****
Lizaveta kicked the prostrate, bloodstained form once more, without response. "Girls these days," she said, "have no stamina or endurance." Using her scrying-crystal, she summoned a pair of trusted Sisters to remove the corpse in a large laundry-bag. Two further nuns entered and began to scrub the red-stained floor.
The Prioress watched the women labouring to restore the pristine whiteness of the carpet and her thoughts turned to young Afelnor.
This youth was not as broad-shouldered and muscular as Loras had been, but she recognised the immense power behind his dark eyes. She had been a fool to think that she would be able to control such a potent Questor with such hasty preparation. Without trying to match wills with Grimm, she had realised that, alone, she would not have stood a chance. It might take a little more effort to bend him to her will than she had imagined, but she thought that the challenge might be worthwhile. Wiping a drop of blood from her brow, she smiled. She was patient, and she could wait. Without doubt, another opportunity would assert itself to avenge her further against the man who had refused her advances so long ago.
Chapter 20: The Last Day
Grimm felt in fine humour the next morning. This was to be his last day at High Lodge, and he felt far from unhappy at the prospect of leaving. The sumptuous appointments of the establishment might be impressive and luxurious, but the young mage found he preferred the more basic comforts of Arnor House.
He agreed with his fellow Questor, Dalquist, that something seemed a little sick and decadent about this magnificent, ancient institution, and he knew he would feel happier back home.
At first, he had no idea of how he would spend his day until the evening's feast, but he eventually decided on visiting the library dedicated to Thaumaturgical Research, the study of the principles and practice of magic. Having been so easily gulled by the young witch, Madeleine, he felt determined to avoid being trapped in a similar fashion at a later date. He hoped that this library might furnish him with more understanding of witch magic; how to recognise and counter it, should he ever meet it again.
****
The Location Gem led Grimm to another anonymous door. On opening it, he felt that this was a much more convivial place of learning than the library he had visited the day before. This room seemed far more in keeping with the musty, comfortable Scholasticate Library to which he had become accustomed.
Wood-panelled and thickly carpeted, it seemed as if the room somehow exuded silence from its mute, ordered ranks of books, standing like proud sentries at attention in a vast parade of knowledge. The books Grimm could see were mostly old and well-thumbed, with cracked spines and faded titles. These leather-bound tomes seemed to be a well-loved and well-used resource.
Behind a well-worn, cluttered desk sat a slender mage with silver hair and lines on his face that bore mute testament to a humorous nature.
"May I help you, Questor?" he asked, in a warm and amiable tone. "I am Scholar Pruell Margat, the custodian of all books of Thaumaturgical lore in this establishment."
He extended his hand, and Grimm took it, finding Pruell's grip firm and dry.
Grimm no longer felt surprised when mages guessed his Speciality; the sight of a mere boy bearing a Mage Staff could only mean one thing.
"I am Questor Grimm Afelnor, Scholar Pruell," he said, smiling. "I'm honoured to make your acquaintance. To be frank, I'm pleased and surprised to see such a friendly face in here."
Pruell's face crinkled. "We're not all high-and-mighty types here, Brother Mage," he said. "I come from Girard House, to the north of here, where we're a little more relaxed and a little less haughty in our dealings with the Craft than some I could mention." His face assumed a mock expression of mournful exasperation.
Grimm would never have considered Arnor House as relaxed, but he sympathised with the Scholar's sentiments.
"I am from Arnor House, Scholar Pruell, and I, too, yearn to return home, even though I have only been here for two days. Things here are a little too spit-and-polish for me."
The Scholar nodded. "What is your interest here, Questor Grimm? I hold volumes on all aspects of magical lore."
"Do you hold any volumes on… on Geomancy that I might peruse?" Grimm asked, remembering Prioress Lizaveta's term from the night before.
Pruell rubbed the angle of his jaw. "I have a few books on the subject; theory only, I'm afraid," he said. "There isn't much call for that subject here, but I know you Questors are a little different from the rest of us.
