"It's a pleasant morning, don't you think, Grimm?" Numal said.
Grimm knew the Necromancer was just trying to make polite conversation as the Questor drove the small cart down the mountain path from Arnor House, but he had to force himself to reply in a fair facsimile of a cheerful voice.
"Yes, indeed, Numal. It's good to be out."
In truth, Grimm felt seedy and ill-tempered. He was beginning to worry that the herbs, Trina and Virion, to which, inadvertently, he had once been addicted, might once more be exerting their insidious influence on him. Since the herbs had relinquished their tyrannical hold on him, it had been his habit to carry a pouch of the potent substances with him at all times, to remind him of the thrall in which they had once held him. He had left the pouch behind at General Quelgrum's desert lair, and he began to regret that he had never replenished them.
No! All that is behind you, Grimm. You're never going to touch those damned herbs again, ever!
Nonetheless, despite his id-voice's urgent chiding, he found it hard to think about anything else.
"Aren't we getting a little close to the edge, Brother Mage?"
Grimm snapped out of his reverie as he saw the cart's wheels spinning mere inches away from the edge of the track, and oblivion. He vowed to keep his mind on the job in hand, and not to stray into absent-minded introspection.
"Sorry, Numal, my mind was wandering," he said, guiding the blinkered horses back into the centreline of the road. "I spent a sleepless night, I'm afraid."
"Yes, I thought you seemed a little dull at breakfast. Excited about the prospect of gaining the Sixth Rank?"
"Yes, that must be it," Grimm lied. That's another bad habit you're getting into, Afelnor, chided his inner voice, which he tried to banish to the back of his mind.
"I hear you're reckoned a fair singer, Grimm," the devotee of the dark arts called. "How about a little sing-song to brighten the trip?"
"No, I don't really think so, Numal. Not right now, anyway. I need to keep my mind on driving the cart. We don't want another scare like we had back there."
Grimm just wanted peace and quiet, although he resigned himself to the odd snippet of conversation lest he appear odd or ill. Nonetheless, the normally garrulous Necromancer managed to hold his tongue until the pair reached the foot of the mountain.
Once the trail widened and the gradient reduced to a gentle slope, however, the older mage began to speak again, and it cost Grimm a deal of self-control not to tell him to shut up.
"Er… Questor Grimm?"
"Yes, Necromancer Numal, what is it?" Although he was determined to be polite, Grimm's response was brusquer than he had intended.
He noted that the Necromancer's voice was hesitant and nervous, and it was all he could do not to snap "Spit it out, man!" With great effort he managed a more civil reply.
"I'm sorry, Numal. What's up? Is something on your mind?"
Numal twisted his hands together, and his voice firmed. "Grimm, I can't help but notice how ill at ease you are in my company since yesterday. I can only imagine you were felt offended when I implied you might be-you know-fond of men. If that's the reason, I'm truly sorry."
Grimm brought the two speckled carthorses to a halt, and turned to face the older man. At the rate he was going, he would have no friends at all if he did not gain control of his unaccustomed spell of ill-humour.
"Listen, Numal, it's I who should be sorry. I was a little taken aback at what you asked me, but that's nothing to do with my being in a bad mood, I assure you. The last couple of days, my emotions seem to have been all over the place, and I don't know why. Just as a matter of interest, though, why did you think I might be inclined that way? I assure you I'm not. Don't worry, although the Guild spits fire at any hint of carnal awakenings in its mages, I won't take offence, I promise. I just want to clear the air, if I can."
Numal cleared his throat. "Well, I think I started to wonder when I saw you talking with Magemaster Crohn at my Acclamation feast. Your eyes seemed almost misty when you talked to him. And then, the next day, you just seemed very friendly towards me. I think it's just that you Questors can be so intense at times."
Grimm flicked the reins, and the cart began to rumble onwards once more. Had he really been misty-eyed when talking to Crohn? He knew he had felt almost overjoyed after leaving Lord Thorn's chamber, and he had felt happy to meet his former tutor again. Yes, his reaction had been intense, although he had no idea why.
Then he had leapt into his new, unofficial Quest with almost frenetic zeal, despite knowing that such a secret undertaking would garner him neither acclaim nor official recognition. Grimm just felt so honoured that Lord Thorn trusted him to carry out the deed alone. When he encountered Crohn in the dining gallery, he had been filled with the warmth of deep gratitude at the very sight of the man who had made him what he was: a Mage Questor.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Numal's quizzical gaze as he mulled over his recent behaviour. Nonetheless, he was in no mood to answer until he was ready. He had chewed Numal out, considering that the man had belittled and demeaned his calling. Then he had turned his back on his best friend, after Dalquist's suggestion that Lord Thorn might be responsible for an uncaring and callous disregard for his Neophytes. Perhaps he was…
No! The thought-word slammed through his head like a crossbow bolt, and Grimm stifled the thought at birth. He was just becoming older and wiser, and finding a new and just respect for his superiors.
If only my Names-cursed head didn't ache so much!
"Let's just forget the whole thing, shall we, Numal?" Grimm said. "It was just a silly misunderstanding, after all. I've had a bad headache for a while now, and I just can't seem to shift it. That's all there is."
Grimm forced a smile onto his face, although it felt as if it hung there like a lead weight.
