A Mage in the Making
Page 24
Thorn smiled. Crohn was correct; eight charity Students, each one a potential Questor, and thirty-five fat fees from doting parents seeking the best education for their darling, pampered progeny. Arnor House was becoming fashionable once more. Thorn thought of seeking the advice of his mother, Lizaveta, but he dismissed the idea. He was Prelate of Arnor House and a Seventh Level Questor, and he would make his own decisions.
"Thank you, Senior Magemaster Crohn,” he said, glancing again at his encouraging account sheets. “Please return to your duties. A busy year lies ahead of you in the Scholasticate."
* * * *
Doorkeeper reined in the horses. “Here we are: Lower Frunstock, Grimm. I will meet you at this crossroad in four hours. Enjoy yourself."
Grimm stepped from the cart on which he had been riding for three hours and stretched luxuriantly. Waving a friendly goodbye to Doorkeeper, he took stock of his surroundings. A single street led into the small village where he had been born, but a myriad of paths and lanes ran from it. The village green, where maypoles and swings were erected during the summer pageant; that much he remembered. Granfer's smithy is the third turning on the left ... or is it the second turning on the right? he wondered.
With a firm step, Grimm selected the former option and began to take his bearings. The village was so much smaller than he had remembered it! He recognised the shop of Huret, the baker, no different than he recalled, with its ever-faded sign and dusty windows. He ran through distant, dim memories of playing hopscotch with other boys in the baker's flagstone yard in his carefree youth. Squeezing nascent tears into oblivion, he strode into the village.
He saw people busying themselves with their daily trades, most of them responding with respectful bows to the sight of a tall, cowled figure with a mage's distinctive, brass-shod staff.
Margen's Grocery now seemed to be a chandler's establishment, and the Black Boar Inn Grimm had known in his childhood had been renamed the Bold Archer; nonetheless, the village was much the same as Grimm had remembered it. He heard hammering, the crisp sound of steel on steel, and he stepped into a narrow alleyway.
The tears would not be stemmed; it took a mighty effort of will to regain a Questor's composure. ‘Power and presence, power and presence!’ he chided himself, brushing the moisture from his eyes.
The smithy was there; smoke pouring from the chimney, the old, tiled roof with the dip in the middle that he remembered. Chickens pecked and cackled in the yard. He was finally home.
What could he say? How should he introduce himself? These questions were made moot by the exhortations of a gruff voice that stirred his sleeping memories:
"Is that you, Joran? If you have neglected to bring that damned bar stock again, there will be trouble between us—oh, please accept my apologies, Lord Mage. We see so few of your kind here, these days.” A broad-shouldered, grey-haired bear of a man stood, bowed, before Grimm Afelnor.
"Granfer Loras, it's me, Grimm! I'm home!” Grimm's voice was as hoarse as it had been when it had broken.
The old man started upright, evidently stunned. “Grimm! It's you? By the Blessed Names, let me hold you!"
Grimm fought to regain his composure, but, at last, he surrendered to his emotions.
"Granfer, Granfer, it's so good to see you!” he cried, running to Loras. The burly smith was a good three inches shorter than his grandson, but he grasped Grimm in arms as strong as the iron stock he needed, and he lifted the Questor clean off the ground.
"It is you; it is!” Loras crowed. He looked around himself and, his tone conspiratorial, he whispered, “A Questor, then? So the blood ran true within you!"
He held Grimm at arms’ length, almost as if suspecting that his grandson had absconded from the House. He seized Grimm's left hand to see the Guild ring, held it and kissed the ring. “That is my old ring, is it not, Grimm?” he breathed.
"It's yours, Granfer,” Grimm confirmed. “Mine now. Don't worry; I'll see that no harm comes to it.” His voice was husky and emotional.
With tears in his eyes, Loras turned his strong, Questor gaze on his grandson. “Have the Magemasters forsaken Mage Speech these days?” he chided. “Power and presence, boy, do you not know that?"
Loras seemed almost to be pleading, and Grimm realised that all his grandfather's hopes for the future were vested in him: the last of the line; the last bearer of his name.
"You are a Guild man, first and last, Grimm. Always remember that!” Loras was a Questor of the old school, fierce and proud, but the tremor in his voice could not be denied.
"I am a Guild man, Granfer,” said the new Questor, his tone stern and sincere, “I will never forget that. I have sworn it.
"Come now, I don't want another Ordeal, least of all at your hands."
He matched Loras’ Questor gaze with his own. “I only have four hours, and then I must go back to the House. Don't lecture me, please. I've been through an awful lot."
"My apologies, boy.” Loras sighed, wiping a grimy hand over his sweating forehead. “I am babbling; I just feel so proud of you that part of me fears it is some fantasy. Come now, I must present you to your grandmother. She will be so pleased to see you."
Grimm had to duck as he passed into the smithy, which smelt warm, smoky and friendly.
"Loras? You haven't gone and let that Joran bilk you again, have you, you old fool?” came a cry from the kitchen. Drima rushed out with her hands on her hips. “If you've—” At the sight of Grimm, she stopped short. “Grimm? It is you! I didn't think they let you boys out. They have let you out, haven't they?"
