"Redeemer, to me," he muttered. He thrust out his right hand without looking around, and his staff flew into his grasp, obedient and faithful as ever.
In the mirror, he did not see Grimm Afelnor, but a powerful and confident thaumaturge.
Power and presence complete the mage.
It had taken Grimm many years to understand what the true meaning of that familiar, oft-repeated phrase, but now he knew he possessed both. He was a Mage Questor, in the full flush of youth, and he looked dangerous.
I'm a true Weapon of the Guild now, thought Grimm, with a smile. I'm ready.
****
"Enter." The word was peremptory and terse, as Grimm had expected. Steeling himself, he opened the door. As usual, Lord Thorn was sitting hunched over his monumental marble desk, behind a stack of papers. As Grimm closed the door, the Prelate looked up, and his expression seemed to brighten, much to the young Questor's surprise.
"Ah, welcome, Questor Grimm; it is good to see you. Please, do sit down."
Grimm sat, wary of some sort of trap. As no question had been put to him, he remained silent.
Thorn picked up a sheaf of papers. "This is Questor Xylox's report on your last Quest. It makes interesting reading, Questor Grimm."
Now, Grimm felt sure some sort of punishment was coming. Xylox would have his revenge at last on his despised underling.
The Prelate smiled; an expression Grimm had never seen before on his face. Did it portend good news or a sadistic pleasure at the prospect of haranguing a helpless underling?
"Before I acquaint you with the report's contents, Questor Grimm, I would like to hear your opinion of your fellow Questor."
Struggling to keep his face impassive, Grimm cleared his throat in order to give himself a little time to think. His true opinion of Xylox was that the man was a pompous, overbearing, self-important prig, but to say so to Lord Thorn would be tantamount to professional suicide. However, he would not let the older Questor get off scot-free.
Grimm knew he should avoid hesitation and obfuscation, since clarity and fluidity of speech were essential qualities in any Guild Mage.
"Lord Thorn, I find Questor Xylox an admirable and powerful magic-user. He is resourceful and dedicated, and it is hard to conceive of a more faithful servant of either this House or our Guild.
"However, I also find him an obdurate and humourless man. I believe Questor Xylox would be a more rounded mage were he to unbend a little, on occasion. Our relationship was, to say the least, somewhat strained, even hostile at times, due in part to what I saw as unnecessary formality in very difficult circumstances."
Thorn nodded, his face an unreadable mask.
"So this report implies, Questor Grimm. Questor Xylox writes that you opposed him on some occasions and even went so far as to disobey him on others. He says he regards you as ill-disciplined and wilful, and he recommends that you not be promoted to any higher rank for a period of at least five years, until you have learned to control what he calls your wayward, insubordinate spirit. Do you have anything to say in rebuttal of this assessment, Questor Grimm?"
So it was to be a tongue-lashing, at least, and Grimm's heart sank into his boots. The smallest of black marks on his record as a Questor might blight his future career for as long as it lasted.
Nonetheless, he would go down fighting as best he could.
"As far as I can tell, Lord Prelate, Questor Xylox begrudges me my youth, my staff, my ring and the very air I breathe. He made it quite clear that he despised me at our very first meeting, despite my best attempts to treat him with all the respect his rank deserves. His attitude towards me went downhill from there. Questor Xylox seemed to believe it as his personal privilege to govern any and all facets of my behaviour at any time. More than once, he swore to break me and see me condemned to menial servitude in the House scullery for the least of perceived transgressions. Whilst he tempered his opinion of my thaumaturgic abilities somewhat by the end of the Quest, I could tell he still looked down on me, for whatever reason."
Thorn remained immobile, his hands clenched under his chin, his face an enigmatic and unreadable mask.
His speech increasing in intensity and speed, Grimm continued: "Lord Thorn, I swear to you that I acted in the best interests of the Quest, the House and the Guild at all times. I do not regard omitting Mage Speech on a few occasions as either mutiny or insubordination. If saving a poor girl from slavery is an act of rebellion, then I will acknowledge myself a rebel. However, the fact of the matter is that Questor Xylox, called the Mighty, has a chip on his shoulder the size of the Royal Barge. I lack the strength to dislodge it, so if I must suffer for the fact, then so much the worse for me."