A relieved sigh from Numal told him that the matter was all but forgotten, and the pain in his skull seemed to lift a little. Nothing mattered but his Quest. Somehow, Grimm knew, his incessant, cursed introspection was causing the pain, and it appeared that all he needed to do to alleviate the dull, dismal ache was to keep his mind occupied.
At last, he noticed the beauty of the morning: the lovely play of light and shade across the forest, the dappled patterns of green and brown across the land, the deep blue of the celestial vault, and the invigorating warmth of the golden, rising sun.
"Numal, I think your suggestion of a little sing-song would be just the thing to celebrate this gorgeous day. Do you know The Fair Maiden of Sambata?"
"I think I remember that ditty," the older mage replied. "You take the main line, and I'll take the counterpoint."
The rest of the morning seemed to fly by as the two mages sang and joked together.
As the sun passed its zenith, High Lodge hove into view and, for once, Numal was silent as the fantastic, golden edifice revealed itself.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Grimm felt like an old hand now. It might be only his second visit to the Lodge, but he spoke as a man of the world sharing familiar wonders with a callow ingenue.
Numal gaped as the bizarre, fabulous structure began to reveal itself: the bulbous cupola with its lace-like metal spider's web, the sky-probing turrets; the lambent sheen of the stonework.
"Impressive?" Numal yelped. "It's incomparable!"
As the cart bore down towards the wide, empty plain on which High Lodge sat like some misshapen, golden mushroom, the radial tracery of roads leading to the Lodge became apparent, delicate black lines on pale-green baize. Now, the sheer scale of the immense structure began to assert itself, and Numal whistled in appreciation.
"It's utterly magnificent! I had no idea…"
Numal's voice was like that of a small child visiting a vast bazaar, filled with enticements and wonders beyond his imagining, and Grimm smiled.
"I defy anybody to see this and remain unmoved, Numal. I was just as stunned as you on my first visit, I promise you."
As the cart approached the main gate, reserved for visiting mages, Grimm leaned towards his companion. "It'll be the stiffest Mage Speech you've ever used from now on, I'm afraid. They're pretty starchy here, even compared to Arnor, but you'll soon get used to it."
All Numal could manage was a nod, his lower jaw slack and unresponsive.
Grimm brought the cart to a halt in front of the two halberd-wielding guards who oversaw the gate, their weapons barring access. "What business have you here?" a third man cried, stepping forward. He wore leather armour embellished by a burnished, silver escutcheon on his left breast, which, Grimm guessed, was some badge of rank, but this signified nothing. In this establishment, mages ruled supreme.
"Questor Grimm and Necromancer Numal from Arnor House seek admission," Grimm called, showing the blue-gold ring adorning his left ring finger. He nudged Numal with his elbow, and the Necromancer followed suit.
"Thank you, Sirs, that's quite in order," the officer said, and Grimm felt pleased that the soldier's manner held no hint of servility. "If you'd be so good as to leave your cart here, I'll have someone take care of it, and I'll make sure your bags are taken to your rooms."
As the two mages stepped from the conveyance, the officer clapped his hands, and the two guards swung their halberds into a vertical position.
The gate was, of course, shut, but Grimm waved his left hand at the portal and it opened, just like the main door of Arnor House.
The main concourse of the Lodge was as bustling and noisy as Grimm remembered it from his previous visit, and he saw the tall, imposing form of the Senior Doorkeeper standing just inside the doorway. The Doorkeeper's black staff, resplendent with seven gleaming gold rings, hovered obediently at his side.
"Greetings, Brother Mages," the urbane mage intoned in a rich, deep voice.
"Greetings, Senior Doorkeeper," the Questor replied.
"Ah, Questor Grimm, it is good to see you here once more," the urbane, dark-skinned mage rumbled, and Grimm marvelled anew at the man's prodigious powers of memory, even if the ritual greeting held little warmth.
"Senior Doorkeeper, may I present Necromancer Numal, only recently Acclaimed? Numal, this is the Senior Doorkeeper of High Lodge…
"Numal!" Grimm jabbed an impartial elbow into the Necromancer's side.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Senior Doorkeeper." Numal turned his wide eyes from the milling crowd of mages and Secular petitioners filling the enormous lobby.
"Remember, Mage Speech only," Grimm whispered, noting Numal's inadvertent contraction and the Senior Doorkeeper's disapproving gaze at this breach of Lodge protocol.
Numal drew himself to his full height and cleared his throat. "My apologies, Brother Mage," he said, with the full punctilio expected of a thaumaturge. "I found myself distracted by the magnificence of this splendid establishment."
"Understandable," the elegant major-domo said, nodding. "Welcome, Necromancer Numal, to High Lodge. Your baggage is being conveyed to your rooms: four-thirty-five and four-thirty-seven in the Accommodation Block. Would you be so kind as to accompany me?"
Grimm knew the Lodge was like a rabbit-warren, all but impenetrable in its intricacy, except to its incumbents.
"Senior Doorkeeper," he said in a polite voice. "Our long journey has given me a considerable thirst, and I would relish the chance to slake this before we settle in. Would you be so kind as to furnish us with Location Stones, so that we may find our way without imposing on your valuable time?"
The dark man's eyes widened, as if Grimm's request might constitute some heinous breach of protocol, but he nodded.
"Very well, Questor Grimm. Your request is irregular, but not unreasonable." He fished in a commodious pocket, and drew out a pair of green gems. "I will trust you to return these baubles before you leave High Lodge. They are not to leave here with you. Is that well understood?"