"Rack 17, just over there," Pruell said, indicating the relevant area with an outstretched hand. "I hope you find what you are looking for. I'm sorry I can't be of more help, but my knowledge and education are, of course, limited to sleights of a more runic persuasion."
"I understand, Scholar Pruell," Grimm said. "Thank you very much for your help." With a polite nod, he headed for the relevant rack of books.
****
Scholar Pruell had not lied about the paucity of books on Geomancy in the library; Grimm could find only five such volumes. However, 'Geomancy; Principles of the Art' seemed more than adequate for his needs.
As he read, he found that a fundamental difference between the magic of witches and mages was the source of power. As he knew well, mage power came from within the body of the mage, whereas it seemed that the power of a witch was drawn from the living earth itself. A mage spell patterned the mind in order to give form and effect to the marshalled energies of the body, and witch spells seemed more like a form of meditation, opening the mind to act as a conduit for Geomantic forces. In both cases, the amount of energy that could be controlled was a function of the caster's will.
Mage enchantments generally acted on objects, either as a means of destruction or transformation, or as a way of giving form to naked energy. The spells of witches, however, acted directly on living creatures, seeing beneath the flesh and accessing the target being's inner drives, emotions and motivations, changing and controlling aspects of its actions, or even enabling the witch to transfer her consciousness to the mind of the spell target.
As Grimm read on, he began to see how Madeleine had been able to manipulate his emotions, changing his very brain chemistry without his knowledge. The book implied that this was a basic form of the art, equivalent in status to the Minor Magics practiced by Guild Mages, but very effective, nonetheless.
A major limitation of this type of magic was that the caster could only amplify emotions and drives that already existed in the target's psyche; Grimm had found Madeleine attractive, and she acted on that fundamental drive, enhancing and augmenting it. However, although she had almost driven a wedge between him and Dalquist, she could not have motivated him to kill his friend unless he had already possessed some seed of deep hatred for the older Questor that could be nurtured and persuaded to flower. Even if he had loathed Dalquist with every fibre of his being, the young witch would have had to batter down his self-control and his conscience, engaging in a contest of wills: Grimm knew a Questor's will to be all but indomitable in such a contest.
Grimm put the book down and rubbed his forehead as if to stimulate his brain. Madeleine was surely too young to have been able to engage in a mind-to-mind contest of wills with a powerful mage like Dalquist and win. Yet that was what she would have needed to be able to do in order to change his mind about her relationship with Grimm.
Certainly, the older Questor had indicated that he felt that he might have been over-reacting on the last full night of Grimm's amorous enslavement, but the young mage, replaying the scene in his unfettered mind, realised that Dalquist had just been trying to mollify him. At that time, his confederate had not really been convinced of the innocence of the tryst. In that case, a more potent form of Geomancy would have been required to bring about the Questor's rapid change of mind, a sleight surely beyond Madeleine's abilities.
If not Madeleine, Grimm mused, then who did cast that spell?
Only a single candidate came to mind: the ancient Prioress, Liz
aveta.
It doesn't make sense. Why would the Prioress want to control me? There must be a dozen Questors here from different Houses, all much more experienced than I am. What does she want? Why didn't she approach me directly, instead of employing all this subterfuge?
The questions buzzed around inside Grimm's skull like irritating flies around a horse's eyes, to no end, for many minutes. Then the answer to the last of these came to him: the old woman had recognised that she could not engage in a direct conflict of wills with him and win. She had doubtless sought to soften his resistance by means of his induced infatuation with her young acolyte, and then to break him down by a series of small encounters, each time chipping away a little at his resolve until he was finally hers to control.
Grimm picked up the book once more, and read further. At the highest levels of Geomantic control, the caster could manipulate her subject's very memories as well as his inner drives.
With a cold shock that seemed to penetrate his very soul, he realised that that might well have been the explanation for his grandfather Loras' bizarre and uncharacteristic actions, which had led to his expulsion from the Guild!
