Kargan nodded, ruing the normal life which the Guild had stolen from him. Every time he had met a woman for whom he had felt any compassion or desire, he had turned her away without the least thought.
"I'll try it, smith,” he muttered. “I'll try it."
He stood and said, in a louder voice, “Please lie down, Master Loras. If this works at all, I will need your complete attention."
Sighing, Loras stretched out on the sparse mattress, as he had been bidden. “May I ask what you intend to do?"
Kargan, now assuming the role of a House Magemaster, shook his head. “As you will learn, Questor, those of your kind will not always understand all the ways of our Art. What I have in mind is Waorst-gam's Spell of Extraction, followed by Mangold's Cleansing, amongst other incantations."
"I have never heard of them!” Loras said, looking dubious.
"You Questors do not know all the best spells!” Kargan said, with a little sniff. “Lie still and learn, for once in your life, what a humble Mentalist can do for you!"
I don't need a bloody libram or scroll to cast these spells! he thought. I've taught them to many a careless Adept in my time!
"I hope what you say is true, Master Loras,” he said, “If it is, you may become a full Questor in all but title very soon. Please keep any interruptions to a minimum."
As Loras lay on the straw mattress, Kargan took a deep breath and began to chant the first spell.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 33: Arrival at Rendale
The wagon crested a rise in the road, and Grimm caught sight of a distant, gleaming structure with a spire at each corner and a steeple in the centre. He found it difficult to gauge the distance of the building, and therefore its size, but he felt sure it must be the Priory.
The Questor pushed his head through the opening in the wagon's canvas, and said, “We had better stay alert, friends; Rendale Priory is straight ahead."
"About time,” Guy grumbled. “My bladder's killing me."
"Well, I suggest you relieve it before we move on,” Grimm said. “That goes for all of us."
"Well, now you come to mention it, Questor Grimm,” Tordun said, “I do feel a little in need of relief myself…"
"Me, too,” Erik declared. “Bouncing around in this cart hasn't done my waterworks any good."
Guy shot a sharp glance at Numal. “What about you, Numal? I hear you oldsters often have problems in that regard."
Numal smiled and shook his head. “Not me, Questor Guy,” he said. “I've never had any trouble holding my water."
Guy's face reddened, and Grimm turned back to Quelgrum, trying to hide the incipient smile on his own face.
"Pull over by that stand of trees, please, General,” he said, indicating a small copse to the left of the road. “I suggest we wait there for Shakkar to return with his report. I think we're close enough just for the moment, and we should be able to hide the wagon and horses from all eyes except those of a flying demon."
Quelgrum nodded. “As you command, Lord Baron,” he said, guiding the horses away from the road and into the wood.
Guy and Erik led Tordun into the undergrowth, while Grimm, Numal and Quelgrum gathered leafy branches to use as a camouflage screen. Although the young Questor felt nervousness twitching in the pit of his stomach, he felt more cheerful than he had for some time. Action was always preferable to inaction, and action seemed to be just around the corner, or, more accurately, just down the road.
****
Lizaveta stood at her carved podium in the splendid, marble-and-gold Upper Chapel, giving the afternoon Blessing. She had carried out this ritual, almost without fail, every day for the last fifty years.
"Wisdom, enlighten us.” The Prioress did not so much plead with the eternal powers as command them.
"Enlighten and ennoble us,” the rapt, reverent Sisters arrayed before her chorused.
"Inner harmony, suffuse us."
"Nourish us and make us whole,” the assembled congregation moaned, swaying gently as the rapture took hold.
"Discipline, guide us."
"Guide us and show us the way."
"Bless the Anointed Score."
"Bless them and keep them safe."
"True One, perfect guardian, hear our prayer."
"Let Light Eternal rule!” the nuns responded, and Lizaveta breathed in their collective ecstasy as if it were the sweetest perfume. Their joy mingled with the power of the earth beneath the foundations of the Priory and made her strong. It never failed to amuse her that the majority of the faithful lacked the slightest concept of to whom, or to what, they so willingly gave their souls and their allegiance. Suppressing a shudder of almost sexual intensity, Lizaveta forced herself to show a calm, beatific face to her congregation.
"Beloved Sisters,” she crooned, her harsh, crackling voice somehow softened by the collective joy suffusing her. “Dear members of the Anointed Score. I will now hear your petitions, so your voices may be heard. The Order is just, and it cares for its flock."
Sister Judan, the senior member of the Score, stood, her hands clasped before her and her eyes lowered in the approved manner. “Blessed be the One, we have no petitions to present, Reverend Mother.” Her hushed voice carried as clearly through the Chapel as if she had shouted.
Lizaveta nodded. “Bless you all, my Sisters,” she said. In truth, she had expected no woman to raise any kind of complaint; discipline was too strict in the Priory.
"Is there anybody else who wished to address her Prioress, for any reason?” she said, just for form's sake. The Chapel remained as silent as the grave. After waiting for a few heartbeats, Lizaveta nodded.
"Duty Sisters and Petty Superiors, report to Sister Judan for your assignments,” she said. “The rest of you may go to Accusations."