Grimm bowed his head. "Brother Mage, I swear as a representative of Arnor House that your trust will not be misplaced."
He took the gems, passing one to his bewildered and uncomprehending companion. "Thank you, Senior Doorkeeper."
He felt tempted to add "That is all, my man," but stopped himself. He might find the mage's prissy ways irksome, but it would be folly to antagonise him; he was only fulfilling his role to the best of his abilities.
"Oh, I have just one more thing to ask," he said, remembering his mission. "Are the Sisters of Divine Serenity still domiciled here?"
Senior Doorkeeper nodded. "Yes, Questor Grimm. Many Seculars here are in need of spiritual enlightenment, and the Sisters fulfil that need admirably, although they accept no male devotees. May I ask, therefore, what interest a Fifth Rank Mage Questor might have in an exclusively female religious Order?"
"My interest is purely academic, I assure you, Doorkeeper. It is, after all, incumbent upon a Guild Mage to be aware of the tenets of alternative creeds, so that he may avoid unfortunate breaches of protocol in social situations." This might be the simple answer, the rote answer, but the Questor felt surprised and not a little disgusted at how easily the falsehood rose to his tongue.
His expression unreadable, the imperturbable Senior Doorkeeper flowed away, back into the anonymous crowd.
Grimm felt the ache in his head begin to grow again, and he grabbed Numal by the shoulder. "Do you fancy a drink or two, Numal? It's been a long morning."
The Necromancer seemed fascinated by the ebb and flow of humanity within the hall, but he nodded, tearing his eyes from the mortal tide. "All right, Grimm. Yes, I suppose a drink might be nice."
The young Questor felt as if he were trapped within some crazy dream, a ball being batted back and forth in some cosmic game. It was as if he were already drunk, before he had sampled even a drop of alcohol. Something seemed to push him onwards.
Action, not idleness! the insistent inner voice screamed.
Was he going mad? He had to do something to still the raving beast in his head. Vortices seemed to swirl and careen within his skull, but he no longer cared. The head-voice screamed at him, urging him not to rest. Grimm knew he must stay awake, although sleep seemed to offer such a sweet consummation.
"I know just the place," he said at last, winking. "Come with me."
As the two mages walked across the crowded hall, a small sound, like the mewling of a wounded cat, emerged from Grimm's throat, but it was swallowed by the clamour of the swarming multitude.
Lord Thorn groaned as hot shafts of pain stabbed his brain, and his trembling hands hovered over the green crystal, barely touching it. He could hear Questor Grimm's words through his spell-link with the youth, but only with great effort.
Half a bottle of brandy had failed to allay the incessant, agonising stabs that now plagued him, and he knew his spell of Compulsion had not gone as well as he had thought. Somehow, the Afelnor boy seemed to be fighting the spell. Something had to give, and Thorn felt determined it was not going to be him.
Once more, the liquor made its burning trail down the Prelate's throat, but he resolved that he would take no more.
Names curse it, this boy is strong. But I'll be damned if he's as potent as a Seventh Level Questor of forty years' seniority!
Reaching into reserves he had not touched for decades, Thorn reasserted his authority and reinforced his spell, despite the silver lances of pain that now speared into his eyes. After a few moments, he felt the resistance, the self-examination cease, and he began again to hear through the youth's ears: "Do you fancy a drink or two, Numal? It's been a long morning."
Good lad, Questor Grimm. Drink should lower your resistance.
Thorn's eyes ached and his body felt as limp as warm lettuce. He fell back in his throne, exhausted, and he knew despite his proud boast to himself, he was not the potent sorcerer he had once been.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 9: Introspection and Investigation
Dalquist sighed, shut his book with a bang and rubbed his sore eyes, realising that he had just read the same paragraph three times without registering its contents. The sun's orb was bisected by the horizon, and the Library was now empty.
Tertiary Rune Structures in Translocative Applications would have proved a tedious and challenging book to the vast majority of mages. However, to a Mage Questor, a thaumaturge who could make his own magic without recourse to the strictly-regimented, pedestrian panoply of rote-learned runes, it was little more than sheer torture. Added to this, the Questor's mind was far from focused on his reading.
He considered how honoured he felt when Senior Magemaster Crohn requested that he become an Associate Magemaster: to any teaching Guild House, the Scholasticate was the very hub, the life-essence that sustained it. One of the most valuable contributions a mage could make to his House was to engage in the effort to turn callow, ignorant Students into full Guild Mages. However, the gulf between a Mage Questor and a practitioner of any other Speciality was enormous. Most Magemasters took decades to master the complex rune interactions governing their crafts, whereas Questors were free spirits, unfettered by the restrictions of a limited set of spidery characters, their only limits were those imposed by their imaginations.
No, he told himself. It's not studying these runes that's disturbing my concentration. It's Grimm.
Dalquist squeezed his eyes shut and slapped his left palm onto his forehead, as if this might clear his thoughts. He remembered Grimm as a frightened, insecure seven-year-old Student, trying to pretend that he had not been weeping. There had been power in his eyes even at that tender age, and also signs of great intelligence. Dalquist had led the boy to the very place in which he now sat, and Grimm had reacted as if all his birthdays had arrived at once.
