These fellows don't stand in line and take turns to attack you."
Grimm bit back an acid reply. He was strength and power personified; what could some pathetic provincial Secular with a bad attitude and a dagger do to him? Ready to give a cool and measured defence of his magical abilities, he noticed the terrible intensity on the faces of his two warrior friends. He opened his mouth to reassure Harvel and Crest of his invincibility, but he did not speak.
Yes, he might be the Dragonblaster, a Questor of the Seventh Rank, but he realised that he was desperately ignorant of the ways of the world. Both Crest and Harvel were experienced men of the world and hardy warriors; it would be foolish to laugh at their concerns. These men had been familiar with Guild Mages for longer than Grimm had lived.
Despite the proud protestations of his unthinking, demanding hormones, he was still a seventeen-year-old boy, and it would be wise to heed the advice of these men, even if it hurt him to admit it. As he had worked through his maps and itineraries, Yoren had seemed just another named dot on a piece of paper, and he would have marched into it as if he owned the place, without the warriors’ warnings.
"I think ... I'm sure you're right, fellows. I'll take your advice, I promise. Just smack me on the head if I get a little over-confident in Yoren."
The two warriors laughed, their worries evidently appeased by the Questor's conciliatory tone.
"We will, Lord Mage,” the smiling Harvel said. “But just remember, it might be too late by the time we get to that stage."
What about Guy? The thought popped unbidden into Grimm's head. I may be a little too cocksure for my own good, but he's like a bull in a china shop!
"Er, gentlemen, there's another mage who'll be coming with us: another Seventh Rank Questor. It would be good if you had a few words with him before we go any further. He's just a little hot-tempered at times. A bit self-opinionated, too."
Crest's brows threatened to disappear into his high hairline. “More hot-tempered and self-opinionated even than you, Grimm? Get him in here now, before we have a full-scale war on our hands! And is there any chance of getting some breakfast around here? I'm starving."
"While you're at it, Questor, how about handing round the maps for the route you're thinking of taking?”
Harvel said. “Crest and I are pretty well-travelled, and we may be able to give you a few more bits of useful advice. Come on, you look like a soggy piece of string; you're worn out! You can't do it all on your own, you know. You've got our word that we won't peach to anyone what we're doing, so just trust us, can't you? Crest and I have planned more expeditions than you've had hot dinners, so let us do the planning while you get fit and mage-like. We'll do the logistics, too, if you like."
Grimm shook his head. “General Quelgrum's doing the logistics."
Harvel glanced at Crest and rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes; I forgot you had a real, live General on your household staff, Lord Mage! I suppose I should feel honoured, but just five minutes ago you were trying to kill each other, as I recall.
"If you want to invade some foreign country and lay it to waste with a lot of fire and noise, I'm sure Quelgrum's your man. But if you want to plan a sneaky, underhand, skulk through the gutters, I think you'll find Crest and me more than qualified to do the job. So just leave the good General and your arsehole mage friend to us and relax for a change, can't you?"
Grimm felt as if matters were being taken out of his hands, but he no longer cared. Waving his hands in surrender, he felt a smile beginning to crawl across his face.
"Hey, this mage can almost smile!” Harvel said, and Grimm allowed his expression to collapse into a full, unfettered grin. “What do you think, Crest, is he human?"
Crest nodded. “Grimm, go and stuff your face, or scratch your spots, or do whatever else you normally do at this time of the morning, and take it easy for one day in your life.
"I wouldn't trust General Quelgrum a lot further than I could spit a rat. So just leave a message for him and and your fellow mage to come and see us, give us your maps, and then sod off, there's a good Mage."
"Don't forget the food. ” Harvel wagged his right index finger in admonition.
Grimm felt as if he ought to be angry, but he also felt as if ten tons’ weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
"I'll do that; thank you, fellows. I was beginning to feel I was going to make a complete idiot of myself,”
he said, as the tension eased.
He knew he could trust these men.
"Early days yet, mage,” Harvel said. “It still might happen, but we can all be idiots together when it does, eh?"
