Argand spoke next; even his beefy face looked pale and worried. “Magemaster Crohn told us all about your Ordeal, Grimm,” he said. “It was a filthy thing but I'm glad you're over it. He says you're to be a Questor, the first for ten years. Who would have thought it, Mage Questor! Can you tell us anything about it now?"
Grimm nodded. “I think I'm free now of the Compulsion that was placed on me,” he said. “It seems I burnt it out in what Crohn calls my ‘Outbreak'. You are both Neophytes now, so you probably know a few spells, although I'd sooner not say much about that at the moment—it's got some bad associations. But do you remember how we were taught that Questors make their own magic?"
Madar and Argand nodded.
"It seems I have my own, personal, mage-language that nobody else shares, so I don't need scrolls or rote-learning of spells. I can still Read as well as any conventional mage, but, apparently, if I can visualise a spell, I can cast it. I have no idea yet of how it works."
"Apart from the fact that it's obviously not a good idea to cross you when you're in a bad mood!” Argand was freely smiling now. “Evidently I taught you well in that regard!"
Grimm shrugged. “I did it, but I really don't know how; I can scarcely believe it myself. I cast those spells when I was burning with anger. Now, I have to go back to school to learn how to call it up when I'm calm. Let me tell you, it really took it out of me."
"Will you be free to associate with us again when you're in training?” asked Madar.
Grimm nodded. “Oh, yes, and I'll be allowed free run of the Library again; and not just the public books and scrolls. I am being told that I may not have much free time to enjoy my new liberty, though."
"Well, just remember that we're still here,” Argand said, “and we owe you a lot."
Grimm shook his head firmly. “You owe me nothing, Argand. I owe you everything. You have always been my friends, and hope you always will be. Without you two, I'd have gone under ages ago."
"We owe you more than you can guess, Grimm,” Madar said, now wearing his habitual gamin's grin. “Crohn won't be taking us any more; he'll be in sole charge of you, although he's still Senior Magemaster. I overheard him telling Kargan that the chance to raise a Questor has been the pinnacle of his life's work, and he should be able to retire gracefully, with honour and the Guild's gratitude."
Grimm smiled; he had mixed feelings about Senior Magemaster Crohn, but he recognised that Crohn had done what he had thought was right.
"I do feel for you, though,” Madar continued. “How can you bear to look at him after what he did to you?"
Grimm shrugged. “He's really not so bad when you get to know him, Madar. And he was under orders from high up to do what he did. He really didn't enjoy it."
"Ha! He surely hid that well,” Madar said, with a contemptuous toss of his head. “Oh well, I'm afraid we have to be going; we were told by the Healer not to overtax you. Got to keep your strength up for all the visitors you'll be getting, begging your forgiveness."
"Oh, I doubt that!” Grimm cried. “They were keen enough to abuse me."
"You'd be surprised,” Argand said, wagging his right index finger. “They're really not all so bad when you get to know them. And even some of the worst of them were probably under some Compulsion to do what they did, even if they didn't want to or understand why."
Grimm smiled wryly, as his defence of Crohn was tossed back to him as a defence of his other abusers.
"I think you'll find that many of them are truly ashamed of their behaviour. The rest, of course, are just terrified that you'll blast them into a thousand motes with your eldritch power. You'll soon know which is which, just check their auras. You might have fun scaring the rotten ones."
Healer Chet came in to shoo out the boys. As his friends left, Grimm thought of what Argand had said. Yes, it might be fun just to tease some of the others a little. But just a little.
* * * *
A tall figure entered, and Grimm recognised Dalquist, resplendent in sumptuous robes of bottle-green velvet.
"Adept Questor Grimm, it is so, so good to see you."
Grimm brightened at Dalquist's use of his new title. He took his friend's right hand in a firm, brotherly grip and smiled.
"I saw what happened in the Scholasticate,” Dalquist drawled, “and I pride myself that I can recognise the spoor of an angry Questor."
Grimm gulped and nodded. “I demolished it, didn't I, Dalquist?"