Later on, there was a traumatised adolescent, recovering from his violent Questor Outbreak and so pleased to see his older friend. Dalquist spent many, many days and months with the new Adept, in the company of Crohn, patiently teaching the boy how to control and ration his thaumaturgic energies, so he could use his mind to open a door without smashing down the surrounding wall at the same time. Grimm had been patience and persistence personified, despite the trauma he had suffered.
Dalquist recalled the young First Rank Questor, his confidence growing every day on the arduous Quest to free the city of Crar from the influence of the demon lord, Starmor, his friendship with the senior mage burgeoning into a relationship of staunch trust and mutual respect.
Despite the seven nightmarish months of Questor Ordeal Grimm had described, far worse than Dalquist's own period of suffering, the young man turned into a stable, level-headed person, amiable and reliable. Yes, he had turned surly and vicious during the period of his unintentional addiction to the herbs Trina and Virion, but that had passed. Were the insidious pangs of drug withdrawal perhaps reasserting themselves?
Dalquist opened his eyes, leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling without seeing. Indeed, Grimm's rages, while his body had craved the fumes of the mind-altering herbs, had been sudden and severe, but they had been uncontrolled, directed at anybody in his vicinity. On their meeting the day before, Grimm had seemed as companionable and placid as ever, until the subject of Lord Thorn's possible complicity in the indiscriminate application of a new, more vicious Questor Ordeal had arisen. Grimm then turned on his fellow mage, his most loyal ally, Dalquist Rufior. The change in his demeanour had been startling, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl as he extolled the virtues of the House, the Guild, and of Lord Thorn in particular.
This was not the Grimm Afelnor Dalquist remembered, but a pale imitation with Grimm's face: a marionette dancing at the command of another.
A single, muttered word escaped his lips: "Thorn."
A shock of realisation flashed through Dalquist's brain like a lightning bolt, painful in its intensity.
It has to be Lord Thorn who turned Grimm in this way…
The only Mentalist within the House of sufficient skill to overcome the phenomenal, Ordeal-induced willpower of a Questor seemed to be Magemaster Kargan, and he seemed on good terms with his former pupil. Only another mage of the same calling or a potent Questor might even hope to achieve the feat. The only other Questors in the House, apart from Dalquist himself, were the doddering Olaf and the haughty Xylox.
Olaf was no longer the mighty thaumaturge he had been in his youth, and Dalquist could not imagine him prevailing in a contest of wills with Grimm.
On the other hand, Xylox could not be so swiftly dismissed as a candidate.
Dalquist knew Xylox and Grimm had been on far from good terms during their recent Quest, and the petty mage was just the kind to seek to instil in the high-spirited young Questor a sense of proper respect for his superiors. Nonetheless, Xylox the Mighty, despite his extravagant soubriquet, was notable for his parsimony, not least in the expenditure of his magical energies. Dalquist had once Quested with him, and he had lost count of the number of times he had been subjected to the man's censorious watchword: a true Questor conserves his strength.
Xylox, whatever his faults, was ever true to his dicta, and Dalquist could not imagine him expending a vast amount of thaumaturgic power just to teach a recalcitrant junior mage a lesson.
That left the Lord Prelate. At sixty years, Thorn was still young for a mage, who might reasonably expect to live to an age of a hundred and thirty years or more. He was a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, with almost four decades of experience. Whilst it was not unknown for Neophytes and Adepts to be placed under spells of Compulsion to reveal nothing of their training to Seculars or Students, it went against all House protocol to place such a spell on a full Guild Mage, who might reasonably be expected to fulfil his sworn Oath under all circumstances. Loyalty to the House and the Guild was burnt into all magic-users at an early age, but by more conventional means.
Dalquist rubbed his chin.
Just what are you trying to imply, Rufior? he chided himself. Why would Lord Thorn feel the need to impose his direct will on the House's most junior Questor?
This is going nowhere. I need more information. For example: has the Questor Ordeal really been increased in severity since my day, or could Grimm have been exaggerating?
Senior Magemaster Crohn might be the key. He had been Grimm's personal nemesis during the Neophyte's Ordeal. Had he been suborned to exceed the normal bounds of discipline in order to produce a new Questor at all costs, or had it been his own idea? It would require the height of tact and diplomacy to discover the truth from such a senior and well-respected mage, but Dalquist believed himself equal to the task. He was an experienced and careful mage, and he was not about to raise major ructions in the House, based only on vague suspicions and doubts.
Dalquist located Crohn, at last, in one of the Scholasticate classrooms, wading through a tall pile of papers. It could not be denied that the man was a dedicated and thorough educator.
The Senior Magemaster looked up, and his face brightened as he rose to his feet. "Questor Dalquist, how may I help you? How go your studies?"
Although the Questor's mind was turbulent, he remembered his Mage Speech. One of the advantages in this formal, cumbersome mode of discourse was that the slow, wordy manner of delivery gave time to think of just what to say.
"None too well, I fear, Senior Magemaster. As you may imagine, I have already forgotten much of what I learned about runes."
Crohn wagged an admonitory finger. "That is the trouble with you Questors: in one ear, and out of the other. I would remind you that we have an urgent need for more Magemasters; or would you prefer to pollute Arnor House with unorthodox-thinking Outsiders?"
Dalquist smiled and shook his head; it was, as Grimm had averred, impossible to imagine this irascible old man as a heartless sadist, despite his irascible, mercuric nature.
