"I'm sorry, Dalquist," he whispered as he stomped off to his room. He could not wait to leave for High Lodge, and to be on his next Quest. For good or ill, that was his life now.
****
Lord Thorn lifted his hands from his crystal and helped himself to another brimming goblet of brandy, shivering as the liquor's warming, soothing flames licked through his body, easing the pains that racked his head.
"I've been sitting behind this bloody desk for too long," he muttered. Nonetheless, he felt pleased that he had managed to cast a spell of Compulsion as powerful as any Seventh Level Mentalist could cast on a young, powerful Questor, without the least word or gesture. It had taken considerable effort to keep his expression neutral while casting, but he had remembered the advice given to him by his long-dead tutor: "It is hard to change a man's mind, Adept Thorn. The least change is the best change. A small push in the right direction is all that is needed in most cases, and then he will be yours."
To hell with High Lodge! he thought, gulping down another draught of the potent brew. A true Afelnor, who owed all loyalty and fealty to you, would be a potent weapon indeed. That was what Lizaveta had told him on the day that the boy had first appeared before him.
You were so right, Mother, he thought. Now you're going to find out just how right you were. Your problem is that he is mine, rather than what you really meant: ours. And this potent weapon is now pointed right at you.
Through his magical link with Afelnor, the Prelate had seen all that had passed between the two Questors in the Library, and, although pleased beyond measure with the boy's response, the arguments of his older friend gave Thorn some concern.
Questor Dalquist, I find your attitude unsatisfactory. I can be a good friend, but you'd better think twice before making an enemy of me. I could easily send you on a Quest from which you'd never come back.
It could wait. Dalquist was a useful mage, and Thorn did not truly want to waste him. Nonetheless, he would keep an eye on this potential renegade. The question of Dalquist's loyalty was only of secondary importance to the destruction of his hated mother.
Questor Grimm would be leaving for High Lodge on the morrow, and the Prelate expected positive developments in this regard.
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Chapter 8: Control
"It's a pleasant morning, don't you think, Grimm?" Numal said.
Grimm knew the Necromancer was just trying to make polite conversation as the Questor drove the small cart down the mountain path from Arnor House, but he had to force himself to reply in a fair facsimile of a cheerful voice.
"Yes, indeed, Numal. It's good to be out."
In truth, Grimm felt seedy and ill-tempered. He was beginning to worry that the herbs, Trina and Virion, to which, inadvertently, he had once been addicted, might once more be exerting their insidious influence on him. Since the herbs had relinquished their tyrannical hold on him, it had been his habit to carry a pouch of the potent substances with him at all times, to remind him of the thrall in which they had once held him. He had left the pouch behind at General Quelgrum's desert lair, and he began to regret that he had never replenished them.
No! All that is behind you, Grimm. You're never going to touch those damned herbs again, ever!
Nonetheless, despite his id-voice's urgent chiding, he found it hard to think about anything else.
"Aren't we getting a little close to the edge, Brother Mage?"
Grimm snapped out of his reverie as he saw the cart's wheels spinning mere inches away from the edge of the track, and oblivion. He vowed to keep his mind on the job in hand, and not to stray into absent-minded introspection.
"Sorry, Numal, my mind was wandering," he said, guiding the blinkered horses back into the centreline of the road. "I spent a sleepless night, I'm afraid."
"Yes, I thought you seemed a little dull at breakfast. Excited about the prospect of gaining the Sixth Rank?"
"Yes, that must be it," Grimm lied. That's another bad habit you're getting into, Afelnor, chided his inner voice, which he tried to banish to the back of his mind.
"I hear you're reckoned a fair singer, Grimm," the devotee of the dark arts called. "How about a little sing-song to brighten the trip?"
"No, I don't really think so, Numal. Not right now, anyway. I need to keep my mind on driving the cart. We don't want another scare like we had back there."
Grimm just wanted peace and quiet, although he resigned himself to the odd snippet of conversation lest he appear odd or ill. Nonetheless, the normally garrulous Necromancer managed to hold his tongue until the pair reached the foot of the mountain.
