A mage in the making cogd-1

by Alastair J. Archibald

  Doorkeeper decided to spare Grimm any further details; whatever Thorn's eventual decision concerning the boy might be, there were more pressing matters to which to attend.

  "Now, Grimm, I think it must be well past your bedtime. There's a pallet in the corner, and I think it would be best if you had some sleep after your long journey. It's been a very busy day for you."

  The effort of Grimm's long climb up the mountain path now seemed to take its toll, and Grimm allowed himself to be bedded down. As soon as his head touched the pillow, the exhausted child was asleep. Doorkeeper covered him with a blanket and spoke a small, simple charm, painstakingly memorised some decades before, to ensure that the boy slept well. He wiped some sweat from his brow, for even the simple spell of Calm Repose, one of the first Minor Magics taught to lowly Neophytes, had cost him no little effort.

  ****

  Grimm slept fitfully. In place of the familiar sounds and smells of the smithy, the distant clangs and jangles of pots and pans drifted into his sensorium. From time to time, his legs twitched, as if he were still trudging up the long mountain path, and he began to dream.

  He saw Granfer Loras standing before him in his smithy clothes, teaching him the names of plants and animals. Now, Granfer had made a kite for him, and he laughed with glee as it flew into the air.

  The wind howled and the clouds turned dark; in sudden fear, he turned to see Granfer Loras in silk robes, the normal, close-cropped, blue smoothness of his pate replaced by a long shock of white hair. Lightning played around his brows, and his expression was stern and frightening. Grimm turned to run, but he found himself confronted by a large group of chanting, jeering mages, each one bearing his grandfather's face and expression. They grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him to a makeshift gallows, laughing as they did so…

  The terrifying, confusing dream gave way to dark, formless sleep, and he found peace at last.

  Chapter 3: Thorn and Lizaveta

  The previous night's storm was spent, and cheerful, orange rays of sun played on the flagstones outside the House. The building was quiet apart from the rustling, creaking form of Doorkeeper shuffling through the hall from the scullery.

  Doorkeeper, keeping his promise to the boy, Afelnor, carried Grimm's package up the winding staircase to Lord Thorn's chamber at first light. The child was still asleep, and Doorkeeper had seen no reason to disturb him. He ascended the steps with some trepidation, as he always found the prospect of an early morning meeting with the Prelate a daunting affair. As Doorkeeper approached the chamber door, a deep, apparently bored voice sounded: "Enter, Doorkeeper."

  The old mage was humbled as ever by this evidence of the Prelate's magical power, not realising that the carillon of creaking joints and incomprehensible muttering that always accompanied his progress was signal enough to announce his approach. The aged major-domo opened the door and bowed courteously. The chamber was small but well-appointed, with sumptuous tapestries hanging from every wall. In the centre of the room was a tall, beautifully carved mahogany throne with a marble table before it, bearing scrolls, books and potions in untidy abandon and a green scrying-crystal mounted on a chased silver base.

  On the throne sat a portly man with thin wisps of white hair plastered across a high, shining pate. The dark eyes that fixed Doorkeeper's gaze were a little dull, and more than a little bloodshot, but there was no denying the power in the Prelate's visage. Evidently, Lord Thorn had over-extended himself in his previous night's revelries, but this was not surprising to Doorkeeper in view of the onerous demands of the responsibilities that must surely pertain to the post of Prelate and House Lord. The man was a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank and a formidable magic-user, but a man nonetheless, sacrilegious as the fact might seem to the major-domo.

  ****

  Thorn regarded the nervous man before him with some irritation. The two had known each other for most of Thorn's eighty years, ever since the future Prelate had entered the ranks of the House as a humble Student. Ever since his accession to the title of Prelate, the ancient Doorkeeper had regarded him with awe and trepidation. Thorn's hangover had been kept at bay by the use of some minor magic, and so his mood was somewhat better than it might have been had he been a Secular. Nonetheless, he was none too pleased at being disturbed at this early hour: even a Mage of the Seventh Rank needed to sleep sometimes.

  "What is it, Doorkeeper?" he growled. When tired, hungry or overworked, Thorn had an easily roused temper, one which had often caused him trouble with the Magemasters in his youth, although he never let it affect his magic. There would be no measured words and tones here, such as those Thorn would have used to address the Presidium. Brief conversation was best when the Prelate was in a bad mood, but Thorn knew this was not Doorkeeper's forte.

  "Lord Thorn, there's a boy in the scullery. I hope you don't mind, but I gave him a bed and some food. It was horribly cold and wet out there last night, you know, and I just thought-"

  Thorn raised a hand to stop the flow of prattle from Doorkeeper. He sighed and, with difficulty, mustered a patient manner; angry words tended to cow the timid old man and to prolong exchanges. The Prelate's tone was nonetheless cool in the extreme, belying his placatory words.