"No, Magemaster Crohn, the post should remain within the rolls of the House. I still wish to persevere in this. I know how important it is to provide a good education for our Students."
A lively discussion ensued, as the two mages deliberated over niceties of education. Dalquist bided his time, hoping to make his visit appear natural and unforced, but he was just waiting for a hiatus in the conversation to present itself.
At last, Crohn fell silent in his discussion of Scholasticate minutiae, and the Questor saw his moment.
"Senior Magemaster Crohn, I have, as you may well imagine, an abiding interest in the methods by which we turn our young proteges into Questors. Naturally, such a technique is used only on charity cases, but I note that our rolls for the coming year include many more such Students than we have had for many a season. I therefore wish to ask you if there are any new innovations in this field. I am well aware that this particular discipline is not within my current purview, but I feel strongly that I might now be well employed in this specific, important subject."
Crohn blinked. "My apologies, Questor Dalquist; exactly what is it that you wish to know?"
"Does the House now have a different policy with regard to potential Questors than it had in my year? I note that Questor Grimm, for example, under your tutelage, rose to the rank of Mage Questor in seven months, whilst my own Ordeal lasted two years under Questor Urel. Is some new method being employed?"
Crohn sneezed, as a fly flew under his impressive nose. "My apologies, Questor Dalquist," he said, regaining his habitual composure. "I must say that I am not sure such a disclosure is appropriate for an Associate Magemaster."
"What of an Associate Magemaster who is also a Questor of the Seventh Rank?" Dalquist demanded, raising the stakes. "With the greatest respect, Senior Magemaster, what do you know of the especial problems of a Neophyte Questor? Who better to bring him to the peak of performance than another Questor?"
"So?" Crohn sounded cautious, guarded in his response. The omission of Dalquist's name and honorific was more than sufficient evidence to the Questor of the senior tutor's disquietude concerning the subject.
Dalquist affected a light-hearted laugh, hoping to disarm Crohn."Senior Magemaster Crohn, I do believe that you doubt my motives in this regard!"
"Very well, Questor Dalquist," Crohn said, after a considerable pause. "I can see the rationality in your suggestion, and I would welcome your insight into the Questor psyche, should a suitable candidate become available."
The Questor chose his next words with care. "I wanted to ask you about that, Magemaster. Of course, I am well aware that only Neophytes with charitable status are considered, but how are such boys chosen from amongst their peers? As a Questor, I may well be able to aid you in selection."
"Naturally, the most powerful youths are chosen," Crohn said. "Intelligent boys, and the most diligent and determined of Students."
The Questor found Crohn's statement somewhat glib and uninformative. Although it might be considered the height of discourtesy for one mage to scan another's aura, especially that of a senior practitioner of the Art, Dalquist had no need to resort to his Mage Sight to determine that Crohn was holding something back. The Magemaster seemed to be avoiding eye contact, despite his normal, level gaze, and he tapped the brass head of his Mage Staff into his left palm in a distracted fashion.
"Are they the only criteria for selection, Magemaster Crohn? It seems to me that emotional stability would also be a prime factor. It seems to me that a flighty or emotional lad might pose a serious risk."
The older man's left palm reddened as he increased the rate and force of tapping, and Dalquist knew Crohn was wondering just how much he could safely reveal. An unfavourable word from Crohn to Lord Thorn could make life uncomfortable for even a Seventh Rank Mage, but the Questor believed the Senior Magemaster was, at heart, a just and decent man. Crohn might have put Grimm through hell, but Dalquist no longer believed the old magic-user was an unthinking sadist.
To Perdition with it! Let's see just what it takes to persuade Crohn to talk.
In fact, a pair of words sufficed: "Erek Garan."
Crohn's eyes widened, and the tapping stopped. "Just what do you know about Neophyte Erek, Questor Dalquist?" His voice was just a shadow of the stern, commanding tone he must have intended, and his face looked haunted.
"Senior Magemaster Crohn," Dalquist said. "I suspect I understand why this subject disturbs you. Would you care to sit down, and may we forget Mage Speech for a while? It tends to cramp my mind."
Crohn looked around him, as if he guessed some unseen spy were watching and listening from the shadows but, with an anguished look on his face, he nodded and slumped into his seat. Dalquist dragged a chair over to the desk and sat opposite him.
The old tutor swept a trembling hand through his mass of white hair. "It has been preying on my mind," he confessed, as if a great load had been lifted from him. "It would be good to discuss my fears with someone else."
Dalquist leaned closer to Crohn, his tone soft and conspiratorial. "I believe Erek Garan was totally unsuitable as Questor material and that, in times past, he would never even have been considered for the Ordeal. Magemaster Crohn, I think there's something sick in the heart of this House."
There: it was out now, and there was no going back. To Dalquist's immense relief, the Senior Magemaster just nodded in dumb acquiescence.
Is the old man just a good actor?
The younger man felt tempted, more than ever, to scan the tutor's aura, but he restrained himself. He would play it by the book, even if other, more senior, authorities did not feel quite so constrained.
"Of course, I acknowledge the value of Questors to the Guild, and I owe my life to this place, Magemaster Crohn. I don't want to destroy Arnor House, still less the Guild. I'm no renegade or a traitor, I assure you. I want only justice here, Senior Magemaster; justice denied to that poor, artistic boy, Erek."
Crohn said nothing, as if he expected Dalquist to commit himself further before opening up any more than he already had.