The Questor nodded. “Believe me, I completely understand and sympathise with what you've gone through,” he said. “When I broke out, they needed to rebuild a large part of the Refectory. That was very unpopular with the other Students! It looks like you let Crohn off pretty lightly. At least he can walk, albeit with the aid of a stick! You look pretty good, considering what you've been through."
"I feel much better than I did yesterday, Dalquist,” Grimm assured him. “I'm just looking forward to making Shumal Tolarin and his friends sweat a little; and maybe a little play-magic."
"Don't do it, Grimm,” Dalquist urged. “It's not worthy of a Questor. Believe me: sweet forgiveness will have far more effect on them. Many of them were probably under some Compulsion, or under threat of expulsion to act as they did, and had no choice in the way they acted. You won't be able to tell, even by their auras, as they will all feel guilt, even if it wasn't their fault.
"Of course, they taunted you and hurt you. But now you're a Questor, and the finest treasure in the land can't buy that. You're a fighter and a survivor; remember that nobody can belittle that, or take it away from you."
Grimm nodded slowly, not quite seeing Dalquist's point.
"Just be proud of what you are,” the Questor continued, “and of what you always were; take pity on these poor, rich simpletons. When you're fully trained, you may be able to destroy fortresses at a word of command, or to subdue demons and dragons. Rise above petty revenge as only one of true power and nobility can and you will gain respect and admiration. These Students and Neophytes will remember every slight, every trip and every punch they visited on you, and they'll relive every one ten-fold in shame. Will you promise me this?"
Grimm thought long and hard about Dalquist's words before he answered, “If you think it best, Dalquist, I shall bury my bitterness,” he said with a sigh. “But it would have been fun to watch them squirm a bit."
Dalquist shook his head decisively. “You'd have people who cowered in fear at the mention of your name. Wouldn't it be better to have others who remember that you were man enough to forgive when you deserved revenge, and to admire you for it? Their own shame will be worse than the direst torments you could ever inflict on them."
Grimm nodded. “I see the right of what you say, Dalquist, but I don't feel it. They hurt me more than you can believe."
Dalquist's face fell. “I had nobody to give me the counsel that I just gave you, Grimm. It took me a while to learn just how bitter the taste of revenge can be. It cost me some good friends, although I didn't think of them as such at the time. In the end, I hurt only myself. And I had been hurt enough by then."
Grimm gripped Dalquist's hand tighter, and he laughed as well as a sore throat would allow.
"Very well, Brother Questor,” he cried, “if I may presume to call you such. I'll be a saint for your sake. In any case, I suspect I'll need to learn a lot of patience and forbearance for what I'll have to go through in the near future."
"You will indeed, Grimm Afelnor;” Dalquist said, wagging an admonitory finger, “better start learning now. In a few days, you'll be starting on the real grind. You'll need every ounce of patience and forbearance if you're to get through that!"
* * * *
Crohn placed a fist-sized rock on the table before Grimm. The Adept dutifully chanted the Minor Magic spell of Levity in the First Class. As he had known it would, the rock wobbled a little, but it stayed on the table.
"Now, the spell was properly cast; you know that because you have had endless practice in
it. Why did the rock fail to lift?” Crohn droned, his left eyebrow quizzically raised.
"The First Class of the spell of Levity is applicable to light objects, such as twigs, with little tendency to lift,” Grimm chanted, with the effortless recall born of long study and repetition. “I know there is a special variation of the First Class of the spell for lifting heavy objects, but I do not know it. I suppose I could look it up in a grimoire."
"If you do think that, I will begin to believe that I have been training the wrong boy!” Crohn snapped. “You do not need one spell for this, one spell for that, and another for the third Wednesday in June! You are a Questor, not a Reader. Most Questors can perform simple magic like this in their heads without even a chant or gesture. It is only a small rock."
"Well, I suggest you do it, then!” Grimm snarled. He had been encouraged by Crohn to be forthright as a Mage Questor should be, and he had been roused very early that morning.
"Of course I could do it,” Crohn shot back, “but not the way you could. You need to regain command of your own spell-language."
"But I can't!” cried Grimm. “You can't even tell me how. All you can do is to tell me to do it, and I don't know how!"