A powerful Mage Mentalist might have been able to force Loras into attempted murder, but only a witch could also have convinced him that it had all been his own idea. Only a witch could ever have done this to his grandfather.
What possible motivation could even a powerful witch have had for wanting Prelate Geral dead? Grimm wondered. This makes no sense at all; you're fooling yourself, Afelnor.
The book told him that, since time immemorial, witches and mages had coexisted in an uneasy but firm truce. Witches lacked a cohesive, comprehensive political organisation such as the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, and they therefore posed no threat to its continuation. There were small communes of witches, to be sure, but they seemed to possess few political aims that conflicted with the Guild. There did not appear to be any reason why the Prioress of an Order attempting to form a symbiotic, live-and-let-live association with High Lodge should wish to destabilise the Guild, either through the attempted murder of the Prelate of one of its oldest and most prominent Houses, or through the enslavement of one of its most junior members.
Grimm had always been introspective, often debating his deepest motivations and impulses within himself. This had often served him well in the past, and he therefore engaged once more in inner dialogue.
What concrete reason have I to assume that Prioress Lizaveta tampered with Dalquist's memories?
Only a vague suspicion that he sounded a little too sincere when he said he accepted my relationship with Madeleine.
Why would Prioress Lizaveta have risked her favoured Order's relationship with the Guild by trying to enslave a very junior mage?
The questions whirled in Grimm's head without resolution: there seemed to be no rational grounds for his suspicions.
Why do I feel so ready to accept that a witch forced Granfer Loras to try to murder the former Prelate? Yesterday, I convinced myself that Granfer acted out of pity for an ailing, suffering old man. What additional data do I have that persuades me to abandon this earlier viewpoint?
Only the fact that this new, more convoluted, explanation seems easier for me to bear.
Why should I suspect Prioress Lizaveta of somehow having been behind Madeleine's actions?
Simply because the Reverend Mother is an ugly old lady with a harsh and unpleasant voice.
This, Grimm realised with a start, was the same twisted rationale that had led to the brutal murders of so many harmless women in ancient witch-hunts of which he had read. He had no reason whatsoever to believe that the Prioress had acted against him; she had no motive whatsoever, and she had said and done nothing that might to convince him otherwise. Her outrage at Grimm's news of Madeleine's manipulation of him had seemed both convincing and appropriate for a woman in her position.
Grimm told himself that he had constructed nothing more than a house of cards, no more robust and enduring than the one that he had struggled to build with the power of his mind when he had been an Adept, and just as precarious.
If Dalquist only pretended to change his mind, despite his having no recollection of this; if Loras, the mighty Mage Questor, had somehow been ensorcelled into attempting to murder his superior; if, if if…
These suppositions lead nowhere.
He could prove nothing more than Madeleine herself had told him; that this was merely some harmless prank that had gone too far.
Let it go, Afelnor, he told himself. You will never get anywhere with these paranoid ramblings.
He picked up the book he had been reading and replaced it decisively on its shelf, vowing that he would put these ideas behind him.
****
"Are you ready for the feast, Grimm?" Dalquist asked from the doorway connecting their two rooms.
"I suppose so," the younger mage replied, with a deep sigh. "I wish we didn't have to go through with this charade."
At that, Grimm became aware of the sound of tapping, soft and yet urgent, from the chest-of-drawers. As he opened the top drawer, the cause of the noise became apparent as a tiny, familiar face looked up at him.
"I want to go, Grimm! The idea of a bunch of human mages telling tales of their great adventures seems wonderful," the tiny figure piped, hopping up and down in the drawer in an agitated manner.
"Thribble!" Grimm exclaimed. "I thought I left you behind at the House. How did you get here?"
If a demon's fang-filled expression could ever be said to be smug, then Thribble's was.
"I hid in the pocket of one of your robes, just after you packed it in the bag, Questor. I fell asleep on the journey, and I woke up confined in this drawer. It is not very nice in here, and I want to get out. I want to go to this party of yours more than almost anything. I promise that I won't make a sound; just let me travel in your pocket."
