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 ar
e 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 challenging 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.
Lizaveta laughed! It was not the warm sound of innocent humour, but a hateful, knowing cackle. She could read him like a book; how could he hope to prevail against her? She no longer even pretended innocence, but flaunted her invulnerability.
"Good day to you, Reverend Mother," he gasped, making his way to the door.
"Good day to you, Grimm Afelnor. You Questors are strong, indeed. However, your revered Lord Dominie Horin is a mere Weatherworker."
It might seem strange for a Weatherworker to be so disparaged; within the Guild, such thaumaturges were respected above most other mages, perhaps with the sole exception of Questors. Nonetheless, Grimm knew just what she meant: in matters of willpower, Questors were pre-eminent. If she could so easily cow a Mage Questor, in the prime of his life, the control of an aged Weatherworker should prove child's play.
"You can always attempt to blast me with your mighty power, Questor Grimm," Lizaveta said. "But poor old Horin favours me and protects my Order. I think he might disapprove of any attempt upon me. I have already sent him a subliminal message that you have come here to pay your respects…
"Do I make myself quite clear? If you cease your attempted interference in the Order's affairs, I may choose to leave you alone. Otherwise, it may go ill between us, and your Guild career may not evolve to your advantage."
What Grimm had thought would be a simple matter of outwitting a simple, evil old woman had turned into a complete debacle. He made his exit as best he was able.
"Good day, Reverend Mother. You make yourself quite clear. Thank you."
As he rushed from the room in confusion, Grimm could not help but hear the last words from the Prioress: "Please, do try to oppose me, Questor Grimm; my victory will be all the sweeter. You will be finished. Finished, do you hear?
"However, I like you, and so I shall not destroy you on this occasion. I feel also that this confrontation was not all your idea…"
The Questor knew he had gambled and lost, and he fled the chamber. He felt sick and scared; had his casual assessment of the witch's powers compromised not only him, but his lord and master?
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Chapter 11: Confrontation
With a confident, determined air, Senior Magemaster Crohn knocked on Lord Thorn's chamber door.
"Go away." The voice from within sounded dull and lifeless, and Crohn looked at Dalquist with a worried expression. The Questor could tell the old tutor was in a quandary: to enter the Prelate's chamber uninvited would be considered a major breach of House protocol.
"This is Questor Dalquist, Lord Prelate," the younger mage called. "Senior Magemaster Crohn and I wish to discuss a matter of the highest importance."
"Go away!" Thorn's voice now carried a tinge of peevish frustration. "See Doorkeeper to arrange a meeting, and I will see you when I have the time. I am busy."
Dalquist drew a deep breath, trying to steady his jangling nerves. "This will not wait, Lord Prelate. We insist on seeing you. Or would you prefer that we shout what we know through the door, so that all in the House may hear?"
After a long pause, the door creaked open, and Dalquist felt shocked at what he saw. Lord Thorn's clothes were crumpled and stained. Dark rings like bruises surrounded his eyes, and his beard was unkempt and matted. Dalquist saw a wild profusion of papers and empty bottles scattered across the floor. The Prelate's normally ruddy face was the colour of parchment and dripping with perspiration.
"What is so urgent that you must disturb me during my meditation?" Thorn snarled, a thin tendril of saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Crohn moved to stand at Dalquist's side. "The unfortunate fate of Neophyte Erek Garan, Lord Prelate."
Thorn's bloodshot eyes flitted around like maddened moths near a candle, and the young mage knew Crohn had managed to attract the Prelate's attention.
Thorn said, "Senior Magemaster Crohn, I am surprised that you should choose this moment to rake over old coals. As I told you before, Senior Magemaster Urel was overzealous in his training of the boy. It was none of my doing. Now, go away and let me meditate in peace."
The Prelate squeezed his eyes shut and moaned, "My head aches so!"
The mighty ruler of Arnor House, a Seventh Rank Questor and a me
mber of the High Lodge Presidium, sounded more like a petulant, whining child than an all-powerful mage, and Dalquist guessed the reason for the Prelate's dissolute state.
"You may find it easier to think clearly if you first relinquish whatever Geas or Compulsion spell you have cast on Questor Grimm, Lord Thorn," he muttered, and Thorn's bloodshot eyes sprung open.
"I beg your pardon, Questor Dalquist!" the Prelate growled. "Of what do you dare to accuse your Lord and Prelate, to whom you swore a solemn oath of allegiance? Have you been spying on me? If you have, I will have your Guild Ring, if not your head, before you can blink!"
Dalquist guessed that Thorn had mined deep into dwindling resources to retrieve a remnant of his former fire, but the Questor stood his ground.
"Bluster will avail you little, Lord Prelate," he said. "I have always been true to my sworn Oath, and I remain so. It would be a simple matter to engage my Mage Sight and confirm my suspicions, but I choose to refrain from this. However, if you deny my charge, I shall have to assume that your current condition is due to some unspecified illness, and that you are unfit for office. Senior Magemaster Crohn, are you prepared to relieve Lord Thorn on this basis?"
Thorn gasped, "Crohn: surely you would never dare!" He looked like a cornered rat, and Dalquist made a small moue of distaste at Thorn's wretched appearance.
Crohn nodded to Dalquist, and then turned to face his lord and master. "Lord Prelate Thorn. By the power vested in me through my position as a member of the House Conclave, I now invoke Ordinance 35–17 of the House Articles of Establishment, and declare you unfit to continue as Prelate of this House until such time as the Senior Healer declares you fit to return to office. Having observed at first hand your current condition, I believe I will have little trouble in enforcing this ordinance."
Thorn waved his hands in a scissor-like motion. "All right, all right; there, it is done."
For a moment, it seemed that all life had gone from the Prelate's face, as if it had become a pasty, imploding mass of inanimate dough. A rasping, hacking sigh escaped Thorn's lips and he sank to his knees. When he stood, Dalquist noted that the Prelate's gaze had regained some of its accustomed intensity.
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