Grimm felt his face burning with anger, and he realised he was staring straight into Thorn's blue eyes; this might be construed as an act of defiance on its own.
"That is all I have to say on the subject, Lord Prelate," he said in a softer voice, averting his piercing gaze.
"Well, well, well," the Prelate said, and Grimm could swear he heard a trace of amusement in Thorn's voice. "I see that Questor Xylox's assessment of you bore at least a kernel of truth."
Grimm said nothing. He had to admit that Xylox was correct on at least one count: he was hot-headed, and he realised he might well have overstepped the mark in his forthright assessment of the senior mage's character.
"However, provided the bounds of propriety are not breached, I appreciate a certain degree of outspoken candour in a Questor," the Prelate intoned.
Grimm made to expostulate against an unfair judgement before the actual meaning of Lord Thorn's words hit him. He looked up, his eyes wide in disbelief.
Thorn nodded. "That's right, Questor Grimm. I find it a useful asset to have independent minds at work on a single problem. I don't want mannequins or puppets."
Grimm felt as if he had to make a conscious effort to keep his jaw attached to his face. The severe Lord Thorn, using common vernacular-what was the House coming to?
"Relax, young Afelnor. I'm not about to throw you to the lions. I have known Questor Xylox for many years, and I hold the deepest respect for him as a Questor. However, I'd be the first to admit that, as a human being, he leaves a little to be desired. Our friend Xylox tends to imagine he has more influence in the House and the Guild than he really does. I don't take kindly to mages who think they can issue orders to reward or punish one of my subjects as they see fit.
"Consequently, I'm going to ignore Xylox's advice to bar you from further promotion; I think that a certain amount of initiative and imagination needs to be encouraged and fostered. I think you performed admirably on a long and difficult quest and, in recognition of that, I have recommended to Lord Dominie Horin that you be elevated to the Sixth Rank. You will be pleased to know that he has acceded to my request; congratulations, Questor Grimm."
Grimm's head seemed to whirl. Instead of censure as a renegade and a rebel, he found himself congratulated and rewarded for a job well done. Thorn's next words did not reduce his disorientation: "Would you like a drink, Questor Grimm?"
The young mage blinked, wondering if this was some test of his character.
"I have a particularly good brandy here," the Prelate continued, "and I find drinking more enjoyable in good company. I would be grateful if you would share a little of this liquor with me."
The Prelate poured a generous dose of the golden liquid into a goblet, and placed it on the table in front of the stunned Grimm.
"Thank you, Lord Prelate," was all Grimm could say as he picked up the goblet and took a healthy swig of the enlivening beverage. The fiery liquid steadied him, and he recovered his equanimity.
Thorn leaned back in his throne and stretched. "Now, Questor Grimm, that's enough House talk. Relax, have a drink and tell me a little about yourself and your recent Quest, in your own words. I learn so little about many of the mages in my House, and my position is often tedious. I welcome the chance to meet talented young questors like you: you remind me of how I
was at your age."
The rest of the meeting seemed to pass in a blur. Grimm felt as if his world had been turned upside down, and he had no idea of most of what he had said in response to Lord Thorn's prompting. He had come prepared for an argument, and to defend himself, and Thorn's unexpected reaction had quite wrong-footed him. He walked out of the Prelate's office as if he were floating on air.
Thorn had even granted him leave to stay in Crar when he was not on House or Guild business. Drexelica would be pleased.
****
As the door closed behind the Afelnor boy, Thorn smiled, and toasted himself with more brandy. "In no time, I'll have him eating out of my hand. Look out, Mother, there's a storm brewing."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 4: Misgivings
Grimm smiled as he strode back to his chamber. The interview had gone better than he could have hoped, and the young mage had the ultimate goal of the coveted Seventh Rank in sight at the young age of seventeen.
