Uttering a deep sigh, Dalquist rubbed his sore eyes and leant back in his chair. He had discharged his Scholasticate duties for the day and, despite the late hour and an abominable headache, he did not feel tired. Since his discovery of Prelate Thorn's part in Questor Loras’ downfall, he had slept little, wondering how he might produce real, concrete evidence of the Prelate's treachery that would influence the Conclave and the Presidium.
Lord Thorn's a House Prelate and a full member of the Presidium, he thought, not for the first time. Any proof I can find will have to be very, very convincing.
Dalquist drummed his fingers on his desk, cudgelling his brain for the least iota of information that might aid him in his covert Quest. Some change in Loras’ personality immediately before his disgrace, perhaps?
Doorkeeper knew Loras well, he mused, but getting a coherent story out of him is like trying to catch a greased rabbit while wearing lead boots…
He had once before attempted to elicit firm memories from the old man concerning the affair, but he knew that Doorkeeper's vague rambling would never suffice as a watertight case.
Rising to his feet, he summoned Shakhmat and made his way down the stairs to the East Wing; perhaps the well-stocked Scholasticate library would hold some clue he could use. He held out little hope; he had spent many hours scanning through numerous documents, but Loras’ name had been expunged from all of them. Dalquist knew he was acting like a man who, having searched high and low for a valuable lost item, begins to search again in locations he has already covered.
At this late hour, the Library was deserted, but the ever-glowing globes of Mage Light ensured it was still well-lit. He found the silence eerie, almost oppressive, and he could not understand why Grimm had spent so long in this dingy refuge.
Having carried out many abortive searches before, he knew the House copies of the Deeds of the Questors would be of little use; every mention of Loras Afelnor had been ruthlessly eliminated from the pages.
Journals by former Prelates and members of the Conclave lay on these dusty shelves, but Dalquist had scoured them, too, with no greater success.
Nonetheless, something continued to draw him back to the Library.
As he stood before the high racks of books, searching for inspiration, Dalquist heard the click of the Library door and spun around, feeling as if guilt were etched on his back in large, luminous letters, although he had committed no crime as yet.
Standing in the doorway was the unmistakable figure of Magemaster Crohn. Dalquist trusted the venerable tutor, and he had intended to try to draw the old man into his and Kargan's shared intrigue; however, there never seemed to be an opportune time or place in which to do so.
"Good evening, Questor Dalquist,” the Magemaster said, his diction crisp and impeccable, as usual. “What, may I ask, brings you here? I did not think you were such a bibliophile."
"I couldn't sleep, Magemaster,” the Questor replied, speaking the truth.
"Nor I."
Dalquist suppressed a gasp as the tutor stepped into the light; although the Senior Magemaster's clothes were as immaculate and proper as ever, his face was grey and haggard. The old man's slumped shoulders and shambling gait lay at odds with his normal, confident, proud posture.
"What's the matter, Magemaster Crohn?” Dalquist inquired, worried for the tutor. “Are you sick? Shall I call a Healer?"
Crohn shook his head. “I am not sick, Brother Mage; except, perhaps, of my duty and my calling; and of my weakness."
Dalquist felt as if an icy spider were crawling along his spine; he had come to know Crohn well during the long months in which the two mages had schooled Grimm Afelnor as an Adept Questor. Never once had the Senior Magemaster wavered in his vocation; not even in the immediate aftermath of Grimm's tumultuous Outbreak, in which Crohn had suffered serious injury.
Dalquist helped Crohn into a chair and sat opposite him. “It's not like you to talk this way, Magemaster Crohn."
"I am putting another Neophyte through the Questor Ordeal,” the Magemaster said, in a dull voice, “for my sins."
"So I heard, Senior Magemaster.” In fact, the Questor had only caught wind of this during his journey aboard Kargan's potent memory spell, but this casual mention seemed harmless.