Grimm laughed happily, thinking of the happy prospect of a day spent with his beloved Drexelica. “Thank you so much, my friends."
"That's enough!” Crest snapped, in a mock show of annoyance, and Grimm recognised a parody of his own attitude just minutes before. “Just get us what we need, push off and enjoy yourself!"
Grimm stood and offered an elaborate bow.
"By your command, Lord Crest,” he said, smiling.
As he walked from the chamber, he felt as if a string was being pulled tight within him, as if he might be losing control, but he let it go with gratitude.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 22: Heartfelt Discussions
Grimm discovered Drexelica sitting alone in the immaculate kitchen of the tower. He could not help but notice the disconsolate expression on her face, and the way she flicked through the pages of a book, sparing each page only a scant glance. Despite the fact that his shadow fell across her, she did not look up.
"Drexelica, it's me: Grimm."
"I used to know somebody with that name,” she said, without raising her head. “I wonder where he's gone."
The Questor noted the unmistakable catch in her voice, and made to sit on the table opposite her high-backed chair.
"Please don't sit there,” she said in a harsh voice. “That table's for preparing food, and I've only just cleaned it."
"What's the matter?” Grimm said. “You don't have to sit in here. There are plenty of more comfortable rooms in the tower."
As her eyes lifted to meet his, the young mage noticed grubby tracks on her cheeks.
"What's wrong with the kitchen, Lord Baron? Isn't that where a serving maid belongs?"
"I don't think of you as a serving maid, Drex. I love you!” Grimm longed to take her in his arms, but he felt too awkward and confused to do so.
"At least you remember my name,” she said, her eyes glistening. “That's something I can be grateful for, I suppose."
The Questor realised that in the fortnight since his arrival back at Crar, his main topics of conversation with Drexelica had gone little further than requests for meals. They had slept together, but he had always been too tired to exchange more than desultory titbits of information. The forthcoming Quest had so consumed his mind that he had spared no thought for the woman he loved.
Leaning closer towards her, he felt the catch in his own voice as he said, “Drex, I've been a fool these last two weeks, and I want to make it up to you in any way I can."
Grimm felt helpless in the face of the torrent of tears which she no longer held back.
"Please don't cry,” was all he could say. “It'll be all right now. I've come to my senses, I promise."
The girl rose to her feet, flinging her book to the floor. “It'll never be all right!” she sobbed. “I want to tell everybody that we're together, but I can't! I want us to be a normal couple, but the bloody Guild always gets in the way! As soon as this Quest's over, there'll be another, and another, and another! I owe you my life for what you did for me in Griven, and I'll never forget that, but I had such ... high hopes for us. When we first came here, I thought we could be happy together, but now I know it's never going to happen. Never! "
Grimm felt his mouth move, willing words of comfort and wisdom to come forth, but his tongue and throat seemed paralysed. Despite his love for Drexelica, a pa
rt of him longed to be somewhere else, battling demons, dragons or ogres; somewhere he knew the rules. Here in the kitchen, facing a sobbing girl, he felt powerless and pathetic.
He watched as Drex screwed her face up and shivered, taking several deep breaths. When she opened her eyes again, he saw that they were red, but tearless.
"I'm sorry, Grimm, I shouldn't take it out on you. I guess I couldn't expect much more from a life with a Guild Questor. Don't worry; I'll still be here for you when you need me, I promise. I'll be your cook, your maid, your bed-mate for as long as you want me. I just wish I could be your wife, instead."
That last calm, wistful statement hurt him more than her tears.
"I know, Drex, and I wish it, too,” a voice that sounded almost like his own said. “But I can't just resign; if I did, it'd be me who became the slave, in the scullery at Arnor House. I have a debt to pay before I can be free, a debt of servitude as a Questor. Once I'm free of that, I promise I'll marry you."
"And how long will that be?"
With a start, Grimm realised he had no idea of the extent of his debt to the House for his nine years of intensive tutelage; he had never thought to ask. How many years or decades of dedicated service? One advantage accruing from accession to the rank of Guild Mage seemed to be longevity; was that gift a factor in his indebtedness?
