although that was a foolhardy way to find out. Apart from pains in your head, arms and legs, how do you feel?"
"My chest feels tight, and I'm having a little trouble breathing,” he said, and Mercia nodded.
"You have a couple of broken ribs, so I have bound your chest with tight bandages under your robes. Let me know if they impede your breathing too much."
"No, Sister, I can live with it-what, under my robes?” Grimm felt a hot frisson of embarrassment at the thought that this young nun might have seen him naked.
"I did not expose any more of your body than necessary,” Mercia assured him. “All I needed to do was to expose your upper torso. You had a dislocated hip, but your friend, Tordun, dealt with that, under my instruction. I did not look; it would not have been seemly. I treated your other injuries, a collapsed lung and internal bleeding, with some healing spells. By good fortune, neither of the spells required much power; for some reason, my energy is at a low ebb since the Prioress’ demise. I thank the Names that they were successful, even though several castings were required. Sister Judan knows far more magic than I, but she has fled the Priory."
Well, that's no bad thing, Grimm thought, flexing his arms to test the limits of his battered body's mobility.
Not too bad, he told himself, wincing as he felt a rib grate when he pressed his hands together.
With Mercia's aid, he rose to his feet. His left hip felt stiff, and it sent a metallic, shooting pain up his spine as he essayed a couple of cautious steps. However, after a few cautious experiments, he found that if he kept his leg straight, the discomfort was much reduced. This made his progress clumsy and inelegant; but, at least, it was bearable.
"The discomfort will remain for a few days,” Mercia informed him, “but there is no reason why you should not make a full recovery. I recommend that you convalesce here for a week or so, and you will then be ready to resume your journey."
"I can't afford to stay here a week, Sister!” he expostulated. “I have a duty to report back to the Lord Dominie at High Lodge!"
"Your friends are prepared to wait for as long as necessary,” Mercia said, her tone soft and soothing. “I am sure your Dominie would not expect you to travel when incapacitated. Please; just rest here and allow your body to mend itself."
Grimm nodded slowly. “I suppose you're right, Sister."
"I know what you are thinking: you think the mighty Thorn Virias resisted me from the first, do you not? I assure you, this defiance is a most recent development. He has been telling me Guild and House secrets for years."
The words of Prioress Lizaveta, spoken before the Death-sickness struck, echoed in his head, and he shivered with sudden, eager anticipation. He had no reason to assume the old witch had been lying to him, and, if he could persuade Lizaveta's disembodied shade to confess, it might put an end to Lord Thorn's treachery. More than that, it might lead to a full pardon for his beloved grandfather!
"No, Sister,” he said, locking her eyes with his fierce, implacable, Questor stare. “I cannot wait. I thank you for your diligent attention and your healing skill, but I must go to High Lodge with all speed."
Despite her cries of protest, Grimm pushed past Mercia and through the sackcloth flap at the large tent's side.
He hobbled a few steps, screwing his eyes half-shut at the glaring, golden spears of sunlight, and then stopped, as his eyes adjusted to the brightness.
Where once had stood the magnificent Priory, he saw a scene of utter devastation: a huge crater extended before him, with a few isolated stubs of stone rising from the ground like the remains of a rotted tooth. Only a single turret remained intact, a lone sentry over the destruction.
His jaw dropped, and he stared at the vast, bleak expanse of rubble.
I did this, he thought. I, Grimm Afelnor, a blacksmith's boy, turned a mighty fortress into a heap of fallen stone…
For the first time, he realised the true extent of the terrifying power a Questor held in his head. The scene before him was ghastly, yet he could not tear his eyes from it.
I can do anything! I am power! I am a weapon! I am DESTRUCTION!
The proud, defiant shout thrust upwards from his subconscious mind, blazing into his forebrain, but Grimm tried to push it aside and deny it.
"This cannot be all I am,” he muttered, shaking his head, feeling as if he were teetering on the brink of a deep slough of despair. “I refuse to dedicate my whole life to death and ruin!"
He became aware of a presence behind him, and he turned to see Sister Mercia looking at him with an impenetrable expression on her face. Was it one of pity? Hatred? Contempt? He could not tell.
"What are you thinking, Questor Grimm?” she asked in a soft, level tone. “Are you proud of your work here?"
He heard no condemnation in her voice; only a weary desire for knowledge; for understanding.
"I'm scared, Sister,” he confessed, trying to make sense of his warring emotions. “I'm awe-stricken. So much destruction…"
"But are you proud?” she pressed him. “Thirty-eight good, blameless women are dead; women who devoted their lives to a cause they thought was right. Some of them died in my arms, and I was powerless to help them."
Grimm thought long and hard. Did Mercia want him to confess to shame? In truth, he felt none.
"I am sorry for their deaths,” he said, with a catch in his voice. “I mean that with all my heart, Sister. But I will not lie to you; I am not ashamed. This place was a home of evil, whether you see that or not. The foundations of the Priory were soaked in the blood of countless other tormented innocents, killed for no other reason than to give Prioress Lizaveta and her acolytes greater Geomantic power. I did not seek to kill those thirty-eight nuns; all I wanted was to free those poor, imprisoned souls, who numbered in the hundreds or thousands. Should I have turned a blind eye to their continuing suffering?
"I did not set out to raze the Priory. All I did was to draw the blood of the sacrificed from the earth. I could not have known that there was so much that its removal would undermine the very foundations of the building. All I knew was that, once I had started, I couldn't stop. I just couldn't stop, Sister. All those anguished souls, crying for release… so much pain, fear and death. I couldn't help myself! Must I be ashamed of that? I'm not a mindless murderer, Sister! I'm not."
