Grimm did not trust Guy in the least, and he felt unwilling to reveal his true purpose in the crypt to this mercurial fop. He saw the older mage's eyes roll and guessed that Guy had noticed the mistrust in his expression.
"All right, Grimm,” Guy said, sighing. “A little act of faith: I hate Lizaveta, and I'd like to kill her. If you can remember how, use your Mage Sight on me and tell me I'm lying; I dare you!
"They do teach you toddlers how to do Mage Sight these days, I suppose? Go on, I won't hurt you, I promise."
Trying to control his fury at Guy's ever-present sarcasm, Grimm unfocused his eyes and used his Sight on the mage. He saw indications of slyness, shiftiness and unreliability in Guy's aura, yet none of them pertained to his statement concerning the Prioress; Guy had spoken what he regarded as the absolute, literal truth in this respect. Grimm's entrails squirmed with doubt, but he decided to tell the haughty mage the true reason for his incursion into the crypt. It would be a relief to tell someone else of his secret.
"Very well, Questor Guy: I also seek the downfall of Lizaveta and her Order. I'm on a secret Quest to seek out evidence of any wrongdoing on their part, and to report back to my House Prelate. When I was last here, a nun of the Order tried to beguile me by using Geomancy to take control of my emotions.
When I managed to break free from her influence, I accepted her explanation that it had only been some prank but, later that night, it seems I travelled on the astral plane to this place, and I saw Lizaveta and a group of other nuns butcher her battered body and drink her blood. I gather that my breaking free of her spell constituted a failure on her part. Perhaps Prioress Lizaveta had other plans for me, and Madeleine's actions were somehow a part of this scheme. I brought Necromancer Numal with me, hoping he'd find some trace of murder or bloodshed here, so we could amass some concrete evidence to take back to Lord Thorn."
"You're honoured, Grimm,” Guy said, whistling. “As far as I can tell, the old hag's pretty selective about her pets. Bravo, youngster."
The older Questor sat on the altar stone and made an ostentatious show of inspecting his immaculate fingernails for a few seconds.
"I've been on the trail of dear Grandma for months now,” he said, “and I've seen her sneak down here on occasion. I got it into my head that she had treasure stashed here, and that's what I was looking for. I thought I could hurt her that way. Your way seems a bit more promising."
"Why do you hate her so much?” Grimm asked, leaning on Redeemer. “You already know my reasons, so you have the advantage over me."
"Well, I suppose it won't do any harm to tell you,” the older Questor said. “You seem a simple enough lad, blacksmith's boy and, if anyone should ask, I'll just deny I was ever here."
He shuffled on the angular stone and grimaced. “This place was never built for comfort, I must say.
"Well, I don't remember anything of my parents; I was brought up by my uncle Gerilon. He was a rich merchant, and I went to a good elementary school. Still, he was as stingy as they come in other respects, liberal with his strap and the back of his hand. When I was seven, he couldn't wait to get rid of me, and he sent me to Eron House. I assumed I'd be well provided for, but the crabby old bastard sent me there as a charity case. Then there was the bloody Ordeal; even you know how that goes, I imagine."
Grimm nodded. If Guy's Ordeal had been even a tenth as severe as his, then he could not help but feel a certain amount of sympathy for the man.
"If there was one thing that sustained me through my time in the Eron Scholasticate, it was my hatred of Gerilon. The tight-fisted old get had piles of cash, and yet he let me slum it out as a bloody charity case."
Grimm saw Guy's hands clenched tight, the knuckles bone-white, his face contorted in an expression of pure rage. The young mage felt no need to access his Mage Sight to confirm the truth of Guy's muttered, angry words.
Guy continued. “Last year, I found out my parents aren't actually dead. I still don't know who they are, but I do know my father is some high-ranking mage in a major House, not some squalid little backwater like Eron. For all I know, he's here at High Lodge, maybe a member of the damned Presidium. It seems I was the regrettable by-product of some little drunken dalliance he had with some serving wench and, of course, he wouldn't want to admit that, would he? His mother was, or is, Prioress Lizaveta. She is the only member of my real family whose identity I know, and I hate her for hiding the truth from me. And for letting me freeze in a clammy cell as a charity boy."