"I don't know,” he confessed, awash in a sea of unaccustomed ignorance. “But if you'll wait for me to be free, I'll be yours, I promise. I also swear that, when I'm in Crar, I'll never neglect you again, the way I did this time. I meant it when I said I'd come to my senses. I've been so tied up in this Quest that I've forgotten what was really important to me."
"I thought clearing your family name was the most important thing to you."
"It is important to me, Drex; I won't lie to you. I hardly spent a day of my life as a Student and Neophyte without being reminded that my Granfer Loras was a traitor, a renegade and an oath-breaker. I've sworn to repay every slight, every insult, by redeeming the name of Afelnor, and I will. But it'll be a hollow victory if I ever manage to do that without you by my side. I love you, and I'll do whatever it takes to convince you of that fact."
Drex sniffed. “You'll have to do a lot to convince me."
"I will,” Grimm vowed.
" Prove it. Make a start now. "
The kitchen seemed hardly an appropriate place to prove his love, but Grimm gave it his best effort.
* * * *
Lord Prelate Thorn looked at Senior Magemaster Crohn Bowe, called the Mindstealer, across the expanse of his marble-topped work desk. He had not spoken to the man since Crohn and Questor Dalquist had burst into his room, protesting at the spell of Compulsion Thorn had placed on Questor Grimm. Perhaps Thorn owed the teacher a debt of gratitude for interrupting him, since a resonance in the spell, combined with Grimm's unconscious resistance to the magic, had posed a considerable threat to the Prelate's life. Nonetheless, Thorn had not risen to his current station by being a forgiving man.
The two mages who had erupted into his private chamber on that night had committed a serious breach of protocol by doing so and, worse than that, had seen the senior mage in a less than dignified state. He would make them pay for his loss of face.
"So, Senior Magemaster Crohn, how fare your Students, Neophytes and Adepts?"
Lord Prelate Thorn allowed his words to flow like liquid silk, soft and smooth. He already knew much of what the Magemaster would say, but he bided his time. A reckoning was at hand for Crohn's earlier impudent defiance, and Thorn wished to savour the moment in full.
"Shimath Gundor shows promise as an Adept Shapeshifter,” Crohn said, spurning the comfortable embrace of his chair by maintaining a parade-ground stiffness. “He is only thirty-five years old, Lord Prelate, and I expect great things of him within a few years. He has a most rare talent."
Thorn was impressed, despite himself. Somehow, this Adept had escaped his notice, and Shapeshifters were among the most prestigious ranks of Guild Mages. The raising of a Mage Shapeshifter was no achievement to be mocked, especially one who showed signs of flowering at such a young age.
"A Shapeshifter, you say? That will be a feather in Arnor House's cap; well done, Crohn."
Remembering his purpose, Thorn leaned back in his red-leather seat, crossing his hands behind his balding head. “What of your Neophyte, Chag Jura? I understand we might make a Questor of him.” The Prelate took care to keep his tone neutral, unthreatening.
Crohn rubbed his beard, his eyes turned towards the ceiling. “It is perhaps too early to tell, Lord Prelate.
At this time, Chag's talents seem more to tend towards Herbalism or Healing; he possesses great empathy."
"We need another Questor, Crohn.” Thorn spoke with soft urgency, congratulating himself on the perfect blend of concern and sad obligation to his Guild duties he managed to convey in this simple phrase.
He knew the Senior Magemaster was a slave to duty; despite Crohn's earlier opposition of his Prelate, aided by Questor Dalquist, he would not dare to oppose his Housemaster in this regard. The determination of House policy was the Prelate's prerogative alone.
Questor Dalquist could wait for now, but Thorn swore that Dalquist's turn would come.
"Surely you do not mean that, Lord Thorn!"
The Prelate suppressed a smile at Crohn's astonished, even horrified, expression.
"Arnor House's status within the Guild is as high as I can remember it,” the Senior Magemaster continued. “We have three young, active Questors; more than most Houses will ever be able to boast.