"After our meeting with Lord Thorn, I thought he had acknowledged the risks inherent in the Questor Ordeal,” Crohn said, his eyes blank. “This boy's name is Chag Jura, and he tries so hard to please me-just like Afelnor did. I would have refused the assignment at once, but, if I refuse to undertake the boy's training, the Prelate says he will reassign Neophyte Chag to Magemaster Faffel."
"Is the boy strong?"
Crohn shrugged. “He has exceptional power, but I fear for his sanity. He is less highly-strung than Erek was, but the Prelate is pushing me even harder than he did over Questor Grimm's Ordeal. I am trying to go easy on the boy, but Lord Thorn grows impatient."
"Surely he listens to your concerns, after what happened to Erek and Urel? We confronted him over the very same matter, only a few months ago. If this Chag boy were to lose his mind as Erek did, with such power, the results could be catastrophic."
"The problem, Questor Dalquist, is that Lord Thorn does listen, or, at least, he appears to do so. In order to reduce the strain on me, or so he says, he has even taken over part of the boy's tutelage. Three times a week, Jura undergoes a two-hour session in the Prelate's office."
Dalquist's eyes bulged: Thorn was not even a junior member of the Scholasticate staff, and it was unheard-of for a senior member of the House hierarchy to take such a close interest in a Neophyte's education.
The Questor, feeling a little sick, guessed what the reason might be for such close attention: Thorn might be grooming his own, personal Questor, someone who owed his allegiance neither to the Guild nor the House, but to the Prelate alone. This ran counter to every tenet of Guild law.
"Crohn; we've got to stop him,” Dalquist said, leaning forward to look straight into the Senior Magemaster's rheumy, bloodshot eyes.
"Stop what, Questor Dalquist? He seems to listen to my concerns, and he has even absolved me of any responsibility, should an unfortunate accident occur."
I can just imagine how much weight those verbal assurances will bear if anything does happen, thought Dalquist. If anything happens either to the boy or to Crohn, Thorn'll just say it was all Crohn's fault, and who could gainsay him? He got away with a similar excuse when Erek broke out and killed Senior Magemaster Urel.
Oh, well, I guess there's not going to be a better time than this to act…
"Thorn is a traitor to the House and to the Guild,” Dalquist said, the words tumbling from his mouth like a shower of lead shot. “His mother placed Loras Afelnor under some sort of Geomantic Geas, forcing him to attempt the murder of the old Prelate, so that Thorn could take his place. She wanted Loras as her consort, but he rebuffed her. Now, she wants Questor Grimm, and she wants Thorn to become Dominie at all costs!"
Crohn shook his head. “Lord Thorn is an ambitious man,” he said, “but I cannot see him agreeing to such a deed. Now, I do not know what rumours you may have heard-"
"I saw the proof with my own eyes, Magemaster Crohn!” Dalquist cried.
"'Horin is expendable; you will be his replacement.’ I was present when Thorn's mother said those very words!"
There; it's said, he thought. There's no going back now.
Crohn's eyes, now stern with disbelief, stared into his own. Dalquist felt no compulsion to look away; no Secular or ordinary mage could ever stare down a Questor.
"You really believe it!"
"I don't have to believe, Magemaster; I know. Kargan was with me; he had cast some potent Mentalist spell on us both. He can back me up."
Crohn rose to his feet with some difficulty and began to wander around the Library, his staff thumping on the wooden floor in a rhythmic manner.
He stopped pacing and spun around. “Your proof?” he demanded, as if addressing a humble Student.
"I don't have any tangible evidence, Magemaster Crohn,” Dalquist admitted. “I saw and heard the whole thing, as did Magemaster Kargan, but it'd be our word against Thorn's. The reason I'm up here tonight is to try to find something positive in Guild records, something we can use."
"I knew Loras Afelnor,” Crohn said, his eyes now sharp, his voice challenging. “I must admit I always found the whole affair strange, but he acknowledged his own guilt in front of the whole Conclave, or so I hear. Lord Thorn, so I understand, persuaded the other members to forgo the death sentence for his friend. Defend your position!"
As yet, the Senior Magemaster had stopped short of branding him a liar, but Dalquist saw doubt and reason fighting for supremacy in Crohn's face. The old man had reverted to his schoolroom persona, and, Dalquist had to admit, it was an effective technique; the old man was making him think.