"You are an Adept! Use Mage Speech, as you have been taught; how many times have you been told that?"
Grimm shrugged; he felt beyond caring.
"Move the damned rock, Afelnor,” Crohn shouted, “and we can go to breakfast; I, for one, am quite hungry! Just lift the rock. It is nothing; a small rock you can hold easily in your hand. If you can destroy a classroom, this should be child's play!"
Grimm glared at the rock as if he could scare it into motion. It sat there, taunting him with its insolent inertia.
Move, move, damn it! he thought.
The rock sat steadfastly on the table as if mocking him. Under Crohn's critical gaze, he felt annoyance rising in him.
Move, you bastard lump of stone!
His power was ranged in orderly lines, ready to be patterned into a spell. If only he knew the right pattern! His mind twisted and turned like a man trying to use a poorly made key to unlock a door.
Grimm mulled the problem.
Try not to think of the words, just concentrate on the task in hand. Dissociate. The task is all.
He was about to give up when, just like a key slipping into a lock, something clicked.
"Skeykak!" It came unbidden from his lips as a blue flash filled the room. The rock thudded into the ceiling with the force of a cannonball and shattered, showering both Grimm and Crohn with rock shards and plaster.
"Ri-ight,” Crohn said slowly. “I see that your old problem of power control has not left you. We will obviously need to work on that, but at least you understand the principle; that is good. Now we can eat. After breakfast we will review your thoughts and feelings concerning what you have just done."
Grimm sat, a little stunned, and made no comment as he stared, dumbstruck, at the new hole in the ceiling, from which a fine powder of pulverised plaster was gently falling.
"Do not worry about it, too much, Afelnor. I have been told that such destructive incidents are not uncommon during the training of Adept Questors. You were thinking in terms of how much power you needed to put into the Minor Levity spell, and you multiplied it accordingly. It does not work like that, I am afraid; you really have to feel how much power you need. Do not use Minor Magics as a prop; you must make your own spells."
Grimm nodded, still a little in awe of his new power.
"I have asked your friend, Questor Dalquist, to sit in on some of these sessions when he is available,” Crohn said. “He should be able to help you better than I can, because most Questors can cast spells that do not even have physical or Minor Magic equivalents that can be used as a reference."
Grimm brightened; the presence of his friend would make his load easier to bear.
"Often, the same spell may not even have the same chant depending on its use,” Crohn intoned, in his habitual Magemaster's bored drone, “and you do not need to learn a thousand inflections and accents as you need to do with Runic magic. It is not very complex, but it may seem more so when your stomach is empty. Let us eat now."
* * * *
Eating in the Refectory was not such a chore now as it had been, since Grimm was now allowed to sit in the comfortable end reserved for mages and paying Students, and to share their richer menu.
Crohn, always an epicure, maintained that it was necessary for a mage to keep his strength up, and that insipid food dulled the mind as well as the appetite; Grimm did not disagree with him. During his Ordeal, he had not been allowed to associate with Madar and Argand, who had once often helped him to some of their goodies; the monotony of his diet had added to his misery.
As he entered the Refectory, he received respectful, and even friendly, nods from many of the boys there, which he returned with all the grace he could manage; Dalquist's advice to exercise generosity seemed to have proved correct, as many of the boys smiled in relieved response.
Two who did not acknowledge him were Shumal, wearing a bandage around his head and sporting a broken nose and black eyes, and Ruvin, with a splint on one arm and numerous contusions on his face. Grimm considered apologising to these two boys, but he found this beyond the charity he had shown to the others. They had revelled in their bullying, and Grimm could not find it within himself to forgive them. He hoped dearly that they had learnt a severe lesson and would think twice before picking on another unfortunate.
Dalquist joined them as Grimm was wolfing down a large piece of ham. Grimm worked manfully to swallow, so he could acknowledge his friend, but Dalquist waved a hand at him, encouraging him not to rush his much-needed meal.
"Good morning, Magemaster Crohn,” Dalquist said respectfully, “how goes our new Questor?