"Gramma.” Grimm felt his emotions surge anew. “I'm a mage, a Mage Questor. I'm not a Student any more.” Grimm held up his left hand, and Drima saw the ring. “I'm a Guild man now,” he said, looking firmly at Loras, “but I will always be an Afelnor."
* * * *
Over a hastily assembled lunch of bread, cheese and wild leeks, Grimm told his grandparents an edited version of his Ordeal. He reasoned that Loras would know the whole truth of the matter and that Drima did not need to know the depths of despair to which he had sunk during those dark days and months.
He told them of Madar and Argand, Kargan and Crohn, Dalquist and the Library. Loras in particular seemed to soak up every last item of news, and Drima looked at her husband with misty eyes. At a break in the conversation, she said in a soft voice, “It's your ring, isn't it, Loras?"
Loras purpled, blanched, worked his mouth, but all that came out was a strangled “What?"
"I know, my love,” she said, her eyes brimming over. “I know. I never mentioned it during the years Grimm was away as a Student, but I must say it now. Loras, rejoice that there's finally another Afelnor to resurrect the name on the Guild rolls; I know you have a burning need to know that. Remember, Grimm, you promised me you would make the name of Afelnor a name of which the House can be proud."
"I know, Gramma,” Grimm said, feeling more like a five-year-old child than a Guild Questor. “I've never forgotten it, and I never will. Granfer, I know the truth, and I want you to know I am proud to think that I am carrying on in your name. I will never do anything to make you or Lord Thorn ashamed of me, no matter what."
Grimm felt uncomfortable to see his powerful grandfather break down in hot tears. Loras’ shoulders shook as Drima held him like a baby.
"It's all right, my love,” she crooned, as if addressing a newborn baby. “I won't tell anybody else. Your secret's safe with us, isn't it, Grimm?"
Grimm nodded, incapable of speech, and he waited while Loras dried his eyes. On sudden impulse, he held out Redeemer to his grandfather, his eyes questioning. For a few heartbeats, Loras hesitated, but then he stood and grasped the magical weapon.
For the first time in forty years, Loras Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, held a Mage Staff in his hands, marvelling at the cool tingle of magic that the ensorcelled wood sent through his arm, accepting and welcoming it. He held the tableau for some time, and then handed the staff back.
"Redeemer, Granfer,” said Grimm, smiling. “I named it that for you; for all of us."
"It is a good name.” Loras’ voice was gruff but wistful. “Thank you, Grimm. Thank you, Redeemer. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And thank you, my love, for putting up with the odd whims of an old fool."
"Let me look at you, my two Questors,” said Drima, paying no heed to the tears running down her cheeks. “I'm proud of you both, and I always will be."
* * * *
Grimm and Loras stood at the crossroads, waiting for Doorkeeper's return.
"I may not have much time to see you in the near future, Granfer,” Grimm said. “Dalquist, Xylox and I are the only active House Questors at this time. I'm going to be needed."
"I understand, boy. I would have it no other way. Just see us and write when you can. I know only too well that the life of a Questor is uncertain at the best of times. All in all, I'm not sure whether I prefer the life of a blacksmith or not."
At that moment, the cart hove into view. Pulling up, Doorkeeper stared at Loras, his mouth open but unspeaking.
"Hello, Doorkeeper,” Loras said. “It is good to see you again."
Still, the major-domo said nothing, his eyes wide. Grimm was put in mind of a small child who had been caught with his hand in a jar of honey.
"I understand if you cannot talk to me,” the smith continued. “I imagine I am not too well thought of in Arnor."
"Questor Loras ... I mean, Loras,” Doorkeeper croaked, finding his voice at last. “You look well.” Doorkeeper's tone was guarded and uncertain. “I ... I shouldn't really be talking ... that is..."
"It's all right, Lord Mage,” Loras said. Doorkeeper blinked, and Grimm wondered if anyone had ever called him that before.
"Be so good as to take care of this Guild Questor, and take him back home.” Loras’ voice was thick, but steady. “Take care of yourself, too."
Grimm took his grandfather's hands in a firm grasp. “I'm going now, Granfer. I'm going back ... home."
"Take care, Questor Grimm."
"And you, Questor Loras."
Grimm looked back at his grandfather until he was out of sight. Then he looked forward; forward to life as a Mage Questor, a true weapon of the Guild and redeemer of his family name. The sun glared, red and baleful on the horizon, marking the end of one day and the beginning of another.
As the wagon rolled back towards Arnor House, Grimm whispered, “I won't let you down, Granfer. The name of Afelnor will shine again; I swear it."
About The Author
Alastair Archibald began to write The Chronicles of Grimm Dragonblaster fifteen years ago in a series of French hotel bars while travelling abroad on business.
In 2004, he submitted the completed first book, A Mage in the Making, to www.fanstory.com, and it was well received, as were its sequels.
At the end of 2004, Alastair became the Fanstory Author of the Year.
Alastair lives in south-east England. When not writing, he is a keen guitarist, singer and pool player.
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