The older man's left palm reddened as he increased the rate and force of tapping, and Dalquist knew Crohn was wondering just how much he could safely reveal. An unfavourable word from Crohn to Lord Thorn could make life uncomfortable for even a Seventh Rank Mage, but the Questor believed the Senior Magemaster was, at heart, a just and decent man. Crohn might have put Grimm through hell, but Dalquist no longer believed the old magic-user was an unthinking sadist.
To Perdition with it! Let's see just what it takes to persuade Crohn to talk.
In fact, a pair of words sufficed: “Erek Garan."
Crohn's eyes widened, and the tapping stopped. “Just what do you know about Neophyte Erek, Questor Dalquist?” His voice was just a shadow of the stern, commanding tone he must have intended, and his face looked haunted.
"Senior Magemaster Crohn,” Dalquist said. “I suspect I understand why this subject disturbs you. Would you care to sit down, and may we forget Mage Speech for a while? It tends to cramp my mind."
Crohn looked around him, as if he guessed some unseen spy were watching and listening from the shadows but, with an anguished look on his face, he nodded and slumped into his seat. Dalquist dragged a chair over to the desk and sat opposite him.
The old tutor swept a trembling hand through his mass of white hair. “It has been preying on my mind,”
he confessed, as if a great load had been lifted from him. “It would be good to discuss my fears with someone else."
Dalquist leaned closer to Crohn, his tone soft and conspiratorial. “I believe Erek Garan was totally unsuitable as Questor material and that, in times past, he would never even have been considered for the Ordeal. Magemaster Crohn, I think there's something sick in the heart of this House."
There: it was out now, and there was no going back. To Dalquist's immense relief, the Senior Magemaster just nodded in dumb acquiescence.
Is the old man just a good actor?
The younger man felt tempted, more than ever, to scan the tutor's aura, but he restrained himself. He would play it by the book, even if other, more senior, authorities did not feel quite so constrained.
"Of course, I acknowledge the value of Questors to the Guild, and I owe my life to this place, Magemaster Crohn. I don't want to destroy Arnor House, still less the Guild. I'm no renegade or a traitor, I assure you. I want only justice here, Senior Magemaster; justice denied to that poor, artistic boy, Erek."
Crohn said nothing, as if he expected Dalquist to commit himself further before opening up any more than he already had.
The Questor's voice hardened, strengthened, without becoming any louder. “Grimm Afelnor told me about his own Ordeal, Crohn. What I went through was bad enough, but he endured a living nightmare no human being should be allowed to visit upon another.
"The Ordeal's changed, Senior Magemaster. From what I know happened to Erek, which is sketchy enough, and from the details of Grimm's seven months of torment, I believe that Lord Thorn no longer cares how many paupers are put through the Ordeal, as long as they're powerful enough, and I don't think he cares if they live, die or go insane. He's gambling with their lives and their minds, and I have good reason to believe he's casting a Compulsion on Grimm, right now.
"I think Thorn wants Grimm as his own, personal, human weapon, and that he's trying to mould his mind to this end."
Crohn looked shocked. “Do you realise what you're saying, Questor Dalquist? I allow that a mistake was made with young Erek, and I mourn his untimely passing. However, I have no reason to suspect foul play."
"Would you have selected Erek Garan to be a Neophyte Questor if the decision had been yours, Magemaster Crohn?"
After a long pause, the Magemaster shook his head, although he said nothing.
"You knew Senior Magemaster Urel for far longer than I did. Do you think that in flagrant disregard of Lord Thorn, he chose to drive such a boy into a state of terminal insanity?” Dalquist knew he was browbeating the old man, but he no longer cared.
Another shake of the head.
"Was it your own idea to push Grimm Afelnor so hard that he would either break out with catastrophic force or lose his mind?"
"Never, Questor Dalquist: on many occasions, I raised my objections to Lord Thorn, but he just reviled me as a coward, and threatened to replace me with a sterner Magemaster. I knew I was pushing the boy too hard, but I believed my Prelate when he said it was for the good of the Guild. No ... I wanted to believe it. I was weak."
The old man squeezed his eyes shut, but Dalquist could not help but notice the lines of pain on his face, or the single tear that rolled down the side of his nose.
