"How do I know you won't hurt him?"
"You don't,” Grimm snarled. “I can destroy Brianston and all of you in it, including Murar, if you want. Don't test my temper-you'll come off worse, I promise you."
The Revenant said nothing, but one of the Dreamsters pointed towards the shattered remnants of Gruon's temple. “He's leading a vigil,” she said, a middle-aged woman with a soot-stained face, with clear streaks marking the passage of tears. “Just go away and do whatever you want-murderer."
The crowd parted to let Grimm through, but they jostled him as he walked by, muttering imprecations at him.
Murderer, Traitor's Spawn; it's all the same, Grimm thought. Nobody likes me…
Except for Drex, he thought, as the image of his illicit love filled his mind. I'll spare this worthless bunch of dragon-worshippers for her sake.
"I won't harm Murar,” he muttered to himself, his voice dull and unemotional as he marched through the restless mass of Brianstonians in his tattered, scorched robes.
****
Lizaveta gazed into her crystal as the dragon lowered his golden, magnificent head towards the tiny figure of Grimm Afelnor.
A shame, she thought. He would have proved a useful consort… still, I thought that even he might have problems with Brianston. Oh, well… what?
The young Questor muttered a phrase the Prioress could not hear, and he leapt straight into the gaping maw of Gruon.
Suicide?
Her mental question was answered in a moment, as the golden creature exploded in a tumultuous shower of flame. The green globe grew hot in her hands, and she jerked them from its surface in pain, feeling her palms sting as she did so.
She fell back in her comfortable chair, wiping damp, white tendrils of hair from her face. Her long bones pained her, as pangs of rheumatism tormented them, but she was no stranger to pain; it told her she was still alive. Nonetheless, although she would never have admitted it to another, she felt the accumulated burden of many, many years. Young Afelnor had become harder and harder to scry, as his power grew and multiplied.
That was so like dear Loras at the same age, she thought, to charge into the breach so thoughtlessly.
She turned to the girl crouched by her side. “Grimm Afelnor is dead,” she said, with a deep sigh.
"That is a shame,” Weranda replied. “I had visions of him begging for mercy at my feet."
"That is life, Sister. However, you still have your vocation: something nobody can take from you."
Sister Weranda bowed, touching her forehead to the floor. “That, my Lady, is a great comfort for me,” she said. “I thank the Order for my salvation, and I look forward to serving you in the future."
Lizaveta sighed. She found it hard to clear the image of the callow, impetuous young mage from her mind. “Carry on, Novice,” she muttered. “It will soon be time for the evening Devotions.
"Bless you, my dear."
"Bless you, Reverend Mother.” Weranda got to her feet, and the Prioress felt a glow of pleasure at the Novice's beatific smile and modestly-lowered eyes.
As the girl glided towards the door, Lizaveta replaced her hands on the now-cool globe. Gazing into the glass sphere, she saw a scene of utter devastation.
However, at the base of a massive crater, she could just make out a tiny, blackened figure. Fighting the growing ache in her head, she looked closer, to see the unmistakable figure of the young Questor. His clothes were tattered and his face was blackened, and she saw a pair of figures racing towards him: the demon and the Technological warrior.
As she watched, the pain in her temples increased, and she saw Afelnor stirring; his face was confused and contorted, but he still lived. The hissing in her ears precluded hearing, and her vision began to blur as consciousness began to fill the young man. She felt a cold thrill as those dark eyes stared up into the void, meeting hers for a few, brief moments.
She had learnt the art of scrying many decades ago under the strict but impersonal rod of Prioress Acaresta, and she had soon proved herself her teacher's superior in this skill… and also in the use of other, more sinister magic. She allowed herself a small, tight smile at the memory of the old lady's horrified expression as Lizaveta had torn her soul from her body to become the next ruler of the Order.