After the afternoon Blessing, all nuns not otherwise occupied were required to engage in a period of Accusations, where they would prostrate themselves one by one before the chosen Confessor. They were then expected to reveal their innermost souls before their Sisters, like an anatomist pinning out the entrails of a dissected creature. After the declaration of each sin and religious fault, the Confessor would give the self-accusing Sister a suitable penalty, ranging from an hour's basic Penitence to a period of ruthless flagellation, to be carried out within twenty-four hours. The punishment assigned was at the whim of the elected Superior.
After Accusation, each Sister in turn was required to reveal any sin or fault in any other Sister of which she was aware. Any transgression previously undisclosed by the named nun was punished with double or triple the severity of a penance levied during Accusation.
"Sister Ellen will take your confessions,” Lizaveta said, assigning one of the milder of the Anointed Score as Confessor. She waited to see if any nun would be so lax as to smile, breathe a sigh of relief, or otherwise betray herself. However, all of her flock retained the so-called ‘custody of the eyes’ and an outwardly tranquil aspect, waiting to be dismissed.
After a few moments more, Lizaveta said, “Go in peace, Sisters. Blessed be the One."
"Blessed be the One,” the assembled women chorused, filing from the Chapel in an orderly fashion, the only sound the rustling of robes.
The only people now remaining in the chamber were four of the Score without current assignment, including the recently-Anointed Sister Weranda. Since her Conversion, the girl had proven to be an excellent addition to the Order, pursuing her duties with zeal, and Lizaveta had rewarded her with the prestigious post of Prioress’ Handmaiden; a confidante and body-servant. The Prioress had not failed to notice the sharp looks the more senior members of the Score gave the new Sister, but it pleased Lizaveta to remind them just who held true power within the Order.
The Prioress, still standing at her lectern, consulted a sheet of paper. “Sister Ouida, you may supervise the kitchen staff."
Ouida, a gangling woman in her thirties with a pock-marked face, curtseyed. “As you command, Reverend Mother,
” she said, backing out of the Chapel with skilful decorum, her eyes lowered.
"Sister Marga, you may lead the Supplicants in Meditation."
"As you command, Reverend Mother."
"Sister-oh!"
It seemed to Lizaveta as if a gleaming, steel spike had been hammered into her head, and her knees almost buckled. As she dropped her sheet of paper and clung to the lectern for support, she felt a small rivulet of blood run from her nose and trickle down her upper lip.
"Are you all right, Reverend Mother?” the two remaining nuns asked: Sister Weranda and the dumpy, obedient Sister Jass. They ran toward her, their faces washed with identical, wide-eyed expressions of concern.
For a moment, Lizaveta felt unable to speak, but she waved the two women away with an imperious gesture. They stood before the lectern, resuming their approved postures.
The Afelnor brat is close, she realised. I do not know where he is, but he comes with my idiot popinjay of a grandson. Whatever happens, I want Afelnor alive!
Loras’ grandson had almost become an obsession: she yearned to see him fall to his knees before her with adoration in his eyes. With him under her sole control, High Lodge, indeed the entire, patriarchal, woman-hating Guild, might be within her grasp. Thorn would be at its head, answerable to nobody but her. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with Lizaveta's heart's desire.
"I am well, dear Sisters,” she said at last, drawing a shuddering breath. Turning to the anxious-looking Weranda, she said. “It is the Afelnor whelp. I sensed his presence. He is close, and he has vengeance on his mind."
Still retaining her pose of religious modesty, the Sister said, “Is it permitted to ask a question, Reverend Mother?"
Lizaveta nodded. “Both of you may speak freely; within the bounds of Order protocol, of course."
Weranda asked, “Have you any idea of how we should deal with him, Reverend Mother? He may be dangerous."
"He is a man, Sister Weranda!” Lizaveta snapped. “I have had the will of two such beings since I was weaned. The One has seen fit to gift such creatures with strong arms and legs, but it is we women who have the true powers of the mind. These Questors may have strong bodies to dominate others of their own kind, and women denied their birthright and condemned to servitude by years of male suppression, but the minds of men are weak and pliable.
"I am dangerous; remember that!” she cried. “You know what men have brought to the world: violence, conflict and disorder!"
Lizaveta realised she was losing her customary composure. “In answer to your question,” she said, softening her voice to a gentle crackle, “I wish you to meet Questor Grimm before he ever sets foot in these grounds. I know he has others with him, but they are all men. You are to use the magic I have taught you on him and his fellows, and to persuade them to enter the Priory. I fancy we can then handle them with ease. Run to them in the guise of a poor, weak, helpless girl, and they will be no stronger than warm tallow in your hands.
"Sister Jass,” she continued, turning to the shorter, stouter nun, “I wish you to instruct the Score to assemble in my room within half an hour. When you have done so, I wish you to don Secular clothes and stand watch over Merrydeath Road; if the Questor's party makes any kind of move, I wish to know without delay."
"But it's time for Accusations, Reverend Mother,” Jass replied, her voice tremulous, confused.