Once the trail widened and the gradient reduced to a gentle slope, however, the older mage began to speak again, and it cost Grimm a deal of self-control not to tell him to shut up.
"Er… Questor Grimm?"
"Yes, Necromancer Numal, what is it?" Although he was determined to be polite, Grimm's response was brusquer than he had intended.
He noted that the Necromancer's voice was hesitant and nervous, and it was all he could do not to snap "Spit it out, man!" With great effort he managed a more civil reply.
"I'm sorry, Numal. What's up? Is something on your mind?"
Numal twisted his hands together, and his voice firmed. "Grimm, I can't help but notice how ill at ease you are in my company since yesterday. I can only imagine you were felt offended when I implied you might be-you know-fond of men. If that's the reason, I'm truly sorry."
Grimm brought the two speckled carthorses to a halt, and turned to face the older man. At the rate he was going, he would have no friends at all if he did not gain control of his unaccustomed spell of ill-humour.
"Listen, Numal, it's I who should be sorry. I was a little taken aback at what you asked me, but that's nothing to do with my being in a bad mood, I assure you. The last couple of days, my emotions seem to have been all over the place, and I don't know why. Just as a matter of interest, though, why did you think I might be inclined that way? I assure you I'm not. Don't worry, although the Guild spits fire at any hint of carnal awakenings in its mages, I won't take offence, I promise. I just want to clear the air, if I can."
Numal cleared his throat. "Well, I think I started to wonder when I saw you talking with Magemaster Crohn at my Acclamation feast. Your eyes seemed almost misty when you talked to him. And then, the next day, you just seemed very friendly towards me. I think it's just that you Questors can be so intense at times."
Grimm flicked the reins, and the cart began to rumble onwards once more. Had he really been misty-eyed when talking to Crohn? He knew he had felt almost overjoyed after leaving Lord Thorn's chamber, and he had felt happy to meet his former tutor again. Yes, his reaction had been intense, although he had no idea why.
Then he had leapt into his new, unofficial Quest with almost frenetic zeal, despite knowing that such a secret undertaking would garner him neither acclaim nor official recognition. Grimm just felt so honoured that Lord Thorn trusted him to carry out the deed alone. When he encountered Crohn in the dining gallery, he had been filled with the warmth of deep gratitude at the very sight of the man who had made him what he was: a Mage Questor.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Numal's quizzical gaze as he mulled over his recent behaviour. Nonetheless, he was in no mood to answer until he was ready. He had chewed Numal out, considering that the man had belittled and demeaned his calling. Then he had turned his back on his best friend, after Dalquist's suggestion that Lord Thorn might be responsible for an uncaring and callous disregard for his Neophytes. Perhaps he was…
No! The thought-word slammed through his head like a crossbow bolt, and Grimm stifled the thought at birth. He was just becoming older and wiser, and finding a new and just respect for his superiors.
If only my Names-cursed head didn't ache so much!
"Let's just forget the whole thing, shall we, Numal?" Grimm said. "It was just a silly misunderstanding, after all. I've had a bad headache for a while now, and I
just can't seem to shift it. That's all there is."
Grimm forced a smile onto his face, although it felt as if it hung there like a lead weight.
A relieved sigh from Numal told him that the matter was all but forgotten, and the pain in his skull seemed to lift a little. Nothing mattered but his Quest. Somehow, Grimm knew, his incessant, cursed introspection was causing the pain, and it appeared that all he needed to do to alleviate the dull, dismal ache was to keep his mind occupied.
At last, he noticed the beauty of the morning: the lovely play of light and shade across the forest, the dappled patterns of green and brown across the land, the deep blue of the celestial vault, and the invigorating warmth of the golden, rising sun.
"Numal, I think your suggestion of a little sing-song would be just the thing to celebrate this gorgeous day. Do you know The Fair Maiden of Sambata?"
"I think I remember that ditty," the older mage replied. "You take the main line, and I'll take the counterpoint."
The rest of the morning seemed to fly by as the two mages sang and joked together.