Never had she felt such power pushing back at her from the sphere-except in that triumphant moment, long ago, when she knew, at last, that her Great Spell had succeeded in suppressing Loras Afelnor's formidable Questor will. She had had dreams of controlling his thoughts, desires and talents for her own ends, but her nerve had failed at the last moment, and she had chosen her idiot son, Thorn, over Loras.
For three decades, she had regretted that moment; it would have been so much better to have that potent will as her own, instead of wasting it. She had been so much younger then, and she had not then realised that her inner strength was so much greater than that of any man ever born, be he Mage or Secular. She wanted to control not only her own little empire, but also the hateful patriarchy of the Guild.
Still, those ebon eyes spoke of such sheer force; perhaps even greater than Loras'. This time, she would not make the same mistake. She felt sure that the boy, Grimm, under careful guidance, could rise to the rank of Dominie, giving her complete control over the hated Guild that had suppressed and minimised her kind.
Thorn was pathetic and worthless, with little more willpower than a jellyfish, and the Prioress already suspected that he had sent Grimm Afelnor to destroy her. Thorn's illegitimate son, Guy, had seemed more promising at first, but he was capricious and egotistical, interested only in his own wealth and appearance. Possessed of great power he might be, but Lizaveta could not see how he might ever become a useful playing piece in High Lodge's political game.
She had courted three mages in her life: Questor Loras, who had thrown her amorous pretence back in her face; Dominie Horin, who had been saved only by the actions of Grimm Afelnor; and the long-dead Questor Shemmanier, who died on a difficult Quest shortly after she had beguiled him into impregnating her with Thorn.
This irked the Prioress, who had patiently undergone the pregnancy and the birth only in the hope of using her illegitimate son as a lever to bring to bear upon the potent Questor, a rising star in the Guild firmament.
Grimm looked to be at least as powerful as his grandfather. However, she had first met the older Afelnor when he was thirty-five years of age, in full control of his powers and senses. She had flattered and cozened him for a while, and Loras had seemed more than interested, even if he had drawn back from a physical relationship. She, playing the coquette, had pushed further, and Loras had rebuffed her.
Lizaveta now knew that she had been foolish to react in such a manner to Afelnor's peremptory rejection. She knew she had never been beguiling and desirable, even in her youth, and she had been a fool to imagine she had been. However, she had not only her own, considerable power, but that of her whole Order upon which to call.
Not to mention the power of the young Afelnor's paramour, who, even now, must be lying spread-eagled on the cold chapel floor, proclaiming her everlasting devotion to her beloved Prioress.
Lizaveta stared into the green globe, transfixed, as the young Questor shot to his feet, and she looked into his stony face for a few seconds before the sphere shattered into tiny, hot shards.
The Prioress welcomed the pain of the sharp fragments on her hands and the scalp of her quickly-lowered head; she knew the young man was ready, and she relished the warm sensation of the streams of blood running down her face. The cold thrill of adolescent power flooded through Lizaveta, rejuvenating her. Now, in this self-accusing realisation of loss, Grimm was hers, whether he knew it or not.
The callow, unpredictable, juvenile Questor was dead at last; in his place stood a lethal Weapon of the Guild. This was what she had wanted all along. Lizaveta considered giving the good news to Novice Drex-Weranda-, but she reasoned that it could wait until after Devotions.
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Chapter 25: Back On The Road
The once-pristine city of Brianston now looked as if it had been hit by a tornado, after the brief battle. Gruon had toppled several small buildings, and Grimm saw many scorched bodies and piles of ash, mute testament to the power of the dream-creature's awful flame weapon.
Even the huge, solid stone roundhouse in which the Breeders and Sacrifices had been confined bore many scars and blackened areas on its thick, metal-reinforced walls.
"It looks like it'll take a fair amount of reconstruction, Lord Baron” Quelgrum observed, walking just behind Grimm's right shoulder. “I could send a team of engineers from Crar."
Grimm could not have cared less if the whole place crumbled to the ground."We have a Quest to fulfil, General,” he said. “Or had you forgotten?"
"I do not forget my duty, my Lord."
