It is not that simple, Mother, complained Thorn, trying to make the old woman see sense. Some Neophyte Questors risk becoming unhinged by the Ordeal as it is.
Then they are weaklings who are not worthy to carry the Staff, she snarled. I am sure even you are more than wily enough to cover up the odd accident. You do not need milksops, but powerful mages under your full control. Remember that, and act accordingly.
I will tolerate no further excuses from you, Thorn. You must resolve such problems on your own from now on.
With an unpleasant mental slither, the slimy form of his mother's will withdrew from Thorn's mind, leaving the Prelate alone in his chamber, with only a parcel of vague fears and worries for company.
The Prelate felt many misgivings, but he would see this boy on the morrow; he preferred an easy life, and it was far simpler to go along with his mother than to try to oppose her. Thorn put away the scrying-crystal and wandered over to a wrought-iron washstand by the window, washing his face and hands in the porcelain bowl, as if this could wash away the taint of his mother's influence over him.
He went back to sit in reverie at his worktable. His thoughts were of earlier, happier times with another young Afelnor, a youth with whom he had played and exchanged jokes and tricks.
Acclaimed on the very same day, each had warmly toasted the other's success.
Good days...
The sick memory of how he had duped and betrayed his blood brother swam into his daydreaming like a hungry shark, devouring the quietude he sought.
Rubbing a trembling hand over his aching brow, he summoned Doorkeeper with a brief, telepathic pulse.
When the major-domo arrived, twitching and trembling as ever, the Prelate cut through the old man's twittering prattle with a curt wave of his hand.
"Bring the Afelnor boy to me early tomorrow morning, Doorkeeper. You are dismissed."
The major-domo left with a clumsy bow, and the Prelate was alone again.
Chapter 4: The Prelate
"Quickly, quickly; chop-chop! Do hurry, boy. The Prelate doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Doorkeeper wrung his hands with nervous fervour, as Grimm swam his way into a clean robe plainly intended for a larger boy.
When the child was finished, Doorkeeper took a step back to assess his charge. Grimm's face shone lobster-pink after vigorous scrubbing, and his hair was neatly tied behind the neck. Despite the over-large clothes, the overall effect was not too comical, and the boy looked much more presentable than he had when he had first arrived at the House.
"All right, boy, you'll do. Come along now.” As Doorkeeper led the way out of the scullery, Grimm struggled to keep up without tripping over the hem of his voluminous robe. At almost every step of the way, the major-domo called out instructions on how the boy must comport himself in the presence of the Prelate.
He was not to speak unless directly addressed; he must address Thorn only as ‘Lord Prelate'; he must bow on entering and on leaving the chamber; he was to volunteer no information not specifically requested by the Prelate. The list seemed endless to Grimm, who was breathing heavily by the time the pair had ascended the stairs to Thorn's chamber.
Before the old man's fist had touched the door, a voice boomed from within. “Enter, Doorkeeper."
The major-domo motioned Grimm to approach the Prelate's large and forbidding desk, and the boy managed a passable bow. He gazed at the stone floor, barely daring to breathe. This was a mighty wizard.
"Lord Thorn, this is the boy I told you about, here as you commanded."
"You may leave, Doorkeeper,” intoned the Prelate in an off-hand tone, and Grimm heard the door close behind him. As long minutes passed, he waited nervously to be addressed as Doorkeeper had advised him, aware that the senior mage's eyes were seriously appraising him.
"Your name is Grimm Afelnor, is it not?” asked the Prelate.
Grimm nodded, his nerves stopping his tongue. With an effort, the child managed to whisper “Yes, Lord Prelate."
More moments passed. “Do you know why you are here, child?"
In a slightly stronger voice, Grimm replied, “Granfer ... my grandfather wants me to become a magician, Lord Prelate."
"The term used within the Guild is ‘mage', Grimm. A magician is merely a town performer, a mountebank, a bumbling purveyor of simple charms and illusions with which to bedazzle the uneducated and the credulous."
