Grimm waved his hands, as if to expunge Dalquist's last words. “But he's not, Dalquist. Almost the first words I remember when I awoke after my Outbreak were ‘ I'm sorry, Grimm, so sorry. I had no choice.’”
Dalquist entwined his hands, the index fingers forming a steeple that touched the middle of his forehead, just over the bridge of his nose. Long moments passed before he spoke again.
"There was a Neophyte a couple of years above me, with Crohn as his personal tutor. What was his name...
" Mitar: that was it. I'm pretty sure he was being tried out as a Questor, too. He liked books and music, just like you and, of course, Crohn took those privileges away from him. After a few months, Mitar started to act strange. He'd sit in the Refectory, rocking back and forth and muttering to himself. I was still a Student in those days, and we all used to laugh at him. You know how cruel boys can be."
Grimm nodded. He remembered only too well the sly trips and pushes, and the venomous hisses of
'Traitor's by-blow' from the shadows. Yes, boys could be unimaginably cruel at times.
"After a few days of this,” Dalquist said, enunciating his words with great care, “Crohn came into the Refectory and sat with him. We all thought it was odd, a Magemaster sitting in the paupers’ area. I couldn't hear much, but I caught the words, ‘terrible mistake', and Magemaster Crohn led him away by the hand, as if he were a toddler. We didn't see him for a few days, but he was much better when he came back. He said he was being tried out as a Healer instead. I believe he's an Adept now."
"There you are,” Grimm replied, “Crohn's not a total sadist after all."
Dalquist shook his head. “Perhaps not, but I think things must have changed over the years. Look at what happened to your friend, Erek. He never should have been put through the Ordeal. Too sensitive, too highly-strung, but they pushed him and pushed him anyway, and he killed Senior Magemaster Urel and hanged himself. Something's changed in Arnor House, and I don't like it."
Grimm sighed. “Lord Thorn must have found out what happened. Don't you think he would have told Crohn to take it easy after what happened to Erek and Urel, once he discovered the truth?"
Dalquist's looked into Grimm's eyes, his expression stern. “Grimm Afelnor, you have a brain in your head, a good one, too. Use it! Of course Lord Thorn would have done that once he realised what had been going on ... unless he was the one who ordered it."
Grimm opened his mouth to expostulate, but the words did not seem to come. The fatherly Urel was no sadist, either, and yet he had pushed Erek beyond his limits of tolerance. Crohn was a dedicated, kindly educator, and he had taken Grimm to the very edge of that same precipice.
Surely ... no, it couldn't be!
"I'm sorry, Dalquist, but I can't believe that. Lord Thorn's done all right by me, and you, too. I don't think he'd tolerate a regime of concentrated brutality like that. I think we both owe him a debt of gratitude, not innuendo and slander."
Dalquist snorted. “Well, it looks like it worked on you, then. Grateful Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor, Weapon of the Guild, thankful to his betters for being beaten and starved every day. Just open your eyes, will you?"
Grimm stood, his face burning. “I'm sorry, Dalquist, but I really don't want to talk about this. Perhaps when I come back you'll be in a more reasonable state of mind.
"No, I don't want to hear any more, thank you!” He turned on his heel, and strode towards the door.
"Grimm, just listen to yourself!” Dalquist shouted.
Without turning round, his hand on the handle of the door, Grimm snapped back, “No, you listen, Dalquist. I think it's high time you realised who your real friends are. You owe Lord Thorn everything, as I do! I think a little appreciation would be in order, don't you?"
Not waiting for his friend's reply, he opened the door, stepped through and slammed it behind him, nearly tripping over Redeemer. The unpleasant, dissonant lunch bell began to rang, reminding him of his empty stomach, and he made his way to the Refectory, his emotions varying between sorrow for having fallen out with his friend, and anger at Dalquist's rank ingratitude. Perhaps he would meet his old Scholasticate friends, Madar and Argand, at lunch: a little friendly discourse might improve his mood.