Why do we need another?"
Thorn felt an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh at Crohn's evident discomfiture, but he managed to master it.
"That is my decision, not yours, Senior Magemaster Crohn. I want you to consider Neophyte Chag for this Speciality. He is the right age for it, and he is a charity case, after all."
Crohn's face was like stone. “I urge you to reconsider, Lord Thorn. The boy is erratic in his moods, and I fear for his sanity if he is subjected to the Ordeal. Remember Neophyte Erek."
Thorn was only too aware of the debacle of Erek's Questor Ordeal; the boy had committed suicide after blasting Senior Magemaster Urel into bloody fragments. He had been pushed too far, too soon.
"That is why I want you, Magemaster Crohn, to handle his Ordeal. You are the only living man in this House ever to have raised a full-blooded Questor."
The Prelate saw a momentary expression of naked fear flitting across the Magemaster's face, and he felt an unalloyed sensation of satisfaction.
"Questor Grimm's Outbreak almost killed me, Lord Thorn!” the older mage protested. “Another such eruption of power would surely finish the job."
"You refuse my order?” Thorn forced his expression to remain neutral. Crohn was reacting just as he had hoped.
Crohn's face reddened. “Yes, Lord Prelate, I refuse your order! It is unreasonable and unethical. I also wish to state formally that I consider Chag Jura a most unsuitable candidate for the Ordeal."
"Perhaps Magemaster Faffel would be of a different mind, Crohn."
"Faffel!" Crohn expostulated. “He can be brutal with the Students at the best of times; he would turn an Ordeal into a bloody assassination. In my capacity as Senior Magemaster, I refuse to assign him to any Questor Ordeal, now or ever! That prerogative is mine, and mine alone, Lord Prelate."
Thorn spread his hands, as if placating Crohn, maintaining his reasonable, avuncular tone as he spoke: “I tried to be fair with you, Magemaster Crohn. Perhaps you are right; it may well be that the strain of Questor Grimm's Outbreak and the heavy responsibilities of your position have taken their toll on you.
How old are you now, Senior Magemaster Crohn? Ninety years?"
"Ninety-three,” Crohn responded, his expression stern. “Lord Prelate, I fail to see what bearing my age may have on this fruitless discussion. I am still healthy, fit, and in my right mind. I may reasonably expect to remain in this state
for several decades more."
"You say you are fit, Magemaster Crohn, but you declare yourself unable to resist an eruption of anger from a frustrated adolescent. Should you refuse me again, I shall have to conclude that Magemaster Faffel should replace you as Head of the Scholasticate."
"You can't do that, you..."
Thorn raised an admonitory finger, pleased that the older mage was rattled enough to lapse into vernacular speech. This was perfect!
"Be careful what you say, Crohn Mindstealer. I will not tolerate outright insults, even from you."
From the Magemaster's reaction, the Prelate knew he had mustered just the tone of concern and regret he had intended.
"I apologise for my outburst, Lord Prelate. Please forgive me,” Crohn said, his face a rigid mask of mortification at his momentary loss of self-control.
"Magemaster Crohn, I can tell you are under a severe emotional stress at this time.” Thorn suppressed the smirk that threatened to spoil his stony, impassive appearance. “It would not be fair to expect an immediate answer from you, so I will give you a day of grace in which to consider the matter. Consider it well, and sleep on it. Take the rest of the day off, by all means. Kargan can deputise for you, and Questor Dalquist can cover your classes in Perception, Interpretation, and Visualisation. Think hard, old friend. We have known each other a long time, and I have no intention of seeing you disgraced or dismissed. Nonetheless, I have the priorities of Guild politics to consider."
The ashen Crohn looked a pale shadow of the man who had walked through the door earlier. He displayed every sign of his advanced age as he rose to his feet to leave, leaning on his staff for support.
"Thank you, Lord Prelate. I will think on what you have said.” The Senior Magemaster spoke in a halting, tired voice, and Thorn knew he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams by managing to cow the old man in such a simple manner.
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