Grimm glared at the older mage, who finally stopped his ranting and shrugged.
"Thank you, Questor Guy,” he said. “No, I don't have a plan to wake Gruon up. But what if we gave him a nightmare instead? I may know how to do that, at least."
"Really, wonder-boy?"
"Really, super-mage. And we'll do it right here, and right now!"
"Can't it wait until Tordun is better?” the General asked.
Grimm shook his head. “I'm afraid not, General. A woman will die tomorrow if I don't try this. It may work, it may make things worse, but I think we're all agreed that we should try to get out of here. We've got to try something, at least."
Guy shrugged. “All right. If you've got some half-brained plan, I suppose we might as well give it a spin!"
Grimm tried not to wince at the term ‘half-brained'. If his hastily-conceived, nascent plan failed, he might well end up like that.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 15: Worried Minds
"Please relax, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said, lighting several aromatic candles with a taper and busying himself with rearranging the furniture.
Dalquist, lying on a green, leather-bound couch in the Magemaster's chambers, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. However, he could not ease the nervous fluttering in his stomach; if someone had been tampering with his mind, he wanted to know it.
"Will this take long, Magemaster Kargan?” the Questor asked, as much to fill the silence as to gain information.
"Hmm?"
"I asked if this would take long."
"How long is a piece of string? Depends how deep the information is buried, Questor Dalquist."
"I meant your preparations, Magemaster.” Dalquist did his best to keep his tone neutral and impassive. “I'm keen to get on with it."
"Most of these things are for my benefit; I need to be in the right frame of mind.” Kargan took a small glass phial from his pocket and broke it under his nose. He inhaled deeply, and his eyes widened.
"Don't worry: this is just a stimulant,” he explained. “I need to stay sharp. The least miscast could ruin the day for both of us.
"Right, I think that's about that. Are you relaxed?"
"About as relaxed as I'm ever likely to get, Magemaster. Can we please start?"
Kargan nodded and perched himself on a tall, wooden stool. From a shelf at his side, he took down a heavy volume and began to riffle through it.
The Mentalist rubbed his nose and nodded. “Ah, let's see what Guladin Dream-stealer can do for us. It's been a while since I cast this one, so bear with me while I just run through it in my head. It'll soon come back to me."
As Kargan began to mutter short, runic phrases, Dalquist looked around the bizarre chamber. He saw drapes and tapestries hanging in a confused riot of colours, and shelves piled high with gewgaws, knick-knacks and figurines. In contrast to this manic disorder were five bookshelves. The books appeared to be arranged in precise order of size, and grouped by author or compiler.
Not for the first time the gulf between ‘normal’ mages and Questors struck Dalquist. The former must learn each spell by rote or recite it from a scroll or spell-book without the least flaw or hesitation. Using his own, unique spell-language, a Questor could cast any spell he could envisage, as long as he had a clear conception of the incantation's mechanism and sufficient power to cast it.
Dalquist had never needed to rehearse one spell in ten active years as a Mage Questor; not all of his enchantments had succeeded, but at least he need not worry about the agonies that the least mistake in casting might cost an ordinary, runic magic-user.
"Right!” Kargan carolled, rubbing his hands together. “I'm pretty sure I have it straight now. Close your eyes and think pleasant thoughts."
Dalquist did as the Magemaster bade him, trying to imagine sunny summer fields and cheerful birdsong as Kargan began to chant or, rather, sing. It was an intricate sequence of runes, woven together into a cohesive whole by complex trills and passing-notes. It would have tied a tyro's tongue in knots, and Dalquist admired the skilful way Kargan negotiated the treacherous labyrinth of sounds. The man was a master, and his voice was a clear, strong, flawless baritone, flowing easily from one passage to another as his eyes scanned the page.
So where's the pay-off? Dalquist wondered. I don't feel the least bit different yet. I can open my eyes any time I want to. So much for the skills of a Seventh Level Mentalist! I guess a Questor's mind is too hard to crack…
In a moment, we're… I'm… we're…
****
Kargan sang the last syllable with the deep satisfaction engendered by the knowledge that he had cast a complex and difficult spell without the least error. His mind was enmeshed with Dalquist's, yet he retained the upper hand, the dominant presence.