"It's all right, Crohn,” he said, taking pity on the troubled man, extending his hand across the desk. Crohn took it in a firm grasp.
"I'm sorry, Dalquist,” he whispered, bowing his head.
"Magemaster Crohn, I believe our Prelate is exerting his influence on a young, loyal Mage Questor, in order to use him as his own tool. To what ends, I cannot guess, but I suspect that Grimm's well-being is not among them."
Crohn recovered his composure and sat up straight, looking Dalquist in the eye.
"I agree that, if true, this situation should not continue, Questor Dalquist. What would you suggest?"
Dalquist felt almost amused: here was the august Senior Magemaster, seeking advice from a man many years his junior.
"I'll confront Lord Thorn with my suspicions on this Compulsion spell, Crohn. If any man can face down a Questor, it's another Questor. With regard to the lax selection of Neophytes for the Ordeal, I'd appreciate your backup. Would you come with me?"
Crohn stood up, his face clear, firm and concerted. “I will, Questor Dalquist. Shall we go to Lord Thorn's chamber now?"
"There's no time like the present,” Dalquist said. “Let's go."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 10: “I Haven't Been Quite Myself"
"No thank you, Questor Grimm. I think I've had enough. If I may say so, I think you have, too."
Grimm laughed. He felt in excellent humour, here in the spiritual home of the whole Guild. “Nonsense, Necromancer Numal. I'm fit as a fiddle. Go on, have another."
Numal looked edgy. “If it's all the same to you, Questor Grimm, I think I'll take an early night."
The young mage shrugged, as if his companion might be making a big mistake. “Oh, well, that's your loss, Numal. Just take the location gem in hand and tell it where you want to go. I'll see you tomorrow. As far as I'm concerned, the night's young, and I want to enjoy it. To cap a wonderful evening, I'll be seeing the Lord Dominie tomorrow. That's a pretty big honour, you know, almost like seeing Lord Thorn.” His mouth seemed to caress the name.
"Isn't it rather the other way around, Grimm? Lord Horin's more important than Lord Thorn."
"Not to me, and nor should he be to you,” the Questor snapped, taking another draught of wine. “Sure, Horin's a big wheel in the Guild. But Lord Thorn's like our father; he's the man who made us what we are. I do think you could show a little more gratitude, Numal! He's..."
Grimm blinked. He regarded the glass in his hand with sudden distaste, and put it down. “I'm sorry, Numal, what was I saying?"
He shook his head, confused. What had he been saying? The drink must be affecting him more than he thought.
"You were saying that Lord Thorn's like our father,” shot back the Necromancer's acidic response. “It seems like Lord Horin's pretty important, too, though not as much as Thorn."
"Did I really say that?"
"In as many words, yes."
Grimm realised it was not the drink causing his confusion; rather, his head had cleared after a long period of disorientation.
"Why, I'm sorry, Numal, I don't know what I was saying. As a matter of fact,” he admitted, “I haven't been quite myself for the last day or so."
Grimm wondered if his last Quest was taking a belated toll on him, but he dismissed the idea. Perhaps he was just overwrought at being parted from Drexelica
. Yes, that must be it.
Deciding that amends must be made, he said, “I've made a bit of a fool of myself, haven't I?"
Numal shrugged. “I don't know. Have you?” His tone was offhand and not a little annoyed. “You ask someone to come with you out of friendship, and then rail at him because he didn't enjoy his time in the Scholasticate. Then, you insist that he have a convivial drink and tear his head off because he tries to put you straight on a matter concerning the hierarchy of the Guild. If that makes you a bit of a fool, then, yes, you have been one. Then again, I don't know you all that well. Perhaps you normally treat your friends like this."
Numal crossed his arms and turned half away from the Questor.
"But I don't, Numal,” Grimm said. “I swear on my Guild Ring and my Mage Staff that I don't. Look, I know I've been an ass, and I know I've said a lot to offend you..."
"You can say that again.” The older mage did not turn to face him.