* * * *
His two friends did not appear in the Refectory, and Grimm stared at his empty plate, not even remembering what he had eaten. A group of humble charity Students chatted and squabbled with customary gusto in their dingy corner of the room, and the Questor became more and more annoyed as he tried to marshal his thoughts over the incessant clamour. "Show a little respect for your seniors, can't you?” he snapped. “It's all I can do to hear myself think!"
The loud conversation stopped as if a branch had been lopped from a tree, and Grimm saw several mages were looking at him, their faces shocked and incredulous.
What's the matter with you idiots? What this House needs is a little more respect! The words rose in the Questor's gorge like acid bile, but he managed to stop them before they reached his mouth. In ill humour, he rose to his feet and swept from the Refectory.
"What am I? I'm a freak, a sport, a mutant!" That was what he had screamed at Magemaster Crohn during his violent Outbreak, the final, cataclysmic eruption marking his transition from humble Neophyte to powerful Questor. Words torn from a callow adolescent, filled with pain and confusion, before the sick-sweet realisation that he had prevailed against almost insuperable odds.
He rubbed his pained brow, grimacing. Had he not left all that debilitating angst behind him? Surely so, and yet he had subjected Numal to a vicious tongue-lashing that very morning, and now he feared he had lost a valued friend to an unaccustomed burst of vitriol. Where was that Questor self-control? Where was that iron command over his emotions, now?
He knew he must seek out Dalquist again and beg his forgiveness, but he, who had faced demons without fear, who had risen from the lowly status of a blacksmith's son to the rank of Baron, could not face such a confrontation.
"I'm sorry, Dalquist,” he whispered as he stomped off to his room. He could not wait to leave for High Lodge, and to be on his next Quest. For good or ill, that was his life now.
* * * *
Lord Thorn lifted his hands from his crystal and helped himself to another brimming goblet of brandy, shivering as the liquor's warming, soothing flames licked through his body, easing the pains that racked his head. "I've been sitting behind this bloody desk for too long,” he muttered. Nonetheless, he felt pleased that he had managed to cast a spell of Compulsion as powerful as any Seventh Level Mentalist could cast on a young, powerful Questor, without the least word or gesture. It had taken considerable effort to keep his expression neutral while casting, but he had remembered the advice given to him by his long-dead tutor: “
It is hard to change a man's mind, Adept Thorn. The least change is the best change. A small push in the right direction is all that is needed in most cases, and then he will be yours."
To hell with High Lodge! he thought, gulping down another draught of the potent brew. A true Afelnor, who owed all loyalty and fealty to you, would be a potent weapon indeed. That was what Lizaveta had told him on the day that the boy had first appeared before him.
You were so right, Mother, he thought. Now you're going to find out just how right you were. Your problem is that he is mine, rather than what you really meant: ours. And this potent weapon is now pointed right at you.
Through his magical link with Afelnor, the Prelate had seen all that had passed between the two Questors in the Library, and, although pleased beyond measure with the boy's response, the arguments of his older friend gave Thorn some concern.
Questor Dalquist, I find your attitude unsatisfactory. I can be a good friend, but you'd better think twice before making an enemy of me. I could easily send you on a Quest from which you'd never come back.
It could wait. Dalquist was a useful mage, and Thorn did not truly want to waste him. Nonetheless, he would keep an eye on this potential ren
egade. The question of Dalquist's loyalty was only of secondary importance to the destruction of his hated mother.
Questor Grimm would be leaving for High Lodge on the morrow, and the Prelate expected positive developments in this regard.
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Chapter 8: Control
"It's a pleasant morning, don't you think, Grimm?” Numal said.
Grimm knew the Necromancer was just trying to make polite conversation as the Questor drove the small cart down the mountain path from Arnor House, but he had to force himself to reply in a fair facsimile of a cheerful voice.
"Yes, indeed, Numal. It's good to be out."
In truth, Grimm felt seedy and ill-tempered. He was beginning to worry that the herbs, Trina and Virion, to which, inadvertently, he had once been addicted, might once more be exerting their insidious influence on him. Since the herbs had relinquished their tyrannical hold on him, it had been his habit to carry a pouch of the potent substances with him at all times, to remind him of the thrall in which they had once held him. He had left the pouch behind at General Quelgrum's desert lair, and he began to regret that he had never replenished them.