****
As the sun passed its zenith, High Lodge hove into view and, for once, Numal was silent as the fantastic, golden edifice revealed itself.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Grimm felt like an old hand now. It might be only his second visit to the Lodge, but he spoke as a man of the world sharing familiar wonders with a callow ingenue.
Numal gaped as the bizarre, fabulous structure began to reveal itself: the bulbous cupola with its lace-like metal spider's web, the sky-probing turrets; the lambent sheen of the stonework.
"Impressive?" Numal yelped. "It's incomparable!"
As the cart bore down towards the wide, empty plain on which High Lodge sat like some misshapen, golden mushroom, the radial tracery of roads leading to the Lodge became apparent, delicate black lines on pale-green baize. Now, the sheer scale of the immense structure began to assert itself, and Numal whistled in appreciation.
"It's utterly magnificent! I had no idea…"
Numal's voice was like that of a small child visiting a vast bazaar, filled with enticements and wonders beyond his imagining, and Grimm smiled.
"I defy anybody to see this and remain unmoved, Numal. I was just as stunned as you on my first visit, I promise you."
As the cart approached the main gate, reserved for visiting mages, Grimm leaned towards his companion. "It'll be the stiffest Mage Speech you've ever used from now on, I'm afraid. They're pretty starchy here, even compared to Arnor, but you'll soon get used to it."
All Numal could manage was a nod, his lower jaw slack and unresponsive.
Grimm brought the cart to a halt in front of the two halberd-wielding guards who oversaw the gate, their weapons barring access. "What business have you here?" a third man cried, stepping forward. He wore leather armour embellished by a burnished, silver escutcheon on his left breast, which, Grimm guessed, was some badge of rank, but this signified nothing. In this establishment, mages ruled supreme.
"Questor Grimm and Necromancer Numal from Arnor House seek admission," Grimm called, showing the blue-gold ring adorning his left ring finger. He nudged Numal with his elbow, and the Necromancer followed suit.
"Thank you, Sirs, that's quite in order," the officer said, and Grimm felt pleased that the soldier's manner held no hint of servility. "If you'd be so good as to leave your cart here, I'll have someone take care of it, and I'll make sure your bags are taken to your rooms."
As the two mages stepped from the conveyance, the officer clapped his hands, and the two guards swung their halberds into a vertical position.
The gate was, of course, shut, but Grimm waved his left hand at the portal and it opened, just like the main door of Arnor House.
The main concourse of the Lodge was as bustling and noisy as Grimm remembered it from his previous visit, and he saw the tall, imposing form of the Senior Doorkeeper standing just inside the doorway. The Doorkeeper's black staff, resplendent with seven gleaming gold rings, hovered obediently at his side.
"Greetings, Brother Mages," the urbane mage intoned in a rich, deep voice.
"Greetings, Senior Doorkeeper," the Questor replied.
"Ah, Questor Grimm, it is good to see you here once more," the urbane, dark-skinned mage rumbled, and Grimm marvelled anew at the man's prodigious powers of memory, even if the ritual greeting held little warmth.
"Senior Doorkeeper, may I present Necromancer Numal, only recently Acclaimed? Numal, this is the Senior Doorkeeper of High Lodge…
"Numal!" Grimm jabbed an impartial elbow into the Necromancer's side.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Senior Doorkeeper." Numal turned his wide eyes from the milling crowd of mages and Secular petitioners filling the enormous lobby.
"Remember, Mage Speech only," Grimm whispered, noting Numal's inadvertent contraction and the Senior Doorkeeper's disapproving gaze at this breach of Lodge protocol.
Numal drew himself to his full height and cleared his throat. "My apologies, Brother Mage," he said, with the full punctilio expected of a thaumaturge. "I found myself distracted by the magnificence of this splendid establishment."
"Understandable," the elegant major-domo said, nodding. "Welcome, Necromancer Numal, to High Lodge. Your baggage is being conveyed to your rooms: four-thirty-five and four-thirty-seven in the Accommodation Block. Would you be so kind as to accompany me?"