"Numal, I'm sorry, truly sorry, for treating you like some wayward, recalcitrant dunce. I know that doesn't wipe out a word of what I've said, but I just want you to be aware that I've been acting out of character. Perhaps I'm sickening for something. Perhaps I've been ... I don't know, homesick for Crar, perhaps. Perhaps the strain of my last Quest has finally caught up with me: I don't know. Will you forgive me?"
"Oh, the mighty Sixth Rank Questor beseeches forgiveness from the lowly First Rank Necromancer, does he?” Numal sneered, over his left shoulder. “Well, I can't refuse that, can I? Just do me a favour, will you, Lord Mage? Just let me know when you think you're about to get up on that pedestal again, so I can take cover before you start throwing stones at me."
Grimm drew a deep sigh. What was the matter with him? Why, it was as if he had been labouring under
... under some kind of spell.
Yes, that was it! A Geas or a Compulsion of some sort was the only sensible explanation: a Geas to make him revere High Lodge and Lord Prelate Thorn to the exclusion of all else, but to worship Lord Thorn above all. Thorn had been tampering with his mind!
Grimm thumped his fist on the table, his clenched teeth bared.
"Well, that little resolution didn't last long, did it?” Numal sneered. “Good night, Questor Grimm. I'll arrange my own transport back to Arnor, thank you very much."
The Necromancer lunged to his feet and strode off, his staff following him like an obedient puppy.
"No, please wait, Numal! That wasn't..."
The older mage did not even favour Grimm with a backwards glance as he left the bar, and several patrons of the establishment cast cool, amused glances at the young Questor, who felt his face redden in response. He turned his baleful, Questor glare on the onlookers, who were for the most part Seculars, and they returned to their own business, with an alacrity that Grimm noted with some pleasure.
Think, Afelnor! Why would Lord Thorn need to do this to me? He has my full loyalty, and he should know it by now.
Of course, there was still that nagging suspicion that Thorn knew more about Grimm's grandfather Loras’
disgrace than he had said. But was the Prelate perhaps just concealing details of the Prelate's best friend's actions because they were just too painful for him to relate? Yes, Thorn had profited from Loras’
downfall, by being elected Prelate in his place, but it must be admitted that he did not seem to enjoy the lofty position to which he had ascended. In addition to this, Lord Thorn knew, could know, nothing about Grimm's doubts. Why, Thorn himself had recommended Grimm's promotion to the Sixth Rank, even over the recommendations of ... yes, of Questor Xylox!
"Why, you slimy, conniving, self-obsessed worm,” Grimm muttered, taking up his glass, and draining it.
Of course, it would be just like Xylox, who had chided him, harangued him and excoriated him for his perceived lack of respect throughout their recent Quest, to take revenge on his junior mage after being overruled! This must all be Questor Xylox's warped, pathetic idea of justice, to try to turn Grimm into a flag-waving, dutiful, respectful model of what he considered the Questor ideal.
"Oh, yes, Xylox,” Grimm hissed, pouring himself another glass of wine and draining it at a gulp. “You and I will have a little talk on our next meeting, I promise you!"
He would show the proud, haughty Questor who was the better, more valuable mage. Grimm had intended to leave his unofficial Quest until after he had received the sixth gold ring on his staff, but he now considered that a little initial reconnaissance might not come amiss. It was time to pay a visit to Reverend Mother Lizaveta.
* * * *
"Enter, supplicant.” The voice from within the chamber was somehow dry and dusty, like dead leaves crushed underfoot, and Grimm shivered; nonetheless, he was determined to appear dutiful and respectful before the woman he suspected of slaughter and cannibalism. Opening the door, he saw the old woman at ease on a comfortable divan. She wore a dress of sheer, white silk, whose pristine purity seemed somehow at odds with her appearance. This could not be the face of some caring, gentle grandmother; the years had left indelible traces that spoke only of anger and meanness. Still, he must conceal his disgust for this ghastly harridan under the mask of respect.
He sank to his knees. “Reverend Mother, I am Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank, Arnor House. I bid you homage and honour."
The Prioress extended a hand like a claw wrapped in paper-thin, blue-veined skin, and Grimm leant forward to kiss the ruby on the Reverend Mother's profession-ring. It seemed to him that the hand dallied for a little longer than was necessary for strict protocol, but it was, eventually, withdrawn. He rose to his feet, and gave a courteous bow.