As he passed the Breaking Stone, he paused and slapped a hand against his forehead. He had intended to ask Lord Thorn, the only living eye-witness to the deed, more about the circumstances of Loras' attempted murder of Prelate Geral, and he had forgotten. With Thorn in such good humour, it would have been an ideal opportunity, and, doubtless, tomorrow the Prelate would be back to his normal cold, acerbic self. Grimm toyed with the idea of going straight back to Thorn's chamber, but this would be a breach of protocol. With his slate wiped clean, it seemed unadvisable to sully it by annoying the Master of the House with aimless questions.
"You appear lost, Brother Mage," a cold, sepulchral voice said behind him. "May I help you?"
The young mage spun around, to see a tall, spare, black-clad figure. The man carried a plain, unadorned staff, which meant that, although technically a First Rank Mage, he had not yet distinguished himself enough to gain the first gold ring. The man appeared to be of middle age, but this was unsurprising, since most mages took decades to reach mastery. Mage Questors were the only exceptions to this rule.
"Please, don't trouble yourself, Brother," the Questor replied. "I was lost only in thought. I am Questor Grimm Afelnor."
"Necromancer Numal Falwort, at your service," the pale-skinned apparition intoned, and Grimm remembered.
"Congratulations on your Acclamation, Necromancer Numal," Grimm said. "We met once before, when I was a new Student."
The tall man's brows knitted, as if he were trying to make the memories flow.
"Doorkeeper took me to the Refectory," the Questor continued. "There was a group of noisy Students, and you were with a couple of Neophytes: one was an Alchemist, and I don't recall the other. You told me you had wanted to be a stage entertainer, a dancer or a mimic."
Numal's face cleared. "Of course; I remember now. My companions were Adept Herbalist Funval and Adept Alchemist Malwarth. Malwarth's first Staff shattered on the Stone, and he is working to build a second. Funval is also working hard on his own."
The new mage's eyes flicked towards Grimm's staff with its five rings, and Grimm saw the ghost of envy flitting across his face.
Grimm did his best not to cringe with embarrassment; the early maturation of Questors was a bane to many mages, who studied for decades to achieve mastery.
Numal must have noted the young man's discomfort. "I'm sorry, Questor Grimm. I know little of what you Questors go through, but I've heard it's no picnic. I shouldn't envy you your youth."
The price of Grimm's early Acclamation was a long, lingering glimpse into the abyss of insanity, into which he had so nearly fallen. It was not something he would wish upon anybody.
"Don't worry, Brother Mage," he said, shrugging "I'm getting used to it… almost."
A long pause ensued as the two mages looked at each other, until Numal broke the impasse.
"Questor Grimm, would you care to attend my little ceremony tonight? We Necromancers are a solitary lot, and there won't be many friendly faces there."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Grimm declared, smiling.
"Excellent," Numal said. "I'll ask Doorkeeper to set you a place."
"Thank you, Necromancer Numal, I'll make a point of being there."
The black-clad man fidgeted a little, as if uncomfortable. "Please, Questor Grimm, just call me 'Numal'. I won't feel like a true mage until I have that first ring on my staff."
Grimm nodded. "In that case, please just call me 'Grimm', Numal," he said.
"Well met, Grimm," the skull-faced mage replied, looking a little sheepish. "Look, I'm sure an important man like you has a lot to do, so I mustn't take up any more of your valuable time."
Grimm smiled again. He knew just how useless Numal must feel, waiting for the cheery, drunken ordeal of his Acclamation feast after years of solitude and study. "Not at all, Numal," he said. "I don't have anything planned today. As a matter of fact, I'd be very interested to hear just what you Necromancers do; it's not a Speciality I'm familiar with."
Numal shrugged. "It's not a craft many people like to hear about," he admitted, "but it isn't all bones and entrails, I assure you. For my part, I'd love to hear more about you Questors. Magemaster Crohn didn't tell my class much about you."
"Or mine," Grimm admitted. "Why don't we go to the Refectory and chat for a while?"