  "That's all right, Doorkeeper; I am sure that you will look after him well. What I would like to know is why you thought it necessary to disturb me over the arrival of some bedraggled indigent, especially at such an early hour. Such matters are scarcely my concern."

  Doorkeeper wrung his hands in discomfort. "Ah, he, er, he wants to become a Mage, Lord Thorn. He's very keen to talk to you."

  Thorn sighed. "The more proper channel for such an application is through the Magemaster on night duty in the Scholasticate, as you well know. What is so urgent that you must disturb me at this hour?"

  "Lord Thorn, he gave me a package with a Guild ring in it. I was half ready for bed myself when he came, but, of course, I ran to the hall as soon as the portal opened. I have to, you see…"

  Thorn raised a dismissive hand again, and sighed even more theatrically than before. "Go on, then."

  Doorkeeper hesitated and then held out the waxed package in a timid manner, with an expression like that on the face of a stranded seal pup, an expression which had never failed to irritate Thorn. How the quivering old fool before him had ever managed to become a mage was quite beyond the Prelate's comprehension, and he was far from alone in this view. As Thorn took the package, he sensed the unmistakable presence of a Guild Ring.

  The old fool had spoken the truth, but, then again, even that senile dullard wore a similar ring, so that meant little. The boy's father might be some superannuated Reader, or even a Doorkeeper from another House; scarcely a cause for such great excitement. Thorn thought of saying so, but he summoned the self-control expected of a Mage of the Seventh Rank, drew a sharp breath and forced himself to be calm. Sarcasm might have an even more negative effect than ire on the hapless major-domo.

  With some effort, Thorn managed a passable simulacrum of a seraphic smile and said in a falsely honeyed voice, "Thank you, Doorkeeper, that will be all for now. Well done. You may go."

  As the door closed behind Doorkeeper, Thorn looked the package over carefully. The aura surrounding it seemed familiar to him and yet he could not place it. Satisfied that the packet contained no threat, he opened it and found inside a letter and a Guild Ring, which somehow seemed to resonate with mastery. Intrigued, the Prelate opened the letter within, and was surprised to see not an illiterate scrawl but elegant, educated handwriting which spoke of its originator's erudition.

  The Smithy,

  Lower Frunstock,

  Addleton

  My beloved former brother mage and fellow Questor, I offer my deepest respect and most heartfelt salutations!

  It is only after deep meditation that I send my grandson Grimm Afelnor to you, with the desire that you confer upon him the honour of taking him in as a Student. I understand well the deep misgivings you must hold at the prospect
of taking to the Guild's bosom the seed of a traitor and renegade such as I.

  The child knows nothing of my past, and I beg that you preserve this blissful ignorance whether you accept him or no. It is not just that a boy's life be blighted by the sins of his forebears, heinous though they may be.

  It is as hard for me to write this letter as I am sure it will be for you to read it. I am currently employed as a smith in the hamlet of Lower Frunstock; but my health is no longer so rude as once it was, and it is becoming ever harder for my wife, Drima, and me to look after our orphaned grandson, Grimm.

  He is a remarkably perceptive boy, with more than a trace of the power that once I bore, and he knows much beyond his seven years. He sees auras and can perform dowsing and other minor charms without having received a whit of training in these disciplines from me. He is gifted in languages, arithmetic and music, and his grandmother and I have taught him what we can of the secular arts.

  He is a solemn, studious boy, ill-suited to the harsh, physical life of a smith. With the little sleight left to me, I sense the growing power within him. He is fluent in most of the tongues of this region, and he writes a fair hand in all of these. I know well that he has the beginnings of the Mage Sight, and I am confident that, should you do him the great honour of accepting the child as a Student, he will repay you and, indeed, the Guild many times over.

  It is not for my own sake that I ask this, for I know only too well how little charity I deserve from you. I ask it for the good of a blameless child and for the enrichment and honour of the Guild that once I loved and swore to serve.

  I do feel that in sending this intelligent and diligent boy to you in the hope that he may one day become a mage might go some small way towards expiating some of the heavy guilt that burdens my soul so. I enclose the ring I once wore with such fierce pride, in the fervent hope that it may some day be placed on the finger of my grandson, trusting that he will expunge a measure of the infamy and shame that I placed upon it.

  Whatever you decide, I know that your choice will be fairly and justly made.

  Your devoted servant and former Brother Mage,

  Loras Afelnor

  Thorn's hands trembled as if palsied, and the letter fell to the desk. Deeply troubled, he climbed to his feet and for a few minutes paced the room like a caged animal, brow furrowed in thought and heavy breaths shivering his body. Indecision racked him, but he knew that he had only one course of action. He sat down again. He took a green velvet bag from a desk drawer and extracted from it a glass orb, which he placed in the centre of his desk. He took a deep breath and put his hands gingerly on the globe, which began to emit an eerie, bile-green glow in response.

  Mother, are you there?