The Questor's voice hardened, strengthened, without becoming any louder. "Grimm Afelnor told me about his own Ordeal, Crohn. What I went through was bad enough, but he endured a living nightmare no human being should be allowed to visit upon another.
"The Ordeal's changed, Senior Magemaster. From what I know happened to Erek, which is sketchy enough, and from the details of Grimm's seven months of torment, I believe that Lord Thorn no longer cares how many paupers are put through the Ordeal, as long as they're powerful enough, and I don't think he cares if they live, die or go insane. He's gambling with their lives and their minds, and I have good reason to believe he's casting a Compulsion on Grimm, right now.
"I think Thorn wants Grimm as his own, personal, human weapon, and that he's trying to mould his mind to this end."
Crohn looked shocked. "Do you realise what you're saying, Questor Dalquist? I allow that a mistake was made with young Erek, and I mourn his untimely passing. However, I have no reason to suspect foul play."
"Would you have selected Erek Garan to be a Neophyte Questor if the decision had been yours, Magemaster Crohn?"
After a long pause, the Magemaster shook his head, although he said nothing.
"You knew Senior Magemaster Urel for far longer than I did. Do you think that in flagrant disregard of Lord Thorn, he chose to drive such a boy into a state of terminal insanity?" Dalquist knew he was browbeating the old man, but he no longer cared.
Another shake of the head.
"Was it your own idea to push Grimm Afelnor so hard that he would either break out with catastrophic force or lose his mind?"
"Never, Questor Dalquist: on many occasions, I raised my objections to Lord Thorn, but he just reviled me as a coward, and threatened to replace me with a sterner Magemaster. I knew I was pushing the boy too hard, but I believed my Prelate when he said it was for the good of the Guild. No… I wanted to believe it. I was weak."
The old man squeezed his eyes shut, but Dalquist could not help but notice the lines of pain on his face, or the single tear that rolled down the side of his nose.
"It's all right, Crohn," he said, taking pity on the troubled man, extending his hand across the desk. Crohn took it in a firm grasp.
"I'm sorry, Dalquist," he whispered, bowing his head.
"Magemaster Crohn, I believe our Prelate is exerting his influence on a young, loyal Mage Questor, in order to use him as his own tool. To what ends, I cannot guess, but I suspect that Grimm's well-being is not among them."
Crohn recovered his composure and sat up straight, looking Dalquist in the eye.
"I agree that, if true, this situation should not continue, Questor Dalquist. What would you suggest?"
Dalquist felt almost amused: here was the august Senior Magemaster, seeking advice from a man many years his junior.
"I'll confront Lord Thorn with my suspicions on this Compulsion spell, Crohn. If any man can face down a Questor, it's another Questor. With regard to the lax selection of Neophytes for the Ordeal, I'd appreciate your backup. Would you come with me?"
Crohn stood up, his face clear, firm and concerted. "I will, Questor Dalquist. Shall we go to Lord Thorn's chamber now?"
"There's no time like the present," Dalquist said. "Let's go."
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Chapter 10: "I Haven't Been Quite Myself"
"No thank you, Questor Grimm. I think I've had enough. If I may say so, I think you have, too."
Grimm laughed. He felt in excellent humour, here in the spiritual home of the whole Guild. "Nonsense, Necromancer Numal. I'm fit as a fiddle. Go on, have another."
Numal looked edgy. "If it's all the same to you, Questor Grimm, I think I'll take an early night."
The young mage shrugged, as if his companion might be making a big mistake. "Oh, well, that's your loss, Numal. Just take the location gem in hand and tell it where you want to go. I'll see you tomorrow. As far as I'm concerned, the night's young, and I want to enjoy it. To cap a wonderful evening, I'll be seeing the Lord Dominie tomorrow. That's a pretty big honour, you know, almost like seeing Lord Thorn." His mouth seemed to caress the name.
"Isn't it rather the other way around, Grimm? Lord Horin's more important than Lord Thorn."
"Not to me, and nor should he be to you," the Questor snapped, taking another draught of wine. "Sure, Horin's a big wheel in the Guild. But Lord Thorn's like our father; he's the man who made us what we are. I do think you could show a little more gratitude, Numal! He's…"
Grimm blinked. He regarded the glass in his hand with sudden distaste, and put it down. "I'm sorry, Numal, what was I saying?"
He shook his head, confused. What had he been saying? The drink must be affecting him more than he thought.
"You were saying that Lord Thorn's like our father," shot back the Necromancer's acidic response. "It seems like Lord Horin's pretty important, too, though not as much as Thorn."
"Did I really say that?"
"In as many words, yes."
Grimm realised it was not the drink causing his confusion; rather, his head had cleared after a long period of disorientation.
"Why, I'm sorry, Numal, I don't know what I was saying. As a matter of fact," he admitted, "I haven't been quite myself for the last day or so."
Grimm wondered if his last Quest was taking a belated toll on him, but he dismissed the idea. Perhaps he was just overwrought at being parted from Drexelica. Yes, that must be it.
Deciding that amends must be made, he said, "I've made a bit of a fool of myself, haven't I?"
Numal shrugged. "I don't know. Have you?" His tone was offhand and not a little annoyed. "You ask someone to come with you out of friendship, and then rail at him because he didn't enjoy his time in the Scholasticate. Then, you insist that he have a convivial drink and tear his head off because he tries to put you straight on a matter concerning the hierarchy of the Guild. If that makes you a bit of a fool, then, yes, you have been one. Then again, I don't know you all that well. Perhaps you normally treat your friends like this."