****
Since the Refectory was out of bounds to humble Students except at specific times, Grimm knew it would be relatively quiet. Although it was open indefinitely to Adepts and certain Neophytes at advanced stages of their training, Grimm felt no surprise to find the area deserted: such boys and men tended to devote long hours to their studies.
With a sigh, Numal lowered himself into one of the comfortable seats in the more opulently furnished area of the Refectory, an area which Grimm, as a former charity Student, had been denied for most of his time at the House. It still felt a privilege to be there, as he sat on the opposite side of the expensive, marble-topped table.
"So, Numal, would you tell me a little more of your craft? I know it involves dead bodies, but little beyond that."
Numal stretched; a sinuous, languorous movement, flexing his slender hands with a carronade of popping joints. "It's not really about dead bodies at all, Grimm, but departed souls. A soul leaving the body remains connected to it, by what we call the 'silver cord', for some time after death. The cord stretches away from the body until the soul becomes aware of its death."
The Necromancer's eyes turned blank for a moment, and then he laughed. "I don't have to tell you anything about that, of course. Anyone who's ever undergone astral projection, like you have, knows all about the cord."
Grimm blinked, confused. "Why do you say that, Numal? I've never astrally projected in my life."
"Yes, you have, Grimm," Numal insisted. "We Necromancers have a keen eye for details of the aura unknown to most mages, and your cord shows that you have visited the astral plane on at least one occasion in the recent past. You must surely remember. I'm told it's an unforgettable experience."
A Guild Mage's aura was supposed to be sacrosanct, and it was a breach of protocol to use Mage Sight in such a manner without the mage's consent, but Grimm barely noticed the unwonted intrusion.
The young Questor shook his head. "I'm not lying to you, Numal. We Questors are not taught specific techniques and spells; we have to generate them as required. I have never cast a spell of astral projection."
Numal laughed: a strangely human sound, at odds with his forbidding appearance. "Have you ever had a dream that seemed particularly intense?"
"Yes, Numal: many times, particularly during my Ordeal," Grimm said, shrugging.
The Necromancer shook his head. "I mean a dream that seemed more real than reality itself. A dream in which you found yourself floating towards some kind of destiny, as if guided by some external force."
Only one dream seemed to fit the bill: Grimm's terrifying night vision of the bloody corpse of the witch-nun, Madeleine, being eaten in a bizarre ritual i
n the catacombs below High Lodge. A ritual over which Lizaveta, the Prioress of the Order of the Sisters of Divine Serenity, had presided. Grimm had assumed it had been no more than a hideous nightmare. All he could do was nod; rational speech seemed beyond him as the ghastly visions returned to him in full measure.
"That was no dream," Numal declared. "Your soul was drawn towards that event by some bond between you and another soul or place."
It was true: Grimm had been ensorcelled by Madeleine, and he had discovered her in her treachery. Nonetheless, he had still harboured feelings for her, and he had hoped that her punishment would not be too severe. He shivered, unwilling to pursue the matter further.
He cleared his throat, although not his troubled mind. "Very well, Numal. I accept what you say: perhaps I have travelled on the astral plane."
"You didn't like it, eh?" Numal said. "Not everybody does, if they are called."
Grimm pushed his growing worries to the back of his mind. "You can talk to dead people, I believe, Brother Mage?"
"I can, but not very well, Grimm," Numal admitted. "Higher-rank Necromancers can find the signatures of a departed soul in a rotting corpse or even from a whitened skeleton, and they can contact it through the void between this world and the astral plane. My main talent is in augury: the prediction of the near, almost-inevitable future from the study of chicken gizzards and bulls' entrails, and I'm not even very good at that, yet."
Grimm could not tear his thoughts from the awful scene of that night of High Lodge. An evil cult existed at the heart of the Guild's ruling body, protected by the Lord Dominie from any persecution or harm. Something must be done about this heinous situation!
As the Necromancer again opened his mouth to speak, Grimm made a cutting motion with his right hand. "I'm sorry, Numal, but I do have a few tasks to complete before tonight. Would you be so kind as to excuse me?"
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