Grimm sat on the hillock next to Sister Mercia, regarding the shattered ruins of Rendale Priory. He still found it hard to believe that such devastation could have been wrought by one man alone.
Dotted among the grass sward around the tumbled mass of stone, he saw numerous brown mounds; the last resting places of the blameless women who had died during the Priory's sudden collapse. According to Sister Mercia, thirty-eight nuns had lost their lives in the disaster. Grimm could not bring himself to count them, for fear that she might have underestimated the total; thirty-eight innocent lives on his conscience seemed more than enough to bear.
"Are we just going to sit like this until the General and your other companions return from Anjar, Lord Grimm?” Mercia demanded, dragging Grimm's attention back into the world of the living.
"Perhaps it is best,” he said, feeling a catch in his throat. “I know how you must hate me.” He did not trust himself to say more.
"Do you want me to hate you?” she asked.
"You have that right,” he said, not daring to turn around to meet her eyes. “Perhaps I deserve your hatred. I killed your friends and destroyed your home.” In an attempt to cover his swelling emotions, his voice became rough and harsh. “That's what I do… I kill people. I'm good at it, it seems."
"Do you enjoy destruction and death?” she pressed him, and he felt annoyance rising within him, to add to his inner turmoil.
He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but his throat felt as if an orange had become stuck in it, blocking the passage of air. He waved his hands in a helpless, vague gesture.
"Enough!” He forced the single word through the blockage, hearing the tremor within it. “You hate me; I know… I should be… Oh, Mercia!"
At last, the long-dammed tears burst through their barrier, and the mage slumped into a sodden lump of misery, his shoulders shaking with the effort to regain outward composure. He felt the young nun's arm curl around him, drawing him close to her. He did not resist… he could not resist.
"I do not hate you,” she whispered, rubbing him between his shoulder-blades with a comforting hand. “I might, if I thought you did not care about what you did, or if it had been a deliberate act. Now, I know it was all a tragic accident. I recognise what the Reverend Mother and the Score did to hundreds of innocent girls: they brutalised them, turned them into unseeing, unfeeling automata. That had to be stopped.
"You took the decision to end it, at serious risk to your own life, even though you could have walked away from the Priory.
"That took moral courage, Questor Grimm, and you did not flinch from it. There were over two hundred and fifty women in the Priory, living a life that was no life. You freed more than two hundred and ten of them, the vast majority. You owed them nothing after the way you were treated. I did despise you at first, but I despise you no longer. You are a good man, Lord Grimm. I know that now.
"There; do not try to speak. Just release your grief and hurt. Let it all out."
Grimm's face burrowed into Mercia's neck, feeling the stiff calico of her wimple bristling against his feverish brow.
It felt so good, so right to let go of his warring emotions… perhaps too right…
"No,” he said, drawing away from Mercia with a shudder and throwing off her arm. “That's enough."
With his eyes squeezed shut, he drew a series of deep, shivering breaths and pushed the pain deep inside him, screwing it into a tight, inert parcel, as Magemaster Crohn had taught him to do so long ago. The pain, anger and confusion began to fade, just as Crohn had counselled him.
"I am sorry, Sister,” he said, meeting her anxious gaze with no difficulty now. “I didn't mean to push you away like that. I feel much better now."
"Am I now speaking to Grimm, the man, or to the Guild Questor?” Mercia's tone was cool.
"I don't know,” he confessed. “Nonetheless, you are speaking to me, as I now am. I am a human being, but I am a Questor, too. And I… I like you, perhaps too much. I have another; whose name is Drexelica. I'll never feel comfortable to come too close to another girl."
"It is not good to bury your feelings so,” Mercia whispered, but she kept her distance.
"Perhaps so,” he admitted, “but it is a part of who I am."
As Mercia opened her mouth to speak, Grimm heard a distant rumbling, increasing in volume by the moment, and he raised his right hand to stem her words.
"What is it?” she asked, her face blank.
"Unless I am mistaken,” he said, “that is the sound of an approaching wagon."
He stood up, wincing as his injured hip sent a bolt of pain up his spine, and he saw a growing cloud of dust from the direction of Merrydeath Road.
"I am not mistaken. That must be General Quelgrum."
Grimm caught sight of the seven gleaming rings on Redeemer, his hard-won symbols of rank as a Guild Mage. Regarding the staff with near-reverence, he took firm hold and all remaining traces of guilt and worry flew from him, as if a cool, refreshing breeze had blown then away.
Thank you, Redeemer, he thought, I won't forget where my duty lies again.
For a few moments, he wondered if Redeemer were somehow enforcing Guild dogma on him, but he then realised it was just restoring the indomitable sense of purpose he had felt when he had carved the staff, imbuing it with his personality as he did so.
Now, he did not need to pretend to feel better; he did.
"Thank you for your kind words and support, Sister Mercia. I really appreciate them,” he said.
"However, I do have a mission to fulfil… three missions, in fact,” Grimm added, thinking of his disgraced grandfather and his bewitched lover. “I intend to succeed in all of them."
Mercia said nothing as the wagon came into view on the long, straight road, drawn by four horses. Then, she leaned close to him and whispered, “I am afraid, Questor Grimm."
"Don't worry, Sister,” Grimm said. “You will be in the company of a Seventh Rank Questor, a mighty demon and three accomplished warriors. Only the most foolhardy of bandits would seek to attack us."
"It is not that which scares me, Lord Mage,” Mercia replied. “I… am seventeen years old, and I was sent here at the age of six. I know nothing of the larger world. I wish to travel with you and your companions because you seem so confident and accustomed to travel…"
She shook her head. “No, I am being foolish. It is unfair of me to lay my burdens on you."
"Not at all, Sister,” Grimm said. “I was sent to Arnor House at the age of seven and imprisoned in the Scholasticate until I was sixteen. I understand just how you feel, believe me. I can tell you, from personal experience, that you will soon overcome your fears. The world is a fascinating and lively place, and you will soon make friends. Have you given any thought as to what you will do?"
Mercia gave her head a vigorous, earnest shake. “Not truly. All I know is healing. I imagine I will have to offer my services to some physician or apothecary."
"Would you like to carry on to the city of Crar?” Grimm asked. “There is a very gentle, kind old man there, by the name of Querl. He is the physician for the whole city, and he works very hard. I'm sure he would be very grateful for the services of a young and talented healer like you."
"Do you think so?” Mercia's face still bore the lines of worry, but they seemed shallower now.
"I'm certain of it,” the mage said. “I'll arrange a meeting as soon as we get there; I promise."
"Thank you, Questor…"
The remainder of Mercia's words were drowned by the clatter of horses’ hooves and the rumble of the wagon as it rolled into the Priory courtyard.
"I just hope I can convince General Q that this is a good idea,” Grimm shouted.
"I do not think you will have to worry about that,” the nun called back. “He… he seems to like me."
The wagon drew to a halt ten feet away from Grimm, and the General leapt off it, wearing a broad smile on his face.
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