Crohn rose to his feet and made as if to brush dust and dirt from his filthy robes. To cover his embarrassment at this futile exercise, he cleared his throat, as he often did when addressing a roomful of Students. He stepped back a little from Xylox.
We have won the first battle by persuading Questor Xylox to listen to us, but direct confrontation may be inadvisable.
"Did you hear of a Neophyte named Erek Garan?” he asked.
"I heard something about it,” Xylox replied, shrugging. “As I understand it, Senior Magemaster Urel exceeded his orders and pushed the boy beyond the limits of his endurance, with tragic results."
"That is the official story,” Crohn said. “I believed it at the time. However, I now know it as a lie."
Xylox leant on his staff in an almost jaunty pose, but there was no joy or merriment in his face. “What makes you believe this, Crohn?"
"I am to be addressed as Senior Magemaster Crohn, or Manipulant Crohn until my guilt is proved!"
Xylox shrugged. “My apologies, Senior Magemaster Crohn,” he said with just a trace of sarcastic emphasis on the title. “Pray continue."
"I have only circumstantial evidence,” Crohn admitted. “However, it is all of a pattern with our other contentions. The individual threads come together to form whole cloth."
Xylox said nothing, and Crohn marshalled his argument.
"I knew Senior Magemaster Urel for more than forty years,” he said. “I never met a more dedicated or diligent educator."
"Senior Magemaster Urel was my tutor when I was a Neophyte,” the Questor said. “He was a martinet, and he was swift to fall on the least transgression. I can believe with ease that such a man could go too far when training a Neophyte."
"Did he ever punish you, Questor Xylox?"
The Questor snorted. “I should say so!” he said with vehemence. “He would scream at me for no reason, and he often beat me for inattention, for supposed insolence, or for what he considered laziness. The man was a bully."
Crohn nodded. “How long did you remain a Neophyte before your Outbreak?” he asked.
"One year, five months and four days,” Xylox snapped. “Almost eighteen months of unending torment. I understand now the need for the unremitting pressure, for it made a Questor of me. However, I once hated the man with all my soul."
"Eighteen months!” Crohn said. “Fancy that!
"I believe Lord Thorn's Ordeal lasted two years,"
"Not so different from mine,” Xylox said. “What of it?"
"I suggest that Magemaster Urel's apparent, insensate rage was a front. Did he beat you or scream at you every day?"
"No, Magemaster Crohn,” admitted Xylox. “For several days after a beating, he might seem almost pleasant. Nonetheless, after a while, the assault would begin anew, worse than before."
Kargan stepped forward. “Urel was testing you, Questor Xylox,” he said. “He was seeing how far you could go without breaking, and then backing off. He was stretching you to the limit to a calculated schedule."
"Eighteen months-” Xylox began.
"Neophyte Erek broke out after less than three months, with fatal results,” Crohn interrupted.
"The boy was a neurotic,” Xylox said, shifting his staff to his left side. “Urel should never have selected him for the Ordeal. It is further proof, if any were needed, of his recklessness."
"Erek was artistic and highly-strung, but I always found him a diligent and well-behaved Student,” Crohn said, stretching to relieve the nagging aches in his legs.
"So did I,” Kargan said. “Erek only became neurotic during his Ordeal."
"Perhaps the boy was unsuitable as Questor material,” Crohn allowed. “However, Senior Magemaster Urel did not select him for the Ordeal; Lord Thorn did. I was in the Prelate's office on one occasion, when Urel burst in to protest to Lord Thorn about the treatment he was visiting on Erek. Was that the action of an uncaring brute?
"Before the Prelate dismissed me-with some urgency, I might add-I heard him overrule the Senior Magemaster's objections and order him to intensify the boy's training.
"It was all Lord Thorn's doing: he ordered Urel to give Erek no respite. The Prelate drove the boy to madness by sheer ruthlessness."
"A miscalculation,” Xylox declared. “I wager that Lord Thorn regrets it, but it is no proof of evil intent."
"Questor Grimm's training was no different,” Crohn said. “He was beaten, excoriated and vilified daily for six months, without a break. By the end, he was almost a human vegetable."
"The boy is precocious,” Xylox said. “I will grant him that."