"He finally managed his first casting since his Outbreak today,” Crohn said, between mouthfuls. He has done well."
"How much damage is there?” Dalquist asked with a knowing smile.
Crohn rolled his eyes. “There is a new hole in the chamber ceiling, and it will be a week before all this plaster and these stone splinters are gone from my robes, but the general intent was there. You Questors may be useful for Guild policy, but you are a menace to clothes and buildings, Questor Dalquist."
"But a friend to tailors and plasterers, eh, Magemaster Crohn?” Dalquist observed.
The Magemaster looked affronted, perhaps at Dalquist's use of vernacular speech, but he said nothing.
"Is it always like this, Dalquist?” Grimm asked before starting on the next slice of ham.
"It's usually a little slower and a little less violent, Grimm, but often messy. It was four months after my breakout before I managed to summon the pattern. Magemaster Urel bade me set fire to a stick for the thirtieth time in a row."
Dalquist chuckled. “He really got annoyed when I cheated and used the Minor Magic chant for Fire, and I snapped back at him. When I succeeded in forming the words, he put me off by laughing at my thought-language; it came out "Shuckle-a-guckle-luckle-duck," which he found rather amusing. As a result, I only charred the stick.
"On the next time I attempted the spell, I vaporised the stick, and it was almost instantly consumed. It cost Urel his eyebrows, and he said he would never again laugh at even a fledgling Questor.
"I was eighteen years old at the time, and I was reckoned a prodigy. You must be—what, nearly fifteen?"
Grimm nodded. “Nearly."
"I predict great things for you, Grimm Afelnor. I wouldn't be surprised if you were Acclaimed Questor next week."
"Well, let us not rush things, Questor Dalquist,” Crohn replied. “Nonetheless, I would say that Afelnor has made encouraging progress. I confidently expect to be alive when he is Acclaimed, as he surely will be. My first Magemaster had been dead for thirty years before my Staff rebounded from the Stone. I must say that it irks me a little.” His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I spent decades of earnest study in pursuit of
mastery, only to have some callow adolescent come along to eclipse me. You Questors! I hope you never try to emulate the Weatherworkers; the House could be destroyed by a flood or a tornado."
"Don't worry, Magemaster Crohn,” Dalquist drawled, making show of inspecting his immaculate fingernails. “I've never been any good at weather; I lack the touch. It's sad to say, I suppose, but most of a Questor's best spells are destructive. I could destroy a ship with a tempest, but it would require a true Weatherworker to bring a steady breeze to drive one along a channel. If a farmer asked me to summon a gentle rain to water his fields, I would likely swamp his lands.
"I can Heal well enough, but I lack the true intuition of an Acclaimed Healer; cuts, bruises and broken bones are about my limit. We Questors lack finesse in many of these skills, even though we can turn a hand to all of them.
"I've worked for five years to master the summoning of fire so I can safely light a taper one day and blast an ogre into oblivion the next, as required. Of course, unlike most Readers, I learnt the latter case first. Questors need to keep the other Specialists around for the easy, gentle spells."
Grimm had been listening to this exchange with interest. It seemed that a Questor was a man to be reckoned with! He vowed to himself to be the greatest Questor he could be in order to vindicate his vilified grandfather's hopes.
With a start, he realised that he had barely thought of Loras since his accession to the rank of Neophyte. In a panic, he wondered if the memory of his grandparents’ faces had faded from his memory and quickly called them up in his mind's eye. The faces were there but somehow blurred, although he still recalled the gentle strength and forbearance of his grandfather. How could such a man have been the foul traitor so despised by the House and by the Guild?
He cleared his throat and spoke hesitantly: “Magemaster Crohn, did you ever know my grandfather? I find it hard to believe that the man I remember could have turned traitor."
Crohn looked a little uncomfortable, but he answered. “Yes. Yes, I did know him, quite well. He was a fine Questor ... before his fall. I remain convinced that Loras’ acts were prompted by pity for the old Prelate, since I cannot imagine for a single moment that he had senseless, pitiless murder in him. But, as the sage said, ‘only by our deeds are we truly known.’”
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