He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing fast, shallow and spasmodic, struggling to regain control over his rebellious emotions.
You're a Questor, Grimm Afelnor, whether you like it or not, he told himself. You're not supposed to have any damned emotions!
Drawing the deepest breath his tight bandages would allow, he opened his eyes again and met Mercia's gaze, his racing heartbeat steadying.
"No, Sister, I won't be ashamed. Not for you, and not for anyone. Because of me, thirty-eight women are dead, and I regret that. At least their spirits are free to find their eternal home. But, also because of my actions, countless tortured spirits are free from decades of torment and anguish. If I were confronted by the same situation, knowing what I know now, I'd do the same thing again.
"I would, Sister; accept that or not, as you will, but believe it. I'm sorry, but I'm not ashamed. Hate me if you must, but don't despise me. I may be… I am a killer and a destroyer. But I'm no murderer."
He saw moisture beading the young woman's red-rimmed eyes. She looked so helpless and vulnerable as she stood before him, trembling and forlorn, that he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her. Nonetheless, he restrained himself, awaiting her judgement.
"I have been here since I was a little girl,” she whispered, so that Grimm had to strain his ears to hear her words over the soft moan of the morning breeze. “I have known no other life.
"I am scared, too, Questor Grimm. All my life, I have fought to save lives, not to destroy them, and your words trouble me. But I believe you speak the truth as you see it, even though I may never understand. I have seen much death in my life, although never in such profusion, and I have always fought against it as best I could."
The young nun shook her head, beautiful even in her misery. “The world is complex and frightening, Lord Mage, and I have seen so little of it."
Grimm clenched his fists, keeping them at his side as his Questor training reasserted itself.
"I must go back to High Lodge,” he said, his voice a harsh monotone. “I have a Quest to requite. Where are my companions?"
"They are in Anjar,” Mercia said, a few fugitive tears leaving grubby tracks on her pale cheeks. “Some of the Sisters require more care than I could give them, and your friends have been ferrying them to Anjar for help. Others have left to make their way in the world."
She sniffed, as if trying to draw tears back into her eyes.
"Now… now, there is only you and I. General Quelgrum said he would return tonight. I presume you will leave with him. He has a wagon, now, and he and Sergeant Erik have retrieved some of your possessions from that haunted cemetery, including some of their death-Technology. They are strong now. If you must go, I cannot stop you."
Grimm nodded. “I don't have any choice in the matter, Sister. I dare not stay here any longer. I'm sorry."
A long, uncomfortable silence descended like a grey cloud over the mage and the nun.
She really is very pretty…
For the space of a few heartbeats, Grimm thought of his imaginary gambol with dream-Drexelica, but with Mercia in his beloved's place.
Drex hates me now… no! he thought, dismissing the idyllic image. I'll bring her back to me, whatever it takes. If it takes me a lifetime, I'll bring her back!
"I'm sorry, Sister Mercia,” he repeated, “but I cannot bring your friends back. I thank you for your diligent attentions, with all my heart, but I will not apologise for their deaths, dear Sister. It couldn't be helped."
She snorted, and Grimm shrugged, his wayward feelings now back under his full control.
He looked down at himself. His robes might be tattered and stained, but he took comfort in the blue glow from his Guild ring: Granfer's ring.
Only one thing was missing. Drawing himself to his full height, despite the burning pain in his left hip, Grimm muttered “Redeemer; come to me."
As he felt his faithful, hand-carved staff slap into his waiting hand, the ground groaned and trembled, sending a dense cloud of yellow dust into the air with a sound like thunder. Now, he was complete.
Names help Lord Thorn now! he thought.
"If my presence bothers you, Sister Mercia,” he said, “I'll leave you and make my way up Merrydeath Road as best I can. I'm sure any town around here would welcome the services of a healer as talented and dedicated as you. Thank you, and goodbye. You don't have to tolerate my presence a moment longer."
Ignoring the pain, he began to limp away to the north, turning his back on the devastation he had caused.
"Lord Mage, please wait!"
The nun's voice was so plaintive and desperate that it stopped Grimm in his tracks, sending another shooting pain through his lower body.
"Yes, Sister Mercia?"
"May I come with you… please? I do not want to be alone."
"Are you sure, Sister? I may have to kill again; you appreciate that, don't you?” The mage made his tone rough; almost brutal. “After all, that's what I am: a human weapon. I don't have to like it, but I won't deny it."
She sighed. “You risked your life for me and some of the other nuns. They have all left, leaving me with you. I owe you nothing, and you owe me nothing. But will you take me with you?"
If this girl wants to come with us, how can I deny her? he thought. My heart is with Drex alone… if she hasn't run away already.
"Very well, Sister,” he said, trying not to reveal the growing anguish in his pelvis. “Just don't try to use any Geomancy on me."
"I do not think I have any magic left, Lord Mage,” she said. “Please wait with me. I do not want to be left alone."
With some difficulty, Grimm sat down on a grassy hillock. After a few minutes, Mercia sat opposite him, her eyes wary. The Questor looked at the sky and sighed. A long wait might lie ahead of him, but he had no intention of flirting with this young woman, however great the temptation.
Nonetheless, the stark ruins of the Priory seemed to mock Grimm's earlier proud defence of his calling, denying him the inner peace he sought. Every cold stone block seemed to cry, ‘Murderer!'
Come on, Quelgrum; get me out of here, he thought. I just want to finish this cursed Quest.
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