"Three times as precocious as you?” Crohn said, trying to prick the Questor's pride. “He is strong, but not that strong."
"You say he was beaten every day,” Xylox said, straightening up. “How do you know this?"
"Because I beat him,” Crohn said, his voice almost a whisper, “to my eternal shame. Lord Thorn pressed me and harangued me to maintain the severity of his training. I turned the Students against him, forbade him to associate with his friends and barred him from the Scholasticate Library. I thought I was doing right; that Lord Thorn had the best interests of the Guild at heart.
"I now doubt that."
"The boy became a Questor,” Xylox said, shrugging. “He did not kill you."
The Questor's casual attitude infuriated Crohn. He tore open the front of his robes to reveal a mass of weeping, half-healed lesions on his chest and upper arms. “Did you do this to Urel?” the Magemaster demanded.
Xylox lost some of his former composure, his face growing pale. He shook his head. “I… I struck him on the jaw,” he said. “As he fell to the floor, I used my emerging power to lift a heavy table, but something stopped me from dropping it on him. Instead, I smashed it into fragments with magic. I then screamed and broke all the windows in the room. Urel told me I had done well. He wrapped his arms around me and told me my Ordeal was at an end."
"Neophyte Grimm destroyed-devastated-an entire classroom,” Crohn said. “He was almost insane with rage and pain.
"Pain I visited upon him."
"I know pain,” Xylox replied. “It is a Questor's-"
Crohn saw the Questor's eyes bulge, his fists clench and his jaw drop, as all colour fled from his face. Then, with a hoarse, agonised groan, Xylox collapsed to the flagstones.
"You know pain now, Questor Xylox,” came a voice from the floor, and Crohn saw Questor Dalquist sitting up, rubbing an egg-sized lump on his temple and grimacing.
"What magic did you cast on him?” Kargan asked.
"I didn't,” confessed the younger Questor. “I just brought Shakhmat up between his legs; crude, but effective. We don't have time for diplomacy and civilised debate."
"Bundle him into one of the cells,” Crohn ordered, suppressing a smile at Xylox's ignominious downfall.
In a moment, Kargan and Dalquist had thrust the almost comatose Xylox into a clean cell, and Crohn locked the door.
"Let us pay Lord Thorn a visit,” he said.
Loras struggled to summon his power, but Chag's mindless, wordless, insane assault continued unabated. It was all he could do to resist the formless bolts of naked power, and he knew he could not defend himself much longer.
He writhed on the floor, his eyes shut and his teeth clenched in agony, when the magical beating stopped. Opening his eyes, he saw Thorn standing over him, the drooling, wild-eyed boy at his side.
"I like my position, Loras,” the Prelate said, his tone almost apologetic. “I am sorry, old friend. Will you not reconsider your demands? I would prefer not to have to kill you."
"How kind of you, Thorn,” gasped Loras, licking his sore, teeth-torn lips and tasting the acrid, metallic tang of blood.
"What do you think of our new Questor?” the Prelate asked. “Of course, he will never go to the Breaking Stone, but he makes a formidable bodyguard, does he not?"
"Questor?” Loras said, spitting out a broken incisor. “He is a chimera, an inhuman abomination, not a Guild Mage.
"May the Names forgive you, for I cannot."
Thorn sighed, and sat back in his chair.
"Is that your final word, Loras? Remember that it is in your power to remit your suffering. I would prefer to have you at my side as a reinstated Guild Mage and an ally.
"Think hard, my friend."
Loras thought, I cannot beat this boy; I have no Questor defence against his perverted power. It would be foolish to throw my life away in this manner. Personal pride is insufficient reason.
"If I agree to maintain your fantasy,” he croaked, “what happens then?"
"I remain Prelate,” Thorn said. “I admit my mother's part in your disgrace and recommend your absolution by the Lord Dominie. I will declare Questor Grimm free of his obligation to the House, and you may both resume a normal life in honour or remain here as full Questors, as you wish. Either way, I will arrange a comfortable stipend for you."
"I am a married man,” Loras said, sitting up with some difficulty. “I will not renounce my wife, and a Guild Mage cannot engage in any liaison with a woman."
"I am sure that problem can be overlooked,” Thorn said, with a casual shrug. “The circumstances are, after all, most unusual."