Grimm felt a little bedazzled himself at several of the strange words the Prelate used, but he held his tongue as Doorkeeper had ordered.
"A mage is a true master of the arcane arts, a man to be feared and respected, a man with true dedication and willpower. Do you think that, one day, you could become such a man, Grimm Afelnor?"
"I don't know, Lord Prelate."
"Look into my eyes, child,” said Thorn softly. Grimm reluctantly raised his head, and he saw for the first time the face of the Prelate. Heavy eyebrows hung like hovering birds of prey over a pair of amber eyes that seemed to burn like coals, windows to the mighty will blazing within.
Grimm forced himself to lock his gaze upon Thorn's eyes, suppressing the strong urge to look away. After a few moments, the boy's eyes began to water, but he let the tears run down his cheeks unchecked.
After it seemed as if an age had passed, Thorn nodded.
"That is good. You have willpower, one of the most important attributes of a mage. You have self-control: that is another. However, it will take more, much more, to become a mage. If I do decide to accept you as Student, it will be on harsh terms.
"Most Students within this House are here because their families have money and influence. They may leave at any time, with no penalty save a financial consideration. If accepted, you will be taken in as a charity case. If we decide that you have not given of your best at any time, you may be required to remit the cost of your schooling in any capacity that we may decide, as a scullion or other menial for as long as we require. This will not normally be for a period of less than twenty years, due to the great expense that the House will have lavished on you.
"This is no ordinary school, young Afelnor. Some labour for decades to carry the staff and ring that denote a true mage. The majority fall by the wayside, having learnt a few trifling competencies and nothing more. A paying Student may leave at any time, whereas you will be required to stay here as long as we may deem fit, in order to reclaim the effort that we have put into your education. We are talking of many years of struggle, Grimm Afelnor.
"Before I accept you as Student, I ask you to think of the years ahead of you. Will you give your heart and your soul to us, to use as we see fit? You are young, and you can have no concept of the gulf of time ahead of you.
"Nevertheless, we require your word and your bond to give us your all. Will you serve this House and this Guild with all your heart?"
Grimm stifled a sob. From what little he could understand of the Prelate's speech, it seemed that Lord Thorn had told him he might never, ever see his home again. To a seven-year-old child, this talk of years of effort seemed an eternity of loneliness, a vast empty chasm separating him from everything he had known. However, his grandfather, the gentle, loving man who had brought him up for all the time he could remember, had pleaded with tearful eyes for Grimm to submit to the will of the Guild for as long as was necessary.
Although Grimm recognised that Granfer Loras had his best interests at heart, the prospect of an uncertain future weighed on him heavily. He had to admit, even to himself, that to succeed to his grandfather's position might have been difficult, but, in truth, Grimm had found much of the fetching and carrying in the smithy too hard for him. Although he possessed a certain wiry strength, he lacked the more solid musculature and bone structure that might make a competent smith of him in later life.
He preferred the company of books to that of other children, and only Granfer had understood when Grimm had talked of the colours that he could sometimes see around people when they were happy, sad, lying or speaking the
truth. He had even helped Grimm to recognise better the colours invoked by various emotions and moods. It was shortly after Grimm had first mentioned the colours that Granfer had begun to speak of Grimm entering the Guild.
Grimm knew what his grandfather wanted for him and, even if the road might be hard, it was enough for the boy to know that it was what Granfer Loras wanted.
Swallowing hard in an attempt to dislodge the lump in his throat, Grimm spoke. “Yes, Lord Prelate, I promise to do my best for the Guild for as long as you want. I will try my hardest to make you and my grandfather proud of me."
Thorn ran his hand through his greasy, thinning hair and bowed his head for a moment, plainly deep in thought. For a hopeful heartbeat or two, Grimm wondered if the Prelate intended to send him back home, but Lord Thorn's next words robbed him of this hope.
"Grimm Afelnor, you are hereby accepted into the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges as a Student in this House,” droned Lord Thorn, as if reciting a litany. “You will receive whatever training and education the Presidium of this House may see fit to bestow upon you.