Grimm decided he did not want to find out how Guy had discovered the information; he had the unpleasant feeling it might well have involved the direct, and possibly brutal, interrogation of the hapless Gerilon.
"Still, that's enough of happy family memories,” Guy said, hopping off his uncomfortable, unyielding perch. “What do you say we wake up Grandfather, here, and get on with it?"
Grimm had all but forgotten Numal. He turned towards the pathetic mage, who was hunched over his staff, his bottom lip trembling and his eyes distant.
"Necromancer Numal!” Grimm called, as loudly as he dared. “Wake up!"
Guy pushed past the younger Questor. “Allow me, youngster.” Towering over the catatonic thaumaturge, he gave Numal a stinging slap on the right cheek. “Hey, old man, you have a job to do, or had you forgotten? It's time to go to work!"
The Necromancer's hand flew to his cheek. “You hit me,” he said in a plaintive, child-like voice.
"Give the man a cigar!” Guy said. “So there is someone hiding in that pathetic sack of flesh, after all!"
"He hit me, Grimm..."
"Come on, man! Wake up, will you?” Grimm felt near the end of his tether. “Our Guild may be in danger, and you have a sworn oath to fulfil!"
"All right,” muttered Numal, caressing his face. “Just don't strike me again."
Grimm could see Guy's face contorting into a contemptuous sneer, as the older Questor raised his staff in a threatening manner.
"All right, all right,” Numal said, waving his hands. “I'm sorry about that. I'll do it."
The Necromancer sank to his knees, planted his hands on the rusty-coloured depression in front of the altar and shut his eyes. A monotonous, rhythmic chant rose from his lips, and Grimm saw a faint, blue coruscation playing around Numal's splayed, trembling fingertips.
Despite the Necromancer's funk, the droning incantation sounded flawless to Grimm's ears, and the Questor moved closer to Guy as Numal continued to chant.
"Supposing Lizaveta comes here and finds us, Questor Guy? Do you have any plan of action in that case?"
Guy rolled his eyes in a mockery of self-condemnation. “Ah, here's a man who's made careful plans!
"Do you really think I'd come down here if I didn't know the old witch was otherwise occupied? I know full well she's in conference with that old fool, Horin, at this very moment. I have some spies here; they don't know it, but they're acting for me. For some reason, dear Grandma fancies him, and she goes to see him at the same time every week. We won't be interrupted."
She's probably just sinking her claws deeper into Dominie Horin, Grimm thought. This is worse than I thought.
"Don't you feel any loyalty for the Guild, Guy? Don't you realise she's probably trying to draw Horin further into her influence?"
"Oh, of course, I never thought of that, ” Guy said, slapping his hand onto his brow again. “How I envy you these inspired intellectual insights.
"Oh, look. I do believe Granddad's finished doing his Necromancer bit."
Grimm saw Numal had risen to his feet and was wiping his hands on his black robes.
Guy stood with his hands on his hips. “Well, old man? Found anything?"
Numal nodded. “There's been a lot of death here. Violent death. I heard at least five anguished souls crying out for vengeance."
"Did you manage to identify any of them, Numal?” Grimm asked, breathless. “Did they say anything?"
The Necromancer shrugged. “I don't know how to i
nterpret dead-speech yet. When I do, I'll be eligible for the Second Rank."
Guy snorted in contempt, turning his back on Numal. “You can't do a whole lot, can you, old-timer?"
Grimm sighed. “Numal, we're in a crypt: there are coffins all round the room. If you don't understand what these souls are saying, how do you know for certain you're not hearing their occupants?"
"Please, Grimm, do give me some credit,” the Necromancer snapped, seeming more confident now.
“What I did was to locate and follow the silver cords of those who had either died here, or who had been here shortly after their deaths. I told you about silver cords back at Arnor. The astral plane is a four-dimensional construct stretching through space-time, leaving a trace in every three-dimensional location that the body's been in after death. After a few weeks, the cord snaps back to the soul, and what we call the ‘prompt mortal sign’ disappears. I wouldn't have been able to find any trace of the owners of these old coffins. The signs I found had to be recent, even if I couldn't understand what the souls were saying. At least five people have died violently here recently, or their bodies were here shortly after they died."