No! All that is behind you, Grimm. You're never going to touch those damned herbs again, ever!
Nonetheless, despite his id-voice's urgent chiding, he found it hard to think about anything else.
"Aren't we getting a little close to the edge, Brother Mage?"
Grimm snapped out of his reverie as he saw the cart's wheels spinning mere inches away from the edge of the track, and oblivion. He vowed to keep his mind on the job in hand, and not to stray into absent-minded introspection.
"Sorry, Numal, my mind was wandering,” he said, guiding the blinkered horses back into the centreline of the road. “I spent a sleepless night, I'm afraid."
"Yes, I thought you seemed a little dull at breakfast. Excited about the prospect of gaining the Sixth Rank?"
"Yes, that must be it,” Grimm lied. That's another bad habit you're getting into, Afelnor, chided his inner voice, which he tried to banish to the back of his mind.
"I hear you're reckoned a fair singer, Grimm,” the devotee of the dark arts called. “How about a little sing-song to brighten the trip?"
"No, I don't really think so, Numal. Not right now, anyway. I need to keep my mind on driving the cart.
We don't want another scare like we had back there."
Grimm just wanted peace and quiet, although he resigned himself to the odd snippet of conversation lest he appear odd or ill. Nonetheless, the normally garrulous Necromancer managed to hold his tongue until the pair reached the foot of the mountain.
Once the trail widened and the gradient reduced to a gentle slope, however, the older mage began to speak again, and it cost Grimm a deal of self-control not to tell him to shut up.
"Er ... Questor Grimm?"
"Yes, Necromancer Numal, what is it?” Although he was determined to be polite, Grimm's response was brusquer than he had intended.
He noted that the Necromancer's voice was hesitant and nervous, and it was all he could do not to snap
“Spit it out, man!” With great effort he managed a more civil reply.
"I'm sorry, Numal. What's up? Is something on your mind?"
Numal twisted his hands together, and his voice firmed. “Grimm, I can't help but notice how ill at ease you are in my company since yesterday. I can only imagine you were felt offended when I implied you might be—you know— fond of men. If that's the reason, I'm truly sorry."
Grimm brought the two speckled carthorses to a halt, and turned to face the older man. At the rate he was going, he would have no friends at all if he did not gain control of his unaccustomed spell of ill-humour.
"Listen, Numal, it's I who should be sorry. I was a little taken aback at what you asked me, but that's nothing to do with my being in a bad mood, I assure you. The last couple of days, my emotions seem to have been all over the place, and I don't know why. Just as a matter of interest, though, why did you think I might be inclined that way? I assure you I'm not. Don't worry, although the Guild spits fire at any hint of carnal awakenings in its mages, I won't take offence, I promise. I just want to clear the air, if I can."
Numal cleared his throat. “Well, I think I started to wonder when I saw you talking with Magemaster Crohn at my Acclamation feast. Your eyes seemed almost misty when you talked to him. And then, the next day, you just seemed very friendly towards me. I think it's just that you Questors can be so intense at times."
Grimm flicked the reins, and the cart began to rumble onwards once more. Had he really been misty-eyed when talking to Crohn? He knew he had felt almost overjoyed after leaving Lord Thorn's chamber, and he had felt happy to meet his former tutor again. Yes, his reaction had been intense, although he had no idea why.
Then he had leapt into his new, unofficial Quest with almost frenetic zeal, despite knowing that such a secret undertaking would garner him neither acclaim nor official recognition. Grimm just felt so honoured that Lord Thorn trusted him to carry out the deed alone. When he encountered Crohn in the dining gallery, he had been filled with the warmth of deep gratitude at the very sight of the man who had made him what he was: a Mage Questor.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Numal's quizzical gaze as he mulled over his recent behaviour.