"In return, you will diligently and enthusiastically comply with all instructions and orders given by your superiors, and with all the rules and ordinances of the House, which will be duly explained to you. No visitors will be allowed during your training, save by my specific permission. That is all. Doorkeeper!"
The major-domo must have been waiting outside the door, since he swiftly entered the room.
"Afelnor is accepted as Student, Doorkeeper. Take him to the Scholasticate and instruct him in the ways of the House. That is all."
Doorkeeper bowed and motioned Grimm to follow suit, whereupon the old mage swept the child out of the room.
* * * *
After the door had shut and the footsteps had faded, Thorn took a bottle of liquor from a drawer and drank deeply, calming his nerves.
The power in the child's eyes had reminded him too much of Loras Afelnor's intense gaze. Taking up the scrying-crystal, he summoned the Head of the Scholasticate, Urel Shelit, to his room.
"Greetings, Lord Prelate."
"Greetings to you also, Senior Magemaster Urel. I have a new charity Student, Grimm Afelnor by name. He joins us today."
Urel raised his eyebrows. “Afelnor, you say. Surely it cannot be his son?"
"His grandson, in fact,” Thorn drawled, as if such an event happened every day.
"He has power within him, of course, or I would not have accepted him into the House. You know the rules, Urel. Under such circumstances I could scarcely have rejected him, whatever his antecedents."
"Of course, Lord Thorn, I understand completely."
"How very perspicacious of you,” Thorn replied acidly. The earlier communication with his mother had left him somewhat dyspeptic; or, perhaps the drink he had consumed the night before had had more effect on him than he had thought.
Collecting himself, he apologised. “I am sorry, Urel, I should not have spoken to you in that manner. I have a lot on my mind at present."
"No apology is necessary, Lord Thorn. We all know the responsibilities of your position place a great burden upon your shoulders."
"Thank you for your understanding, Senior Magemaster. I wish it understood that young Afelnor is a Student like any other, and I do not wish him to be victimised for the acts of his grandfather.
"He is here to learn and, good fortune permitting, to progress to the limits of his abilities and skills. He seems intelligent and respectful, and I do not imagine that you are likely to find him problematic within the Scholasticate.
"Doorkeeper is with him at present. Kindly assign the boy a cell in the Charity Wing and ensure that the Magemasters are all aware that he is to be treated as any other charity Student. He belongs to you now, and I trust that, one day, you will have cause to be proud of him."
"Lord Thorn, I would never tolerate victimisation of any of my young Students. I will ensure that he is treated according to his abilities and achievements and not according to his ancestry."
Apparently realising he was speech-making, Urel cleared his throat and returned to the matter in hand. “I will put him in Cell 17, Lord Prelate. I would be grateful if you could relay that to Doorkeeper. I will inform the Magemasters of the new arrival immediately upon leaving your office."
Thorn put his hand to his temple and muttered a phrase. “It is done, Senior Magemaster. Now, will you sit for a while and accept a glass of Lurian brandy? I have here a particularly good example of its type. I receive so few callers here in person."
"I would be delighted to share your liquor with you for a while, Lord Prelate. I have not tasted that particular beverage for a decade or more."
Thorn poured Urel a generous portion of the golden liquid, which the Magemaster accepted with a nod of gratitude. Thorn poured himself an even larger quantity and settled back comfortably in his chair, on familiar territory now.
"I always liked Afelnor, ever since we were Students together,” Urel said, the fire of the expensive brandy seeming to loosen his tongue. “Whatever possessed him to attempt to murder Lord Prelate Geral? We all loved Geral, and I had often heard Loras speak highly of him."
Thorn had handled similar questions many times before, and he was not fazed. “Loras was my firmest friend within the House as you know, Urel. I would no more have expected him to attack Geral than to assault me. I suspect that he despaired at the old Prelate's illness, as we all did, and sought to relieve him of further suffering. It was with a heavy heart that I exposed his act to the Presidium and watched him stripped of his powers. Yet the rules were clear. Justice, no matter how painful, had to be done."