"Perhaps Thorn was worried that the members of the Conclave would see the spell rising from Loras’ dead body,” he hazarded. “Perhaps he felt guilt for his treachery."
"Supposition is neither evidence nor proof, Questor Dalquist."
"I know what I saw and heard,” the younger mage said. “I was not present when the offence occurred, but what I say is true!"
"A poor argument,” the Senior Magemaster said, shaking his head. “Where, may I ask, can you adduce any proof of your assertions?"
"I've consulted the Deeds of the Questors, Prelate Geral's own journals, and the Annals of Arnor House,” Dalquist said. “Loras’ name has been erased from all of them."
"Of course: this is standard practice in the case of traitors, and no proof of foul play at all. Do you have anything better?"
Dalquist rose from his chair. “That's why I'm here, Senior Magemaster,” he said. “I don't know where to look.
"However, I can see you don't believe me. Just report me to Prelate Thorn and be done with it, if you think me a liar!"
"I did not call you a liar, Questor Dalquist.” Crohn's voice was as smooth as the finest silk. “In fact, I believe you; I must. My Mage Sight tells me that you regard your words as the truth. The only alternatives are that you are insane, or that you are deliberately deceiving me with some subtle spell. I see no sign of the first, and I believe I caught you off your guard. That should preclude the second."
"Magemaster Crohn; that is a gross breach of protocol!” the Questor protested. “You used your Sight on me?"
"You made an extraordinary claim.” Crohn's face bore just the hint of a smile. “I felt it required extraordinary proof. Surely you did not expect me to accept your story otherwise?"
Dalquist felt a little shocked at the prim, proper mage's actions, but he had to acknowledge Crohn's reasoning. The old man could hardly have gone to Thorn's office and called him to task on such shaky reasoning.
"Of course, we cannot use the same technique on Lord Thorn,” Crohn said. “We need something a little stronger than hearsay before we could ever persuade a Conclave to use Mage Sight on the Prelate."
"I know that! That's the whole…"
Dalquist's ears might have lagged behind his mouth, but they caught up now.
"Magemaster Crohn; did you just use the pronoun ‘we'?"
Crohn nodded. “I have felt for some time that the Lord Prelate's activities have gone far beyond the bounds of the needs and requirements of the Guild. I found your story shocking, but not altogether incredible.
"However, I am sure you realise that the dangers of an unproved claim against a Prelate are considerable. Mage Sight is a powerful tool, but it is far from infallible, especially when one is dealing with mages of a senior rank. I believe you because I find your tale plausible. However, Prelate Thorn could argue that you, as a Seventh Level Questor, might be clouding or perverting your true aura."
Dalquist looked into Crohn's red-rimmed eyes and saw no trace of deception in them. However, he knew he was taking a great risk by trusting the old mage tutor too much.
"May I scan your aura, Magemaster Crohn?” he asked.
Crohn nodded. “Of course, Questor Dalquist. I appreciate your courtesy in asking me."
Dalquist unfocused his eyes in that special way, and scanned the old man's halo of colours for any sign of deception.
"Clean, I presume?"
Dalquist nodded.
"However, I advise you to keep watching, Questor Dalquist."
As the Questor held on to his Sight, he saw green tendrils of despair, red threads of anger and yellow wisps of jealousy waft through Crohn's aura. In the space of a few moments, the entire panoply of human emotion cycled through the old mage's psychic field, each one flickering for a few moments before being replaced by another. Dalquist's eyes grew large with astonishment.
"What in the…?"
"I have taught Students how to interpret auras for most of my life, Questor Dalquist. I have studied the phenomenon in great depth, and you will find that most Magemasters who teach the subject have done the same. I am capable of projecting any state of mind I wish. It is not an uncommon skill, but it is not something we teach to our Students, of course. It is a spell like any other of the Divinatory class; it can, therefore, also be used in a Projective or Resident manner. You see, therefore, that no inquisition based on Sight alone can be considered conclusive; not in a teaching House, at least."