Nonetheless, he was in no mood to answer until he was ready. He had chewed Numal out, considering that the man had belittled and demeaned his calling. Then he had turned his back on his best friend, after Dalquist's suggestion that Lord Thorn might be responsible for an uncaring and callous disregard for his Neophytes. Perhaps he was....
No! The thought-word slammed through his head like a crossbow bolt, and Grimm stifled the thought at birth. He was just becoming older and wiser, and finding a new and just respect for his superiors.
If only my Names-cursed head didn't ache so much!
"Let's just forget the whole thing, shall we, Numal?” Grimm said. “It was just a silly misunderstanding, after all. I've had a bad headache for a while now, and I just can't seem to shift it. That's all there is."
Grimm forced a smile onto his face, although it felt as if it hung there like a lead weight.
A relieved sigh from Numal told him that the matter was all but forgotten, and the pain in his skull seemed to lift a little. Nothing mattered but his Quest. Somehow, Grimm knew, his incessant, cursed introspection was causing the pain, and it appeared that all he needed to do to alleviate the dull, dismal ache was to keep his mind occupied.
At last, he noticed the beauty of the morning: the lovely play of light and shade across the forest, the dappled patterns of green and brown across the land, the deep blue of the celestial vault, and the invigorating warmth of the golden, rising sun.
"Numal, I think your suggestion of a little sing-song would be just the thing to celebrate this gorgeous day.
Do you know The Fair Maiden of Sambata?"
"I think I remember that ditty,” the older mage replied. “You take the main line, and I'll take the counterpoint."
The rest of the morning seemed to fly by as the two mages sang and joked together.
* * * *
As the sun passed its zenith, High Lodge hove into view and, for once, Numal was silent as the fantastic, golden edifice revealed itself. "Impressive, isn't it?” Grimm felt like an old hand now. It might be only his second visit to the Lodge, but he spoke as a man of the world sharing familiar wonders with a callow ingénue.
Numal gaped as the bizarre, fabulous structure began to reveal itself: the bulbous cupola with its lace-like metal spider's web, the sky-probing turrets; the lambent sheen of the stonework.
" Impressive? ” Numal yelped. “It's incomparable!"
As the cart bore down towards the wide, empty plain on which High Lodge sat like some misshapen, golden mushroom, the radial tracery of roads leading to the Lodge became apparent, delicate black lines on pale-green baize. Now, the sheer scale of the immense st
ructure began to assert itself, and Numal whistled in appreciation.
"It's utterly magnificent! I had no idea..."
Numal's voice was like that of a small child visiting a vast bazaar, filled with enticements and wonders beyond his imagining, and Grimm smiled.
"I defy anybody to see this and remain unmoved, Numal. I was just as stunned as you on my first visit, I promise you."
As the cart approached the main gate, reserved for visiting mages, Grimm leaned towards his companion.
“It'll be the stiffest Mage Speech you've ever used from now on, I'm afraid. They're pretty starchy here, even compared to Arnor, but you'll soon get used to it."
All Numal could manage was a nod, his lower jaw slack and unresponsive.
Grimm brought the cart to a halt in front of the two halberd-wielding guards who oversaw the gate, their weapons barring access. “What business have you here?” a third man cried, stepping forward. He wore leather armour embellished by a burnished, silver escutcheon on his left breast, which, Grimm guessed, was some badge of rank, but this signified nothing. In this establishment, mages ruled supreme.
"Questor Grimm and Necromancer Numal from Arnor House seek admission,” Grimm called, showing the blue-gold ring adorning his left ring finger. He nudged Numal with his elbow, and the Necromancer followed suit.
"Thank you, Sirs, that's quite in order,” the officer said, and Grimm felt pleased that the soldier's manner held no hint of servility. “If you'd be so good as to leave your cart here, I'll have someone take care of it, and I'll make sure your bags are taken to your rooms."
As the two mages stepped from the conveyance, the officer clapped his hands, and the two guards swung their halberds into a vertical position.
The gate was, of course, shut, but Grimm waved his left hand at the portal and it opened, just like the main door of Arnor House.
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