"It's not much to go on, is it?” Guy said. “It's hardly a damning, earth-shattering discovery."
Grimm shook his head. “Questor Guy's right, Numal. It is a bit thin. Is there anything else you can do?"
The Necromancer scratched his nose. “Like what?"
"Well, I don't know,” confessed Grimm. “Can you tell if any of them actually died here, for example?"
"Not with any certainty."
"You two are about as much use as a sundial in a coal mine,” Guy said. “I think I'll go back to what I was doing before you barged in. There must be something valuable in here, something Lizaveta wants to keep secret."
He moved over to the altar and began to examine it in minute detail, presumably hunting for hidden catches or hinges.
"I'm sorry, Grimm,” the hapless Necromancer whispered, but Grimm was no longer listening. Something about what Guy said had begun to buzz in his mind like a restless fly.
"Why here?” he muttered.
"What do you mean, 'why here?' ” Guy snorted as he searched. “She's not likely to start sacrificing people in the middle of the Great Hall, is she?"
Grimm frowned, trying to force understanding from his brain. “I mean, why right here? It's in the exact geometric centre of the Lodge, as far as I can tell. Any other crypt would do just as well. And why sacrifice people at all?"
The kneeling Guy faced Grimm and rolled his eyes. “Isn't it obvious, smithy boy? This is the Lodge's innermost crypt, so nobody's likely to find it by accident. As for sacrifices, some of these religious types have weird beliefs.
"You do ask some asinine questions. It's a wonder to me you were ever accepted as a Student, let alone Acclaimed. Please don't hesitate to shove off whenever the fancy takes you."
With a despairing toss of his head, the older Questor returned to his search.
There was ... something I read in one of the Lodge books: something about a ‘base of power'.
Witches need something to anchor them to a place, so they can draw power from the earth.
Localising the field of influence can concentrate it, if there's some deep tie to the area, like a tree, or a monument.
"The location's important, Guy,” Grimm said, his voice burning with intensity. “It's more than just a nice, secret cubby-hole. This is how she's able to exert her maximum control, and she'd need it if she was trying to influence a powerful mage like Horin. There's more than religious mumbo-jumbo at work here.
Geomancy is an art, just like sorcery, and it has its own rules and requirements."
Guy did not respond, having turned his attention to Lizaveta's throne. “Aha! Just as I thought!” he crowed, reaching under the lip of the cushioned seat.
Grimm heard a distinct click, as a grinning Guy swung the seat upwards.
"This must be where she keeps her treasure!"
"It looks more like old rags to me, Questor Guy,” Numal said.
Guy stared down at the cavity he had opened, and Grimm saw the Necromancer had been correct in his observation. The older Questor frowned, scrabbling through the scraps of cloth as if hoping to find untold wealth beneath. At last, he stood up, his forehead lined with puzzlement.
"That's all it is: just old rags and bones,” Guy grumbled, letting the fragments fall. “What in Perdition does the old cow want them for?"
Grimm smiled: he was beginning to think he had the answer.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 15: Triumph
"Why in the world would she want to hide away a heap of worthless junk like this?” Guy railed, tossing a handful of the rags onto the damp flagstones.
"Excuse me, Questor Guy,” Grimm said, pushing past the foppish mage.
"Oh, feel free to hunt for pearls in this pile of garbage for as long as you like,” Guy muttered. “I'm off.”
He sounded to Grimm like a petulant child denied a second slice of his favourite pie.
"Hold on, Guy. Just a few more minutes, please.” He began to search through the pile of rags, inspecting each scrap of cloth in turn.
That's what I was looking for! he thought, eying a fragment of rich, purple velvet. As he picked it up, he felt a sharp thrill run through him, and the name, 'Madeleine' , came into his head, unbidden.