He put the book back on the shelf, making his movements as gentle and economical as possible, as if he might otherwise sever the gossamer tendrils linking the two mages.
"We are together, Questor Dalquist, and nothing can harm you here. You are safe, and you will remember without fear. How do you feel, my son?” he said, in a soft voice.
Dalquist's tone was distant and dreamy as he replied, “Strange… good."
"Are you afraid?"
"Not any more. I feel calm and happy."
"Excellent. Tell me what troubles you."
Almost as a child reciting a nursery rhyme, the Questor answered him. “Shakkar told me my friend, Questor Grimm, might be in trouble, and I ignored him. When he mentioned Prioress Lizaveta, it was as if a shutter closed over my mind."
Kargan leaned closer to the Questor. “Tell me all you know about Prioress Lizaveta. Remember, Dalquist, nothing can harm you here."
A dreamy smile wafted across the ensorcelled mage's face. “Nothing can harm me here,” he parroted. “I was with Questor Grimm at High Lodge. Prioress Lizaveta was there. She controls the Order of Divine Serenity. I had just been granted the seventh ring. Grimm became very fond of one of the Prioress’ young nuns."
Kargan started.
"What?"
The single word ripped from his lips, unbidden. Such liaisons were strictly forbidden to Guild Mages, since they could lead to the loss of a sorcerer's power.
"She was called Madeleine, and she was very pretty, but I thought she had cast some kind of witch spell on Grimm. I was angry, and I went to see Prioress Lizaveta in her chamber…"
Dalquist's mouth shut with an audible snap, and Kargan began to feel some resistance from the young Questor.
"It is safe to remember, Questor Dalquist. You are safe here."
Dalquist remained immobile and speechless.
"What happened in Prioress Lizaveta's chamber?” Kargan raised his voice a little but remained calm. “You can tell me."
"I-she told me everything was all right.” The Questor seemed to struggle to get the words out. “Everything was all right… it was just a harmless friendship. I am a nasty, narrow-minded, suspicious little man."
This isn't a memory, it's a bloody recitation, the Mentalist thought, and his head began to throb as the younger mage's resistance grew.
"Describe the room,” he demanded in a sterner tone. “Describe Prioress Lizaveta."
"It's a very nice room,” Dalquist said. “She's a very nice lady… oh! My head aches.” The last words were spoken in a plaintive whine.
The ache in Kargan's own head rose to an agonising tumult. If he did not get results soon, he would have to cut the connection. He took a sip of water from a glass on the table at his right side and continued.
"You are safe here,” he repeated, his voice beginning to rasp. “You will tell me what I want to know. You cannot resist me, and you don't want to."
"No more… no more!"
"Tell me!"
"Get your filthy, prying, male magic out of my head!” Dalquist spat, in a harsh, crackling voice, quite unlike his usual tone. “Get OUT!
The invisible tendrils, stretched to their limit
, broke, and Kargan fell back in his chair.
"So that's the game, is it?” he muttered, massaging his temples and grimacing.
Dalquist opened his eyes, his face relaxed and calm. “Did you find anything, Magemaster Kargan?"
"I certainly did, Questor Dalquist. You've got a Blocking spell on you, a strong one. All I know at the moment is that a lady called Prioress Lizaveta is likely to be behind it. Are you ready to dig further?"
"I thought that spell was supposed to do the trick.” Dalquist seemed none the worse for wear.
Kargan growled, “It should have done, but I'm not a Seventh Level Mentalist for nothing.
"Questor Dalquist, your memories have been manipulated somehow, by what I can only guess is some Geomantic spell, but I'm pretty sure they're still there. Otherwise, I wouldn't have felt such resistance from you. Do you want to give up now, or will you submit to further spells?"
Dalquist nodded, his expression grave. “Whatever it takes, Magemaster."