  After a few minutes' pause, Thorn felt the familiar mental tendrils of his mother, Lizaveta, winding their way into his sensorium like maggots squirming through a decaying cadaver.

  What do you want, Thorn? I am busy training the latest group of novices in the ways of the Order. They are lazy and obdurate; they require constant attention and chastisement. Do you not remember the rule? I contact you; you do not contact me.

  Mother, I thought that you ought to know that Loras Afelnor is not dead, as I had formerly assumed. He has sent his grandson to me, requesting that he be taken into the House as a charity Student. The Lord Dominie might find it strange, were I to refuse such a request from a former Guild Mage, even from a convicted renegade such as Loras. The chances of such a boy possessing significant levels of Thaumaturgic power would be far higher than for the son of a Secular.

  I could plead a lack of places at the Scholasticate, but High Lodge well knows that I am campaigning vigorously in an attempt to attract more charity Students.

  Thorn could have sworn that a disdainful snort sounded in his brain.

  What is the problem, Thorn? Why do you need to bother me with your wheedling? It is your Guild House, not mine.

  The Prelate sighed. This might be harder than he had thought. What if the child knows the truth about what was done to Loras, Mother?

  Ha! Even the mighty Loras Afelnor has no idea of what motivated him to attempt to throttle that senile old fool, Geral. My spell was subtle, as well as powerful; Loras believes he acted as he did on his own volition. Do you truly believe he would send his brat to you for education if he had even the merest suspicion of the spell I cast on him?

  The child will never find out the truth unless you are foolish enough to tell him; do you understand?

  I understand, Mother, but it still makes me nervous, admitted Thorn.

  So the mighty Thorn Virias, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank is scared of an infant! came back Lizaveta's hissing stream of mental words. If you feel incompetent to deal with him, send him to me. No man has ever been able to withstand my will, not even Loras. He was ten times the man or the mage that you will ever be. I think that I could have really enjoyed Loras as my own pet in those days. Muscular, intelligent, powerful, possessed of great willpower… yet even he succumbed to my power.

  I like strong men; I like it when they try to stand against me. I like to see the look on their faces at the moment that they finally realise their mistake, just before they drop to their knees, begging for mercy. I trust you are not pretending you are a 'strong man', my dear son…

  There was a lengthy pause, inviting further challenge from Thorn, but he remained silent. He knew Lizaveta would be wearing a thin smile, her most dangerous expression, and he knew how his mother liked to control and dominate him or, indeed, any other man.

  As usual, the mighty Prelate was thoroughly cowed by this wizened prune of a witch. At times, he hated his mother with a burning passion, yet he could never win free of her, could never win true independence. Without her, he was nothing.

  Accept the child, Thorn, hissed Lizaveta's words in his head. Even if he proves no mage, it could be fun to have your own Afelnor as a scullery brat. If he should grow to resemble his grandfather, I may even pay him a friendly visit. If Loras' blood runs true and the lad should become a Questor one-tenth as powerful as his grandfather, he will be a useful token to put in play, as you move towards your destiny as Lord Dominie of High Guild. A Questor even half as powerful as Loras, who owed all loyalty and fealty to you, would be a potent weapon indeed.

  If I ever become Dominie, Mother, it will be because I will it, not you! Thorn snapped mentally, a trace of rebellion flickering briefly within him.

  You aren't trying to be strong, are you, my darling son? Remember what I said about men who try to oppose me. I will not stand that from any man, least of all my ingrate oaf of a son, and I do not think that you would prove much of a challenge. After all I have done for you, I expect humility and gratitude, not whining and braggadocio.

  You will work to become Dominie in order to gratify me, to show me that all my work on your behalf has not been for nothing. You will accept Afelnor's grandson into the House because it amuses me, and because it may eventually advance this goal. If you do not see the truth in my words, I have more than enough power to make you see. Is that clear?

  Thorn gulped; what his mother had said was all too true. She could snap his will like a dry twig underfoot, and she would do so without a second thought. Thorn knew the folly of displeasing her only too well, so he assumed a more complaisant tone.

  Yes, Mother, it is clear. I meant no disrespect. If the Afelnor boy has true power, I will accept him as a Student. However, it would be at least a decade before he could become a Questor; twenty years if he would be better suited as a Reader, and far longer if his vocation is as another kind of mage. As you must know, a Student's antecedents cannot guarantee his calling.

  In order to advance my case further with High Lodge, I need to take in far more Students, because I need more mages; I am working on that. The quickest solution would be to take on more charity Students, so that I may put a few more Neophytes through the Questor Ordeal. Even that is uncertain and time consuming.

  You are soft, Thorn, spat b
ack Lizaveta. All those years spent sitting in comfortable armchairs and drinking yourself stupid have dulled your resolve. If your recalcitrant Neophytes do not respond well to this Ordeal you speak of, it is because it is not sufficiently rigorous. A more severe lesson is a shorter lesson, is it not?

  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.