With a shock of realisation, he stood upright, holding the violet rag high. “It's hers. I'm sure of it,” he gasped. “Madeleine: the girl I saw murdered in my dream. This is just what we need!"
He turned to the Necromancer. “Can you contact the dead through their possessions, Numal?"
"Not yet,” Numal confessed.
Guy snorted, “No surprises there."
"But any Necromancer of the Third Rank, or above, could do it. There's a standard spell for it, although I don't know it yet."
"This explains everything! ” Grimm declared, suffused with satisfaction.
"Oh, good,” Guy said. “If you'll excuse me, I'll let you carry on with your needlework. Doubtless, you intend to make a patchwork quilt in honour of my sainted grandmother. Enjoy yourselves, and good riddance to you.” He turned on his heel and began to walk away, his staff bobbing behind him.
" This is her power base! ” Grimm cried. “If we destroy that, she's all but powerless within High Lodge.
This ‘garbage’ is what allows her to operate here!"
Guy stopped and stood, although he did not turn around.
"Explain.” For once, his voice seemed free of sarcasm and belittlement.
"Yes, please do, Grimm,” Numal said, his brow as furrowed as a farmer's field.
"This place, this crypt, was chosen for its central location alone, because it allows Lizaveta to spread nodes of power throughout High Lodge,” Grimm said. “That means she can use her Geomantic magic anywhere inside the building, without being in direct contact with the earth. I should have thought of it before; most witches prefer to conduct their spells in the open, preferring not to enter buildings without an earthen floor. A web of Geomantic power extends from here to every part of High Lodge, drawn from the earth."
"Looks more like flagstones to me,” Guy said. He did not turn round, but Grimm heard growing interest in his voice.
"Precisely,” the young Questor said. “I read of a basic Geomantic principle, although it meant nothing to me at the time: 'contact is eternal' . The sacrifices wore these rags at the time of their deaths. They were butchered here, according to a prescribed ritual: their blood flowed between the flagstones into the earth.
During the ritual, Lizaveta took a sample of their hair, one of their bones, or a scrap of their clothes, and bound it to her. This gives her and her closest acolytes intimate contact with the earth, and it enhances their power accordingly, growing with each sacrifice."
Retaining the fragment of Madeleine's velvet dress, he pointed at the throne and concentrated, summoning and order
ing his power.
"Sh'shakk't!"
The nonsense word burst from Grimm, and the throne's contents shivered into insubstantial motes. He sank to his knees in the circular depression before the altar and stared at the gap surrounding the round centre stone, placing his palms flat on the stone. He remembered how Magemaster Crohn, during one of his long, tedious monologues on the various classifications of runic spells, had mentioned spells of Gathering, and their applications. Although the Magemaster had divulged no details of these enchantments, the principle seemed clear enough to him.
That was all a Mage Questor needed to cast any spell.
Blood, arise from the earth.
With his Mage Sight, Grimm followed the brown tendrils of life-essence as they snaked through the interstices of the bedrock beneath High Lodge.
Arise, and be free.
The young mage groaned as he felt the tortures and agonies visited upon the victims of Lizaveta's evil lust crowding in upon him, a score of voices screaming for release. Come!
A flurry of syllables flew from his lips, and a fine spray of brown dust began to fly from between the stones, showering over the grim chamber. Grimm sighed as the pressure of the spell was released, and he climbed to his feet.
"It's done,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Lizaveta's finished here. Let's go. Guy, feel free to hunt around for trinkets, if you want. I have a mission to fulfill."
"Where are you going, Grimm?” Numal asked.
"I'm going to see Lord Horin, Numal. If necessary, I'll smash the door down."
Grimm looked at Guy's face, a picture of incomprehension, and he laughed at the popinjay mage's apparent discomfiture.
"Enjoy your treasure hunt, Guy,” he said. “I'm sure you know best. I'm finished here. I have all the proof I need."
"Wait a minute, Grimm,” Guy said, his expression almost friendly. “If what you've said is true, I can't wait to see Lizaveta's face; I'm more than willing to take that chance. Besides, you might need a real Questor to help you. Horin doesn't let people into his chamber lightly."
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