****
Grimm knew the Lodge was like a rabbit-warren, all but impenetrable in its intricacy, except to its incumbents.
"Senior Doorkeeper," he said in a polite voice. "Our long journey has given me a considerable thirst, and I would relish the chance to slake this before we settle in. Would you be so kind as to furnish us with Location Stones, so that we may find our way without imposing on your valuable time?"
The dark man's eyes widened, as if Grimm's request might constitute some heinous breach of protocol, but he nodded.
"Very well, Questor Grimm. Your request is irregular, but not unreasonable." He fished in a commodious pocket, and drew out a pair of green gems. "I will trust you to return these baubles before you leave High Lodge. They are not to leave here with you. Is that well understood?"
Grimm bowed his head. "Brother Mage, I swear as a representative of Arnor House that your trust will not be misplaced."
He took the gems, passing one to his bewildered and uncomprehending companion. "Thank you, Senior Doorkeeper."
He felt tempted to add "That is all, my man," but stopped himself. He might find the mage's prissy ways irksome, but it would be folly to antagonise him; he was only fulfilling his role to the best of his abilities.
"Oh, I have just one more thing to ask," he said, remembering his mission. "Are the Sisters of Divine Serenity still domiciled here?"
Senior Doorkeeper nodded. "Yes, Questor Grimm. Many Seculars here are in need of spiritual enlightenment, and the Sisters fulfil that need admirably, although they accept no male devotees. May I ask, therefore, what interest a Fifth Rank Mage Questor might have in an exclusively female religious Order?"
"My interest is purely academic, I assure you, Doorkeeper. It is, after all, incumbent upon a Guild Mage to be aware of the tenets of alternative creeds, so that he may avoid unfortunate breaches of protocol in social situations." This might be the simple answer, the rote answer, but the Questor felt surprised and not a little disgusted at how easily the falsehood rose to his tongue.
His expression unreadable, the imperturbable Senior Doorkeeper flowed away, back into the anonymous crowd.
Grimm felt the ache in his head begin to grow again, and he grabbed Numal by the shoulder. "Do you fancy a drink or two, Numal? It's been a long morning."
The Necromancer seemed fascinated by the ebb and flow of humanity within the hall, but he nodded, tearing his eyes from the mortal tide. "All right, Grimm. Yes, I suppose a drink might be nice."
The young Questor felt as if he were trapped within some crazy dream, a ball being batted back and forth in some cosmic gam
e. It was as if he were already drunk, before he had sampled even a drop of alcohol. Something seemed to push him onwards.
Action, not idleness! the insistent inner voice screamed.
Was he going mad? He had to do something to still the raving beast in his head. Vortices seemed to swirl and careen within his skull, but he no longer cared. The head-voice screamed at him, urging him not to rest. Grimm knew he must stay awake, although sleep seemed to offer such a sweet consummation.
"I know just the place," he said at last, winking. "Come with me."
As the two mages walked across the crowded hall, a small sound, like the mewling of a wounded cat, emerged from Grimm's throat, but it was swallowed by the clamour of the swarming multitude.
****
Lord Thorn groaned as hot shafts of pain stabbed his brain, and his trembling hands hovered over the green crystal, barely touching it. He could hear Questor Grimm's words through his spell-link with the youth, but only with great effort.
Half a bottle of brandy had failed to allay the incessant, agonising stabs that now plagued him, and he knew his spell of Compulsion had not gone as well as he had thought. Somehow, the Afelnor boy seemed to be fighting the spell. Something had to give, and Thorn felt determined it was not going to be him.
Once more, the liquor made its burning trail down the Prelate's throat, but he resolved that he would take no more.
Names curse it, this boy is strong. But I'll be damned if he's as potent as a Seventh Level Questor of forty years' seniority!
Reaching into reserves he had not touched for decades, Thorn reasserted his authority and reinforced his spell, despite the silver lances of pain that now speared into his eyes. After a few moments, he felt the resistance, the self-examination cease, and he began again to hear through the youth's ears: "Do you fancy a drink or two, Numal? It's been a long morning."
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