"He took his punishment with great dignity, and I was pleased to see that."
"He did. Let us see that his chastisement does not extend to his grandson.” Noticing that Urel had finished his brandy, Thorn wanted to refill the Senior Magemaster's glass, but he did not move to do so. The Prelate was often lonely and maudlin, but he knew this was the price that had to be paid if he was ever to rule the Guild and get his hated mother off his back. He recognised, only too well, the demon of depression as it hopped onto his shoulders, and he resolutely dismissed it.
"Thank you for your company, Urel. I have enjoyed our little discussion. However, I am afraid that I have some urgent matters to attend to. Would you excuse me?” Urel bowed and left, and Thorn was alone again with his papers and his problems.
Chapter 5: Cell 17
Doorkeeper led Grimm through an iron gate, and the colourful opulence of the Great Hall was replaced by a dull green and grey; a musty smell filled the air.
"This is the Charity Wing of the Scholasticate, Grimm,” intoned the major-domo. “You may stay here for a long time, but the years will soon fly, believe you me! Sometimes, I wish I was back here as a Student. It would free me from all my obligations; they seem so hard at times. So hard..."
He sighed mournfully in self-pity and assumed his official manner once more. “The normal term doesn't begin for another two weeks, and so there will be very few Students here for a while, just other charity boys. The paying Students are allowed home at the end of term, although you, as a charity boy, will not be allowed leave unless granted special permission by your Magemaster or by Lord Thorn.
"I think there are a few other charity Students within the House at this time, so there should be a few other boys of your own age for you to make friends with. Here, this is your cell."
They had stopped in an ill-lit corridor outside a door bearing the number 17. “This will be your number as long as you are a Student here. Your clothes will bear this number, and the Magemasters who teach you may address you as number 17. Some of the Magemasters don't have such a good memory for names as I do."
Doorkeeper opened the door to show a clean but dismal room. The walls were painted in cabbage-green with off-white tiles up to knee height. The small room's accoutrements were few: a brass bed with a thin mattress and a neatl
y-folded but threadbare bedroll; an off-white, crazed ceramic washbowl; a rickety chair set beside a small, round, wooden table; and a warped bookshelf bearing a single volume.
The major-domo moved to the shelf and handed its sole occupant to Grimm: a weighty tome bearing the title Rules and Regulations of the Scholasticate in black on a battered brown leather cover. “Read this book carefully, Grimm. It's very important, yes, very important, and you may be tested on it.
"It contains all the rules and regulations for charity Students, for the Guild in general, and for this House in particular. The Magemasters and seniors may ask you questions about it at any time, and you'd better be able to answer them without a moment's thought, or you may be punished. We don't want that, now, do we?"
Grimm shook his head, mute in his encroaching misery.
"There's a similar book for the paying Students,” continued Doorkeeper, “but the rules aren't as strict. The House needs money, and most of it comes from the parents of the rich boys. Make sure that you know all the Rules by heart, and be sure to obey them all."
Grimm nodded wordlessly, his heart too full to speak. “I will be back to take you to luncheon in a few hours,” said Doorkeeper. “Don't try to get back into the Hall; you won't be able to. But I think the Scholasticate will be a large enough world for you, even over the long time to come.
"Be strong, Grimm; the loneliness will pass soon enough once your studies have begun, and you will find your days full to bursting with new knowledge, new friends and new experiences. Be strong for me."
Doorkeeper left, closing the door of the cell with a thump that sounded to Grimm like a knell announcing the death of his old, familiar, life in Granfer's smithy.
Cell! The word echoed and rebounded through the boy's head; it sounded as if he were a criminal to be locked up.
Although the door was unlocked, the green walls of the cell seemed to close in on Grimm. He felt a swift, cold shiver of fear run through him. His lungs seemed to have turned to stone, and he felt unable to breathe properly.
The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster [Book 1: A Mage In The Making] Page 4