"I don't think that there's any harm in that, Grimm," Dalquist said. "At least you'll know what Thribble's up to all the time."
"I suppose you're right, Dalquist. Thribble, you may accompany me as long as you stay out of sight. Some mages don't like the idea of humans consorting with demons."
The tiny imp nodded vigorously. "Many of my kind harbour similar feelings, good mortal. I'll be quiet, I promise."
Resigned, Grimm held open a deep pocket in his yellow-and-blue robes, and the underworld creature hopped nimbly into it. As he did so, there came a polite knock at the door, which Dalquist opened. The visitor was Assistant Sub-Vice-Facilitator-in-Chief Shael.
"Greetings, Questors. I am here to accompany you to the banquet."
"Ah, Facilitator Shael, it is good to see you again," Dalquist said. "I trust you have enjoyed your unscheduled break from your doubtless onerous duties."
"Thank you, Questor Dalquist. I am afraid I have been unable to enjoy it as fully as I might have. I have been scared to leave my room, in case I should bump into the Senior Doorkeeper or one of my superiors; I was, after all, instructed to accompany you everywhere during your stay here. I trust you, at least, spent an agreeable time in the House?"
Dalquist looked at Grimm with a raised eyebrow, and the young mage rolled his eyes.
"No problems at all, thank you, Facilitator Shael," Grimm said with a smile. "High Lodge has been a never-ending source of wonder and fascination for us both."
Shael looked a little anxious. "I am happy to hear that, Questor Grimm. Um… gentlemen… may I relieve you of the Gems of Location I loaned you? There might be all sorts of trouble if it were discovered that I had surrendered them to you."
Both Questors handed over the small jewels. Grimm, for one, felt happy to do so, since he had no intention of remaining in High Lodge for longer than was absolutely necessary. Relief was apparent on the nervous Mage Facilitator's face. "Thank you so much, Brother Mages. If you would now be so good as to accompany me, we may make our way to the Hall of Celebration."
****
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Richly panelled in dark wood, the hall was brightly illuminated by twinkling crystal chandeliers high above. A lush, crimson carpet covered the floor, and Grimm saw tables filled with extravagant delicacies, viands and liquors along each wall. Several mages were already present, helping themselves to sweetmeats or chatting in small cliques around the hall, each group seeming to maintain the maximum possible distance from each other.
At the far end of the hall rose a marble dais with a gilded lectern. Portraits of various Guild notables hung on every wall, and a large picture of Lord Dominie Horin hung behind the dais, a stern, wise face that seemed to survey the room from every angle.
"Well, doesn't this looks like fun?" Dalquist muttered to Grimm, in a resigned manner. "I hope they don't keep the jolly revelries going all night. We've got to be up early tomorrow."
"Please excuse me for a moment, gentlemen, I have to circulate," Shael said, his voice filled with an air of self-importance. "Do, please, enjoy yourselves."
"Be sure of it, Facilitator Shael," Grimm said, sighing. Turning to his friend, he muttered, "Look at all these old fossils, Dalquist. It doesn't look like there are any Questors around here."
"High Lodge doesn't have any," Dalquist replied. "All the Students here are of the paying kind; they rely on the loyal Houses to fulfil their Questing needs. This lot have got 'High Lodge' written all over them.
"Oh, there's a familiar face at least. It looks like old Thruwell Drought-breaker over there. He's a Weatherworker from our own House; he used to teach us Runes before you came to Arnor, until the high and mighty bloody Lodge poached him. Lord Thorn was none too pleased, I can tell you; but what High Lodge asks for, High Lodge gets."
Grimm followed his friend towards the grizzled mage, and Dalquist introduced him to the ancient Weatherworker, who was stuffing his face like a starving man. "Weatherworker Thruwell, it's good to see you again," Dalquist said, bowing. "May I introduce my associate, Questor Grimm Afelnor?"
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