The officer's voice was low and calm, but Grimm realised he must have stung the old soldier with this unnecessary, rhetorical barb. A little diplomacy might be advisable.
"Of course not, General,” he said, trying to inject a conciliatory note into his voice. “You are a devoted and trustworthy officer, and I beg forgiveness for any implication to the contrary. That was unfair of me."
"There's no need to apologise, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum replied. “We're all under a lot of stress right now, I guess. Let's get this over with, and we can get back on the road.
"That must be Murar's vigil, Lord Baron,” he said, as a huddled crowd of Brianstonians came into view in front of the shattered ruins of Gruon's temple, weeping, moaning and screaming.
I could have guessed that, idiot!
Grimm bit back the harsh words before they reached his lips, restricting himself to a simple nod.
As the three companions approached the devotees, several citizens looked up at them. A few hurled insults and imprecations, but they did not attempt to attack. Nonetheless, neither did they move aside, blocking the passage of Grimm and his two companions.
"Please stand aside, friends,” Quelgrum said, moving ahead of the Questor. “We mean you no harm. We just want to see Revenant Murar."
The Brianstonians made no move to comply with the soldier's request, but Shakkar's low, threatening growl had the desired effect, and several Dreamsters scuttled aside, some remaining on their hands and knees as they did so. A clear path opened up, and Grimm saw a bright scarlet flash in the centre of the crowd, easily visible amidst the grey and brown robes of the ordinary citizens.
The Questor felt his teeth grinding as he looked at the old man; a picture of devotion, he might be, but he had brought up countless human beings as mindless cattle, expected to go to their deaths with a song on their lips. He felt nothing but hatred for the Revenant, and he felt the power building in his pounding head.
"May I handle this, Lord Baron? Please?"
The General's tone was deferent, but Grimm recognised the urgency contained within it. He had to acknowledge that his skills of negotiation were not good at the best of times, and this was not one of them. As if in a dream, he nodded.
"Go ahead, General."
"Haven't you done enough?” the Revenant cried. “Please, just leave us in peace."
"We will do so, Revenant Murar,” Quelgrum said, “as soon as you have considered a few additional matters."
"What do you want?” the old man demanded, tears running down his face.
"First of all,” the soldier said in a cool, businesslike tone, “we require our wagon, our horses, our weapons and our supplies."
Murar climbed to his feet. “They're all in the storehouse, over there, Realster,” he said, pointing to a small building to the north of the Breeder pen. “The horses have been well treated and fed; we are not monsters."
Grimm, clenched his teeth, biting back a bitter rejoinder; Quelgrum's style of negotiation was less likely to lead to unnecessary bloodshed than a self-serving tirade.
"If that is all you require, we have no need to talk any further,” Murar said, but the soldier shook his head.
"We have other demands, Revenant."
"What are they, Realster? Perhaps you wish us all to commit suicide?"
Quelgrum sighed. “Murar, this war was not of our making. You seized us for the purpose of providing blood for Uncle Gruon. Would you have submitted willingly to such a fate? Under those circumstances, would you have risked your life to spare the very people who took you prisoner?"
"Perhaps not,” the Revenant admitted, “but we were desperate. Very well; what more do you want from us?"
Grimm squeezed his eyes shut and heaved a hacking sigh.
If I'm to lead this expedition, I have to take charge, he thought, marshalling his emotions.
"Excuse me, General,” he said. “I'd like to say a few words."
Quelgrum nodded. “Of course, Lord Baron."
Grimm stepped forward. “Revenant Murar,” he said. “I allowed you to live when I could have let Brianston vanish into nothingness, and you with it. I acted in your interests, while it would have been easier to let you all die.
"I only killed Gruon when he began to lay waste to Brianston, threatening to kill me and my companions."
"Agreed,” Murar said. “However, you were the one who awoke Uncle and killed him. Why could you not have just left us, allowing him to sleep on?"
The Questor shrugged. “The simple answer to that is that I was foolish and impetuous. However, I do not regret my decision: if we had gone, you would have continued your enslavement of Realsters to provide Gruon with their blood. I cannot, and will not, allow that situation to continue.