"And what must I do, Thorn?"
The Prelate smiled. “All you have to do is to agree to a little Compulsion not to betray my… my less conventional decisions,” he said. “I fancy I can only do this to a Questor of your strength with your acquiescence."
"What else will you put in my head if I agree, Thorn?” Loras demanded. “How do I know I will not end up as much a slave as this poor boy?"
"I am not my mother,” Thorn replied, “and I have no desire to subdue or dominate you. I ask only a little security in my position, and I do not wish to become Dominie. I am content in statu quo, and that is all I want."
"What about the boy, Chag?"
"If you wish, I will put him in the care of a competent Mentalist and a Mage Healer,” Thorn said, opening both hands towards Loras, “after you have agreed to my little caveat. Chag need remember nothing of this, and no word will go outside this door."
It all sounds so reasonable.
Loras might have to swallow a little injured pride, but he could have almost all he wanted: his family; his redemption in the eyes of the Guild; freedom from poverty. After years of struggling, self-condemnation and penury, he might be free.
It was all he might have hoped for, and the smith-Questor felt the strings of temptation tugging at his heart.
What will happen if I refuse? Loras wondered. What will happen to Drima without my support? What will happen to…
Loras clamped down on his train of thought with the discipline of a full Mage Questor, killing it.
"You told me that Grimm is on a Quest to eliminate Lizaveta,” he said, feeling an electric pang of horror that he had spared his grandson so little thought. “Where is he?"
Thorn shrugged again, as if the answer to the question were unimportant. “He must be in Rendale,” he said. “Most of the nuns know little of my mother's darker activities; only twenty witches know her true nature. Questor Grimm and his well-armed retinue should be able to overcome them. Set your mind at rest on that score.
"If you wish to add your skills to his, I will be happy to allow you to do so, once we have completed our negotiations."
Loras had never voyaged to Rendale, and he knew nothing of its possible perils. He scanned Thorn's aura, seeing only calm, blue shades of unconcerned contentment.
He felt a cold shock scurrying up his neck.
He's lying; or, at least, he's found some way to hide the fact from me!
He's already used magic on me! he thought, with a shiver. He's been pushing all thought of Grimm out of my head! He's been playing with me all the time!
One part of Loras’ psyche screamed at him to throw the Prelate's false generosity back in his face, while another pleaded for a more cautious approach.
What to do? he wondered, casting a nervous eye at the drooling, lethal Chag. Do I die, saving my honour at the possible expense of my family, or do I pretend to go along with Thorn, waiting for a propitious moment that may never come?
"Do you agree, Loras?” Thorn asked.
The smith felt as if his tongue had turned to ashes. He knew he must give some kind of response: a cold refusal or a false, cloying acceptance.
"Thorn,” he said, indecision clinging to him like a thick, stifling cloud, “I must know-"
At that moment, the thick, oaken door to the office disappeared in a blizzard of blue sparks, and Thorn sprang to his feet, his eyes wide. Loras saw an unfamiliar, young man with a seven-ringed staff step through the opening, with Magemasters Crohn and Kargan just behind him. Chag uttered a guttural growl, raising his hands. As the insane youth diverted his attention from Loras, the smith saw his moment.
"Aghamaner-setset!” he screamed, feeling the incomparable, long-forgotten joy of thaumaturgic release as he launched an impromptu spell of lassitude at the boy. “Orgimaringem'ist framintes!"
Chag spun towards him, his mouth slack as his knees began to buckle, and Thorn flung his head back, beginning to chant.
Still holding the spell on the tumbling boy, revelling in the stream of magical power flowing from him, Loras took a strong, two-handed grip on Blade and swung it at Thorn's chest. Blue motes flew as the two staves, Loras’ and Thorn's, smashed into each other, but the smith had the advantage of greater momentum.
The Prelate gave an eerie, high-pitched squeal as he flew back to thud into the wall with a wet sound like a plank hitting a freshly-plastered wall. He sank to the floor and lay still.
"Greetings… gentlemen,” Loras gasped, grimacing at the strain of maintaining his spell on the dormant Chag. “Would one of you please restrain this poor boy? I am a little out of practice, and this lad is a touch excitable."
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