Kargan cleared his throat. “I feel it only right to tell you that the spells will become more and more difficult to cast as I begin to go through my magical armoury. I started with the simplest spell I knew that was likely to bring worthwhile results. As the complexity and power grows, there is a very real chance that a miscast will seriously impair both our minds. I'm confident enough on the first few incantations I'll try, and I should be able to use some suitable cadences to get out of some of the others if I start to run into problems. But I may need some very powerful, dangerous spells in the end."
"Whatever it takes, Magemaster,” Dalquist repeated, meeting Kargan's level gaze. “I must know. If you're willing to risk it, so am I. If you'd rather take a rest, I understand."
Kargan shook his head. “I've still got plenty of power on board, Questor, so don't worry there. It's the increasing complexity that may be the problem. Some of the very strongest spells have only ever been cast by their originators, illustrious mages like Kharos and Bledel. Nobody else'll touch them with a bargepole."
Dalquist whistled. The two mages Kargan had mentioned were legends in the Guild panoply of heroes. Even he, as a mighty Questor, had heard of them, and he respected their memories with reverence.
"Perhaps it would be better if we just-"
Kargan cut him off with a swipe of his hand. “Questor Dalquist, I'm an old man, even for a common-or-garden Mentalist, but I'm still a Mage of the Seventh Rank, and I have my pride. I've studied all the greats in my field, and I believe I know the way they think. I may only have a few decades remaining to me, but I'm no jabbering retard yet. If I could say I'd mastered these spells, I'd be a happy, proud man, but I'm not stupid enough to contemplate tossing away my brain for the sake of pride.
"As I said, there's a real risk involved. We're not just talking about a bad headache here, but blank-eyed, drooling madness or worse. So I don't want you just to say ‘yes’ without thinking about it. Believe me: if you don't want to do this, I'd rather you said so."
Dalquist sat up and steepled his hands under his bearded chin. He knew now he had been ensorcelled. But was that knowledge alone enough?
No! he thought. A part of my life's been stolen from me. I've been used as a puppet by some witch, and I don't even know what else of her influence remains within me. I'd rather go blind or mad than betray Grimm or my Guild because I was weak. I'll live as a whole man, or not at all.
"Go as deep as you dare, Magemaster Kargan,” he said. “I'm in your hands."
Kargan rubbed his hands and stretched. “I'm glad you said that, Dalquist, but I expected no less from a true Questor. We'll try a little trick of Wersam the Adamant's next. This one's not too hard, but it's a little strange. This time, I'll be you, and you'll just be an onlooker. Are you ready? Good. Lie down, shut your eyes again, and we'll start. Wellan… Wemus… ah, here it is."
****
Quelgrum hunched back on his heels in the small room. “What do you have in mind, Lord Baron?"
Grimm rubbed his sweaty palms together, trying to project greater confidence than he felt as he spoke.
"Well, it seems to me that the only real people here are in this building, and Uncle Gruon himself. If I were to astrally project, I should be able to find him. Whoever, or whatever, he is, I believe I'll be able to get inside his mind. Under those circumstances, I might be able to shake things up in there a little. It might make things a little more interesting out there, at least, and Gruon might wake up."
"That's an awful lot of ‘mights and ‘could bes', boy,” Guy drawled, leaning against the door.
"Have you anything better, Guy?” Grimm snapped, his guts churning with nervous energy. “Perhaps you'd rather give us your own brilliant plan?"
"Oh, no, wonder-boy,” said the older mage, smiling. “If you want to risk what little brain you have on some wildcat scheme, who am I to stop you?"
Grimm clenched his teeth. It's all a bloody game for him, he thought. Still, I'm not going to show him just how scared I really am!
"Well, that's all right then, Great Flame."
Numal, who seemed to know more about Astral Projection than the other members of the party, touched the young Questor on the shoulder.
"Is that wise, Questor Grimm? You don't even know what sort of mind you'll find. The results could be disastrous!"
Grimm forced himself not to pull away from the sexually confused Necromancer's touch. “Thanks for the concern, Numal, but I don't think we have an awful lot of choice in the matter. I'll trust you to hold on tight to my astral cord and yank me back into the real world if you sense any trouble."