Numal crossed his arms and turned half away from the Questor.
"But I don't, Numal," Grimm said. "I swear on my Guild Ring and my Mage Staff that I don't. Look, I know I've been an ass, and I know I've said a lot to offend you…"
"You can say that again." The older mage did not turn to face him.
"Numal, I'm sorry, truly sorry, for treating you like some wayward, recalcitrant dunce. I know that doesn't wipe out a word of what I've said, but I just want you to be aware that I've been acting out of character. Perhaps I'm sickening for something. Perhaps I've been… I don't know, homesick for Crar, perhaps. Perhaps the strain of my last Quest has finally caught up with me: I don't know. Will you forgive me?"
"Oh, the mighty Sixth Rank Questor beseeches forgiveness from the lowly First Rank Necromancer, does he?" Numal sneered, over his left shoulder. "Well, I can't refuse that, can I? Just do me a favour, will you, Lord Mage? Just let me know when you think you're about to get up on that pedestal again, so I can take cover before you start throwing stones at me."
Grimm drew a deep sigh. What was the matter with him? Why, it was as if he had been labouring under… under some kind of spell.
Yes, that was it! A Geas or a Compulsion of some sort was the only sensible explanation: a Geas to make him revere High Lodge and Lord Prelate Thorn to the exclusion of all else, but to worship Lord Thorn above all. Thorn had been tampering with his mind!
Grimm thumped his fist on the table, his clenched teeth bared.
"Well, that little resolution didn't last long, did it?" Numal sneered. "Good night, Questor Grimm. I'll arrange my own transport back to Arnor, thank you very much."
The Necromancer lunged to his feet and strode off, his staff following him like an obedient puppy.
"No, please wait, Numal! That wasn't…"
The older mage did not even favour Grimm with a backwards glance as he left the bar, and several patrons of the establishment cast cool, amused glances at the young Questor, who felt his face redden in response. He turned his baleful, Questor glare on the onlookers, who were for the most part Seculars, and they returned to their own business, with an alacrity that Grimm noted with some pleasure.
Think, Afelnor! Why would Lord Thorn need to do this to me? He has my full loyalty, and he should know it by now.
Of course, there was still that nagging suspicion that Thorn knew more about Grimm's grandfather Loras' disgrace than he had said. But was the Prelate perhaps just concealing details of the Prelate's best friend's actions because they were just too painful for him to relate? Yes, Thorn had profited from Loras' downfall, by being elected Prelate in his place, but it must be admitted that he did not seem to enjoy the lofty position to which he had ascended. In addition to this, Lord Thorn knew, could know, nothing about Grimm's doubts. Why, Thorn himself had recommended Grimm's promotion to the Sixth Rank, even over the recommendations of… yes, of Questor Xylox!
"Why, you slimy, conniving, self-obsessed worm," Grimm muttered, taking up his glass, and draining it.
Of course, it would be just like Xylox, who had chided him, harangued him and excoriated him for his perceived lack of respect throughout their recent Quest, to take revenge on his junior mage after being overruled! This must all be Questor Xylox's warped, pathetic idea of justice, to try to turn Grimm into a flag-waving, dutiful, respectful model of what he considered the Questor ideal.
"Oh, yes, Xylox," Grimm hissed, pouring himself another glass of wine and draining it at a gulp. "You and I will have a little talk on our next meeting, I promise you!"
He would show the proud, haughty Questor who was the better, more valuable mage. Grimm had intended to leave his unofficial Quest until after he had received the sixth gold ring on his staff, but he now considered that a little initial reconnaissance might not come amiss. It was time to pay a visit to Reverend Mother Lizaveta.
"Enter, supplicant." The voice from within the chamber was somehow dry and dusty, like dead leaves crushed underfoot, and Grimm shivered; nonetheless, he was determined to appear dutiful and respectful before the woman he suspected of slaughter and cannibalism.
Opening the door, he saw the old woman at ease on a comfortable divan. She wore a dress of sheer, white silk, whose pristine purity seemed somehow at odds with her appearance. This could not be the face of some caring, gentle grandmother; the years had left indelible traces that spoke only of anger and meanness. Still, he must conceal his disgust for this ghastly harridan under the mask of respect.
He sank to his knees. "Reverend Mother, I am Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank, Arnor House. I bid you homage and honour."
The Prioress extended a hand like a claw wrapped in paper-thin, blue-veined skin, and Grimm leant forward to kiss the ruby on the Reverend Mother's profession-ring. It seemed to him that the hand dallied for a little longer than was necessary for strict protocol, but it was, eventually, withdrawn. He rose to his feet, and gave a courteous bow.
"Questor Grimm, welcome. What brings you here?" The voice seemed like death, somehow decayed and unwholesome, but the Questor forced himself to appear civil.
"Reverend Mother, I have been summoned to High Lodge for accession to the Sixth Rank, following my last Quest, and I wished to pay my respects."
"It seems that congratulations are in order, Questor Grimm, and your respect is noted." She sat up, and patted the velvet cushion of the opulent divan. "Come, sit here with me, my son."
The thought of sitting next to the loathsome woman was repulsive, but he complied, sitting as far from the Prioress as possible.