Dalquist's mouth moved, but no sound emerged. He had been taught from an early age that the Sight was an infallible method of determining guilt or innocence, and Crohn's words had pulled this firm plank of faith from beneath him. He felt cold horror at the thought that he had exposed himself to a man whose aura he could not trust.
"Rest easy, Questor Dalquist,” the old man said. “I have no intention of betraying you. I know my scant words are a poor substitute for true Sight, but, then, I am sure you realise that I had no reason to tell you of this little wrinkle in the craft, had I intended subterfuge."
Dalquist nodded slowly. What the Magemaster said made sense.
"But how, then,” the Questor said, as a thought took hold of him, “is the truth of any matter to be found?"
"There are far more potent spells than mere Sight,” Crohn said. “However, they are all Great Spells, requiring the services of many powerful mages. We could never persuade the Presidium to cast such a Great Spell on a House Prelate without proof; solid, undeniable evidence. I am a member of the House Presidium, and you may take my word on this. Forget the Sight."
Dalquist sat back down and buried his head in his hands. He had hoped that the more mages he could get on his side, the better. However, Crohn had saved his embarrassment and, perhaps, his life. Despairing of ever finding stronger evidence, he had hoped that persuading a Presidium member to scan Thorn's aura and put him to the question might have sufficed.
With a faint groan, the Magemaster lowered himself into the chair opposite him, using his staff as a support. He sat in silence, as the Questor wracked his brains.
Loras might as well be dead, for all the evidence we're going to find here, he thought. What can we do? There must be something, someone…
"This is going nowhere, Magemaster Crohn,” he said. “Why don't we just sleep on it, and-"
The Questor saw Crohn start, and he spun around to see the door of the Library swing open. With horror, he saw the figure of Thorn framed in the doorway, and he slammed his mouth shut.
The Prelate strolled into the room a half-smile on his lips, and Dalquist saw two other men enter behind him: Magemaster Faffel and Xylox the Mighty.
Thorn ran a finger along one of the bookshelves and inspected it. “Dusty,” he drawled. “I must advise Doorkeeper to persuade the cleaning staff to pay greater attention to their duties."
Crohn rose to his feet. “Lord Prelate,” he said, his voice clear and cool. “What brings you here tonight?"
"What do you think, Crohn? Black, bloody treachery brings me here, and a pair of worthless rats who will soon learn the error of their ways."
Dalquist leapt to his feet, Shakhmat at the ready. “What do you mean, Lord Prelate? Are you accusing us of treason?” His heart was pounding, but he tried to keep his face open and guileless.
"Let us not play games, Questor Dalquist,” the Prelate said. “I have had my eye on you two for some time, and I have left standing orders with my servant, Wiirt, to be alerted whenever you are alone together. He saw you coming here and listened at the door. He could not hear all, but, I fancy, he heard more than enough, and he ran to tell me what he overheard. I roused these two valiant, loyal men from their slumbers to aid in your capture. You are planning to overthrow Lord Horin and, presumably, me. You are foul traitors to the House and to the Guild."
"If anyone is a traitor here, it is not us!” Dalquist snapped. “We discussed-"
"You were discussing how to conceal your auras from the eyes of others,” Thorn said, consulting a sheet of paper. “Wiirt also tells me that you, Questor Dalquist, told Magemaster Crohn-and I quote-'Horin is expendable; you will be his replacement.’ Do you deny these words?"
"The words are quoted out of context!” Crohn protested, his face growing red. “The truth of the matter is that you are perverting-"
"Thishare foutreyan grouftit!” Thorn cried in his personal Questor language, and Crohn folded to the floor, unconscious.
Dalquist realised he would not be allowed to speak in his defence, and he readied a spell of his own against Thorn.
Too late! His own reflexes had been dulled by months of service in the Scholasticate, and he scarcely noticed the swish of a Mage Staff behind him before it impacted on the back of his skull. After a blazing flash of light inside his skull, he knew no more.
[Back to Table of Contents]