"Questor Grimm, welcome. What brings you here?” The voice seemed like death, somehow decayed and unwholesome, but the Questor forced himself to appear civil.
"Reverend Mother, I have been summoned to High Lodge for accession to the Sixth Rank, following my last Quest, and I wished to pay my respects."
"It seems that congratulations are in order, Questor Grimm, and your respect is noted.” She sat up, and patted the velvet cushion of the opulent divan. “Come, sit here with me, my son."
The thought of sitting next to the loathsome woman was repulsive, but he complied, sitting as far from the Prioress as possible.
"Few mages, indeed, choose to favour us with their presence, Questor Grimm. We are honoured. How may I help you? Are you in need of spiritual enlightenment?"
I am, at that, lady, but not from you. The words came unbidden to Grimm's mind, but he took care to keep his spoken words a little more deferent.
"I must confess to an ulterior motive, Reverend Mother,” he said.
"An ulterior motive; how intriguing!"
Lizaveta moved closer to the young man, and he realised that he had no further room for manoeuvre.
"Reverend Mother,” he said, quickly, “I once became friendly with one of your Sisters: a girl called Madeleine. I merely wished to enquire of her whereabouts and wellbeing."
"Ah, yes, Questor Grimm. Now I recall the affair."
Lizaveta's voice is like silk, thought the mage, but mouldy, decaying silk.
"Madeleine was a witch, and she ensorcelled me,” Grimm said, “but I never wished her ill. I would only hear that she has learned her lesson, and that she is well."
The Questor engaged his Mage Sight, and he noted Lizaveta's plain, white, unblemished aura. This proved her to be a witch, as he had learned from Madeleine, and as he had suspected.
"Yes, I am also a practitioner of the Geomantic art,” the Prioress said, and Grimm wondered if she had read his mind. “I apologise for the actions of that wayward girl. As you may imagine, those of our Order who abuse any such powers, given them by Mother Nature, are not tolerated, and so Madeleine was dismissed from the Order as soon as the matter was brought to my attention. I regret that I have no knowledge of her whereabouts since that day."
The old woman's pale eyes, the colour of faded acorns, bore into him, as if she were c
hallenging him to call her a liar. Grimm felt tempted to tell her of his nocturnal vision of the butchering of the body of the young nun. Now, more than ever, he was convinced that his vision had been true.
She moved closer to him, and he felt himself shrinking away from her. “Thank you very much, Reverend Mother. You have answered my question, and I thank you."
"Questor Grimm, you are lying to me."
The sharp, accusatory words shot through him like a fusillade of crossbow bolts, but they seemed to give him an excuse to get off the divan. He scrambled to his feet, in an attempt to display righteous indignation.
"Reverend Mother, I am shocked by such an accusation, especially from a lady in your position! On what grounds do you dare accuse a Guild Mage of deception?” What he had intended to sound as affronted outrage emerged as a peevish, juvenile complaint, and Grimm felt disgusted at how Lizaveta had contrived to unman him after such a short time.
"Please, Questor Grimm, you misunderstand me. What I intended to say was that I believe you just wanted to be with me. Do not hide your feelings, my son. Liaisons between the sexes are not forbidden within our Order."
The Questor recoiled, as Lizaveta simpered at him in the manner of a love-sick girl of tender years.
Summoning all the self-control he could muster, he rushed to the door.
"Reverend Mother, you forget yourself!” Grimm snapped. “I wished only to be sure that..."
"Ah, of course,” the Prioress crooned, leering at him. “Such liaisons are forbidden to honourable Guild Mages, are they not? Yet, I believe, our young Questor has some young lovely waiting for him, somewhere ... yes, waiting for him within the city walls of Crar. I am right, am I not?"
With sick horror, Grimm realised that the old witch was, indeed, using her powers to scrutinise his mind, and that he had no defence against her. He slammed down his mental defences as best he was able, in an attempt to prevent any further intrusion. What he had intended as a covert assault against the forces of evil had turned into a rout. He had not even been able to detect her intrusion into his psyche and his deepest memories. He was helpless against her in his current state of mind.
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