"Few mages, indeed, choose to favour us with their presence, Questor Grimm. We are honoured. How may I help you? Are you in need of spiritual enlightenment?"
I am, at that, lady, but not from you. The words came unbidden to Grimm's mind, but he took care to keep his spoken words a little more deferent.
"I must confess to an ulterior motive, Reverend Mother," he said.
"An ulterior motive; how intriguing!"
Lizaveta moved closer to the young man, and he realised that he had no further room for manoeuvre.
"Reverend Mother," he said, quickly, "I once became friendly with one of your Sisters: a girl called Madeleine. I merely wished to enquire of her whereabouts and wellbeing."
"Ah, yes, Questor Grimm. Now I recall the affair."
Lizaveta's voice is like silk, thought the mage, but mouldy, decaying silk.
"Madeleine was a witch, and she ensorcelled me," Grimm said, "but I never wished her ill. I would only hear that she has learned her lesson, and that she is well."
The Questor engaged his Mage Sight, and he noted Lizaveta's plain, white, unblemished aura. This proved her to be a witch, as he had learned from Madeleine, and as he had suspected.
"Yes, I am also a practitioner of the Geomantic art," the Prioress said, and Grimm wondered if she had read his mind. "I apologise for the actions of that wayward girl. As you may imagine, those of our Order who abuse any such powers, given them by Mother Nature, are not tolerated, and so Madeleine was dismissed from the Order as soon as the matter was brought to my attention. I regret that I have no knowledge of her whereabouts since that day."
The old woman's pale eyes, the colour of faded acorns, bore into him, as if she were challenging him to call her a liar. Grimm felt tempted to tell her of his nocturnal vision of the butchering of the body of the young nun. Now, more than ever, he was convinced that his vision had been true.
She moved closer to him, and he felt himself shrinking away from her. "Thank you very much, Reverend Mother. You have answered my question, and I thank you."
"Questor Grimm, you are lying to me."
The sharp, accusatory words shot through him like a fusillade of crossbow bolts, but they seemed to give him an excuse to get off the divan. He scrambled to his feet, in an attempt to display righteous indignation.
"Reverend Mother, I am shocked by such an accusation, especially from a lady in your position! On what grounds do you dare accuse a Guild Mage of deception?" What he had intended to sound as affronted outrage emerged as a peevish, juvenile complaint, and Grimm felt disgusted at how Lizaveta had contrived to unman him after such a short time.
"Please, Questor Grimm, you misunderstand me. What I intended to say was that I believe you just wanted to be with me. Do not hide your feelings, my son. Liaisons between the sexes are not forbidden within our Order."
The Questor recoiled, as Lizaveta simpered at him in the manner of a love-sick girl of tender years. Summoning all the self-control he could muster, he rushed to the door.
"Reverend Mother, you forget yourself!" Grimm snapped. "I wished only to be sure that…"
"Ah, of course," the Prioress crooned, leering at him. "Such liaisons are forbidden to honourable Guild Mages, are they not? Yet, I believe, our young Questor has some young lovely waiting for him, somewhere… yes, waiting for him within the city walls of Crar. I am right, am I not?"
With sick horror, Grimm realised that the old witch was, indeed, using her powers to scrutinise his mind, and that he had no defence against her. He slammed down his mental defences as best he was able, in an attempt to prevent any further intrusion. What he had intended as a covert assault against the forces of evil had turned into a rout. He had not even been able to detect her intrusion into his psyche and his deepest memories. He was helpless against her in his current state of mind.
Lizaveta laughed! It was not the warm sound of innocent humour, but a hateful, knowing cackle. She could read him like a book; how could he hope to prevail against her? She no longer even pretended innocence, but flaunted her invulnerability.
"Good day to you, Reverend Mother," he gasped, making his way to the door.
"Good day to you, Grimm Afelnor. You Questors are strong, indeed. However, your revered Lord Dominie Horin is a mere Weatherworker."
It might seem strange for a Weatherworker to be so disparaged; within the Guild, such thaumaturges were respected above most other mages, perhaps with the sole exception of Questors. Nonetheless, Grimm knew just what she meant: in matters of willpower, Questors were pre-eminent. If she could so easily cow a Mage Questor, in the prime of his life, the control of an aged Weatherworker should prove child's play.
"You can always attempt to blast me with your mighty power, Questor Grimm," Lizaveta said. "But poor old Horin favours me and protects my Order. I think he might disapprove of any attempt upon me. I have already sent him a subliminal message that you have come here to pay your respects…
"Do I make myself quite clear? If you cease your attempted interference in the Order's affairs, I may choose to leave you alone. Otherwise, it may go ill between us, and your Guild career may not evolve to your advantage."
What Grimm had thought would be a simple matter of outwitting a simple, evil old woman had turned into a complete debacle. He made his exit as best he was able.
"Good day, Reverend Mother. You make yourself quite clear. Thank you."
As he rushed from the room in confusion, Grimm could not help but hear the last words from the Prioress: "Please, do try to oppose me, Questor Grimm; my victory will be all the sweeter. You will be finished. Finished, do you hear?
"However, I like you, and so I shall not destroy you on this occasion. I feel also that this confrontation was not all your idea…"
The Questor knew he had gambled and lost, and he fled the chamber. He felt sick and scared; had his casual assessment of the witch's powers compromised not only him, but his lord and master?
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