Lizaveta bit off a sharp retort; imprecations would not help. Most of the Score, she knew, were dark-hearted, ambitious women who sought to overthrow her at the earliest opportunity, but she relied on Judan, Jass, and the newly-broken Weranda to be her eyes and ears within the Order. Jass might lack intelligence or initiative, but she was observant, honest to a fault and a diligent, useful tool.
"I know, Sister Jass,” the Prioress said, in a voice of pure reason, “but dark forces are afoot. Circumstances alter cases, as you have been taught."
"Yes, indeed, Reverend Mother,” Jass said, allowing a lock of red hair to escape her wimple, although the Prioress chose not to notice the minor error. “I will do as you order."
The dumpy nun curtseyed and left the chamber. Lizaveta was alone with Weranda, who had once been the object of Grimm Afelnor's affections and desires.
Can I truly trust her? she wondered, regarding the girl with doubtful eyes, doubt suffusing her mind.
Weranda appeared the very image of a dutiful nun, her hands crossed and her gaze fixed on the floor.
She was such an angry little spitfire when she came here, not so long ago, Lizaveta thought. Nonetheless, she took far more punishment than she would have needed to convince me that she was ready; indeed, she has exceeded my expectations in all regards…
"Now, my dear Sister,” she said. “Are you quite prepared to take on such a demanding role? You are aware, of course, just how important this is, and you were, after all, once enamoured of this male creature."
Weranda never moved from her modest, self-effacing position, and her voice was calm but intense. “If you so order me, Reverend Mother,” she said, “I will tear his heart from his body and offer it to you while it still beats. Grimm Afelnor is nothing but a dull, insignificant memory for me. This, now, is my home, and you are my saviour from a life of meaningless slavery at the hands of people like him."
The burning sincerity in the young nun's voice was undeniable, and Lizaveta nodded, convinced. “I do not want Afelnor killed,” she said. “I want him whole and functioning, Sister. Just get him in here. I want him to beg for my forgiveness and mercy while he still has a full, undamaged mind; is that understood?"
"It will be as you command, Reverend Mother.” Weranda's voice bore an unmistakable tone of wistful regret. “Afelnor will be left… intact, at least in his mind. However, may I damage his body, if required?"
"If that is required in order to subdue him, Sister; no more than that,” Lizaveta replied, an edge of steel in her voice. “You will have plenty of time with him once he is within our power-I have decided that you will be his trainer."
"Thank you for your faith in me, Reverend Mother. I will not let you down.” Weranda's voice vibrated with sincerity.
I am sure you will not, the Prioress thought. You have had ample opportunity to try to attack me of late. However, even if the sight of Afelnor stirs something within you, some deep-buried memory, there is little you can do to me. You are powerful as a witch now, but your Geomantic power cannot hold a candle to mine. I will not hesitate to destroy you if you are foolish enough to try to oppose me.
"You may forgo Devotions and your other duties for the rest of the day,” Lizaveta said. “I wish you to use your time to practice your magic and rehearse what you will say and do when you encounter your former paramour. If Sister Jass reports no encroachment this afternoon, I wish you to approach Afelnor during the night. I wish you to run to him in the guise of a poor, helpless, terrified little thing, and I want you convince him. You have my dispensation to use only vernacular speech until Afelnor and his companions are within our grasp. Remember, I would prefer Afelnor to enter alone, or in the company of my vainglorious grandson, Guy-I can handle him well enough. You are dismissed."
"As you comm… all right, Reverend Mother,” the girl replied. “I'll persuade him to come alone, one way or another."
Weranda sank into a deep, perfect curtsey, her forehead almost touching the floor. She held the pose for several seconds before she straightened up; as she did so, Lizaveta heard a respectful tap at the door.
"Enter, Supplicant."
The door opened to reveal the small, but quite portly figure of Sister Jass.
"I ordered you to summon the Score and then keep watch on the road!” Lizaveta snapped.
"Begging your pardon, Reverend Mother,” Jass said, wringing her hands, “but Sister Morlan is keeping watch from the East Turret-"
"I am well aware of that, Sister. I presume you have received some report from her?"
"Yes, Reverend Mother,” said the Sister in a breathy squeak. “She
-Sister Morlan, that is-reports that some winged monster is flying around the Priory grounds. I thought it best if you were informed."
Afelnor's hell-beast friend, no doubt, Lizaveta thought. This must be some preliminary reconnaissance.
"Let him go, Sister. We have no desire to raise any suspicions. Wait until the creature has departed before you leave the Priory. From now on, I wish to remain undisturbed unless any untoward events are noted; pass the word."
"As you command, Reverend Mother."
The two Sisters departed the Chapel, leaving Lizaveta alone with her dark thoughts.
Afelnor is a strong one, she thought. Even I do not feel to confront him alone. However, despite his power, he is no more than a boy, with a boy's desires and a boy's weakness. With his heart's desire begging for his help, he will walk straight in here as if his heels were on fire.
Lizaveta smiled. If all went well, this young, powerful fool, this Weapon of the Guild, might soon be hers: a potent Weapon of her very own, with which she could tear down the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges itself.
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