"I don't know if I can,” the older mage admitted with a shrug.
Grimm forced a friendly smile onto his face. “Well, just do your best. Look, Numal,” he said, “all of you! Do you all want to end up as drained husks, fodder for some nightmare creature, or would you rather we gave him a nightmare? I know what I'd rather do."
Crest stood up from a deep crouch, his head reaching the level of Grimm's chest. “There is an ethical aspect to this, Questor: do we really have the right to risk killing all these people? They're only doing what they have to for survival, the same as we would, if we were in their straits."
Well, that's all right then, Crest! So we'll just sit here and wait for them to bleed us dry… no, that's not helpful!
"It's us or them, Crest,” he said. “If you really have a serious moral objection, I won't do it."
"Bugger that!” Guy said. “Any port's good in a storm, I say."
"In any case,” the elf continued, shooting a hard glance at the senior Questor, “Suppose you do wake Gruon up; that doesn't get us out of this bloody mausoleum, does it?"
Grimm almost winced; he had not expected opposition from such a loyal companion: from Guy, perhaps, but not from the nimble, reliable half-elf.
"I saw a chair hanging from the ceiling in the central reservation, Crest,” he said, trying to look unworried. “That must be where they extract the Sacrifices for their blood-lettings. I imagine there's an opening, or at least a thinly-protected area, over that. If I get back alive, I reckon I could reach it and blast a way through. If I can't, I'll bet the Great Flame, here, could."
Guy shrugged. “I suppose I could, at that."
"As for the ethical consideration, these people are not human…” Grimm did not need to access his Mage Sight to recognise Crest's surging anger, and he knew he had chosen his words poorly.
"Neither am I, mage.” The slender warrior frowned, and Grimm noted his bunched biceps. “Perhaps I'm just as expendable as…"
Grimm's entrails felt like a cold, solid lump within him. “Look, Crest, I'm sorry. I spoke hastily. I regard you as just another…"
"Freak? Mutant? Is that it?” Crest snarled. “Some bloody sport-"
"That's not fair, Crest, and you bloody well know it!” Harvel snapped at his great friend. “Catch hold of yourself! Questor Grimm has never treated you as anything other than a valued companion and an equal. Has he? Ha
s he?"
Crest stopped in mid-tirade and nodded, his head bowed. “I'm sorry, Questor Grimm. I had no cause to sound off like that at you. I know you didn't mean any slur when you used that word, ‘human'. It's just that I've had it flung at me so many times… I'm sorry."
Grimm breathed a sigh of relief; Harvel had defused a nasty situation before it erupted into meaningless violence. “I didn't choose my words carefully enough, Crest, and I apologise. Tensions are running high here, and I guess we're all a little highly-strung at the moment. What I meant to say is that these people are not really alive at all, except in Gruon's dreams. If they ‘die', they could be reborn whenever he falls asleep. Once we die, I have no idea what happens to us, but I'm sure we'll never be reborn just as we are, if at all. Whatever happens to the people of Brianston, they won't die a slow, painful death like their ‘sacrifices'.
"Now, I'm pretty nervous about what I intend to do, but I'll risk it if, and only if, you all agree to it. I may make things worse than they are; I don't know. All I do know is that we have to do something, and soon. The prospect of launching myself into an unknown mind scares the living daylights out of me, so I need to do it soon, before I lose the nerve."
Crest looked into Grimm's eyes and nodded. “Well met, Questor. I want to die in battle, or in some willing woman's bed, but not as some pathetic, subdued milk cow. I accept your rationale. I only argued because I'm nervous, too. Go ahead."
I wish you hadn't said that, Grimm thought, scanning the faces of his other conscious companions. All seemed happy for him to risk his soul, although the mage acknowledged that most of them had no idea of the danger involved in the process.
"I'm glad to hear that, Crest,” he said. “Are we agreed?"
Somebody say ‘no', a part of him pleaded, while he tried to suppress the renegade voice.
However, no more dissenting voices were raised. The only response was that of the formerly worried Numal: “It's worth a try, Grimm."
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