"Gruon is dead,” he said, giving the final word considerable emphasis. “Yes, I killed him, and I do not regret that. Yet you still live, and so do the others of my kind. If you wish to die, I can achieve that in the space of a single breath. I can do that; indeed, I want to do that, for all the pain and anguish you have visited upon blameless travellers over the space of decades. I despise you; I spit on your philosophy and on this maudlin grief over the death of an insane man's creation.
"You worshipped Gruon because he gave you life, but he is dead, while you still live, due to my actions, not yours. Whether you realised it or not, you worshipped death itself; death for people like me!"
Quelgrum turned to his Baron, his eyes wide. “Er… Lord Baron, I really think…"
"I'd really like to kill them, General,” he muttered. “But I won't, if I can get what we want-some sort of fair treatment for the Breeders."
The warrior shrugged. “You're still in charge, Lord Baron,” he whispered.
Murar shrugged. “So? What else do you demand of us, mage?"
"I want freedom for the Breeders, old man; integration into the very life of the city. Right now, they feel cheated because I have robbed them of their deaths, while you cry that you no longer have anyone to whom to sacrifice them."
"Breeders?” a young, female Dreamster screamed. “Haven't you done enough to us, murderer? Do you now want us to be ruled by those mindless, pathetic Realsters?"
"Do you want to live or die?” Grimm snapped at the now-murmuring crowd. “If you want to live, I can leave things just as they are, if you agree to a few, simple changes. If all you want is to die, I can achieve that in a moment. It is a simple enough question; answer me!
"Will it be death or life?"
"We want to live as we were!"
Grimm could not tell who screamed those words, but he did not care. He knew he could wipe out these people in the blink of an eye, if the need arose.
"My apologies,” he said through gritted teeth, “I cannot bring back Gruon, and I would not do so if I could. I'm not asking about ‘maybe’ or ‘perhaps', but about what you have, right now! If you have any problem with the concept of treating the former Breeders decently, I'll just snuff this bloody city out like a candle! That's all there is.
"Die, in the sure knowledge you've stayed true to your perverted little philosophy,” he said, allowing flame to flicker around his fingert
ips, “or live, and try to give these poor, pathetic Breeders a fair chance in this city. You never know, you might just find they can help you, after all. All you need to do is to persuade them that they really don't have to die to make a useful contribution to Brianston."
"Is this intended as some kind of bribe?” Murar demanded.
Grimm smiled, although he knew there was little humour in the expression. “If you want to call it that, Revenant, then it is."
He paused to let the words sink in, trying to keep the rising agony in his head from showing on his face. “We will be leaving shortly. However, we intend to come back this way when we've finished. If the Breeders are still treated as slaves, or if they're dead, then I'll just put an end to you!
"I don't want you to let them run the city, regardless of their abilities, but just to give them a chance. Support and help them, and I'll be happy.
"Just teach them that they don't have to die in order to serve this city. Is that really too much to ask?"
"Just take your belongings, Realster,” Murar growled. “We will go along with your unreasonable conditions, but we'll not put the Breeders on any sort of pedestal."
Grimm opened his mouth, trying to laugh, but only a harsh groan emerged. He felt the firm hand of the General on his shoulder.
"I don't think you can ask for much more than that, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum whispered into his ear. “Please, just let it rest here. You've done enough."
It would be so much easier to just kill the whole lot of them, Grimm thought, rubbing his aching brow as his mouth twisted into a painful moue. I never thought I'd have to deal with people like this…
He had stayed his tears ever since he had heard of Crest's death and Tordun's blindness, and it had seemed easy now to hold them in. Nevertheless, he found it impossible to speak, and he flapped his hands like a beached seal. His heart felt like a cold, heavy stone, and he shivered in the grip of what seemed like a shroud of ice, his eyes burning.
The mage's arms and legs seemed beyond his control, and he saw the ground wavering beneath him.
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