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 member 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.
"Do you admit, Lord Prelate, that you have been holding Questor Grimm Afelnor in a spell of Compulsion?” Crohn asked, as if he were a lawyer prosecuting a case.
"I do,” Thorn said, although his voice was far from conciliatory, “but I am damned if I know what business this is of yours."
"As you well know, Lord Thorn, that is a severe breach of House and Guild protocol. Ordinance—"
"Since you are so fond of quoting House articles, Crohn,” Thorn said, interrupting the Senior Magemaster, “I will quote one for your benefit: Ordinance 1-8. ‘ In matters of House Policy, the decision of the Lord Prelate shall override all other Ordinances within these Articles, except where contra-indicated by Ordinance 35-17 or Ordinance 18-4.'
"I believe we have now disposed of the former case, and the latter, which concerns High Treason, can only be decided by majority decision of the Presidium.
"It may be outside the bounds of normal House procedure to cast a spell of Compulsion on an Acclaimed Mage, but it is neither a breach of the Articles of Association, nor of the Guild Code of Practice. I have no need to justify my behaviour to you, or to anyone else."
The Prelate seated himself and crossed his arms. Although he still looked pale and dissolute, Dalquist could see he had now regained much of his composure and force of will.
"Lord Thorn,” said Crohn. “What you say may well be correct in all details—"
"It is, Crohn, and you know it."
"—but this is not the only reason that Questor Dalquist
and I wished to converse with you. There is also the matter of the training of Questors to consider. We believe you are taking unwarrantable risks with the mental well-being of Neophytes, through reckless selection of inappropriate candidates and the institution of a new and vicious regime of training. From conversations I have had with other Magemasters, I am convinced that the aim is no longer to frustrate and goad the potential candidate into his Outbreak, but to brutalise and bully him to the very limits of his endurance until he can bear no more. I believe you cared not a whit for the delicate mental state of Neophyte Erek Geran, and that your sole intention was to produce a powerful, loyal Questor at all costs, regardless of the risk to the boy's health and sanity. We all know the results of Erek's Ordeal, despite your attempts to muddy the waters with your claim that Senior Magemaster Urel had, in his zeal, exceeded his orders."
"I stand full-square behind that assertion, Senior Magemaster Crohn, and I challenge you to prove otherwise."
Dalquist said, “Of course, it is convenient that Magemaster Urel is no longer available to refute your claims."
"Remember to whom you are speaking, Questor Dalquist!” Thorn snapped. “I would be well within my rights to have you dismissed for your slanderous accusations, and I have a strong inclination to do so, be you a Questor of the Seventh Rank or no."
Dalquist bristled with righteous indignation, and he prepared to challenge the Prelate to carry out his threat, but he felt Crohn's warning hand on his shoulder.
"I have some knowledge of the Questor Ordeal, as you will be aware, Lord Prelate,” the Magemaster said. “You will remember that I remonstrated with you on several occasions about the treatment of Neophyte Grimm Afelnor during his Ordeal."
"Treatment that you visited upon him, Magemaster Crohn.” Thorn wore a faint smile on his lips, and his voice was now cool, low and dangerous. “I wonder why you waited until now to make your protest."
Dalquist feared that the momentum had shifted towards the Prelate. The moment was slipping away.
Crohn frowned. “I acted on your direct and explicit instruction, Lord Prelate. I would be more than willing to testify as much to the Conclave, or even to the Presidium. When I trained Questor Grimm, I was unaware of the normal procedures. My recent discussion with Questor Dalquist has convinced me that the severity of Afelnor's Ordeal was exceptional, and a breach of normal practice."
Thorn leant back in his throne and smiled. “Grimm Afelnor is a full Questor, and I have just recommended him for accession to the Sixth Rank, despite a most unfavourable report from Questor Xylox. I do not think Questor Grimm would agree that I have been brutal or callous. The grandson of the Traitor, the progeny of a humble blacksmith, is now a wealthy nobleman and near the peak of his calling before he has entered his third decade. Do you think the members of the Conclave or the Presidium will see this as vindictive treatment on my part? His Ordeal was successful, so it is plain that your wild claims of reckless disregard do not hold water."
Thorn leaned forward, his gaze level and self-assured. “If I am forced to testify before the Presidium, I shall, of course, tell the truth. Following the tragic loss of Neophyte Erek Geran and Senior Magemaster Urel, I took a more active interest in the training of Neophyte Questors. I assessed Neophyte Grimm Afelnor and recognised phenomenal self-control within him. I judged that he was able to withstand a stricter regime of training. The fact that he passed the test with flying colours proves that my judgement was sound. You cannot possibly equate the outstanding success of Questor Grimm with the sad fate of Neophyte Erek, a debacle over which I had no control."
Dalquist recognised how cogent and persuasive this argument would sound if it ever came before a tribunal. The addled and aged Senior Magemaster Urel had gambled and lost, whereupon the canny, analytical Prelate Thorn had made a reasoned and valid judgement, to the mutual benefit of Grimm Afelnor and Arnor House. A pauper boy found rank, wealth and privilege in one of the few ways open to him: the beneficence and bounty of the Guild.
Thorn leaned back again, his expression satisfied. “Gentlemen, I accept that this unwarranted and impertinent interference in my affairs may have been motivated only by basic decency and a sense of fair play. Those are noble ideals, indeed. Alas, I have my mind on higher matters: the success and prosperity of our beloved Guild. My responsibilities are onerous and demanding, and, on occasion, I am forced to make ... distasteful decisions. I may not enjoy them, but my duties are clear, if often unpleasant. Yes, I am severe on occasion, but only because I am dispassionate and pragmatic, as my rank dictates.
"I am prepared to overlook this intrusion on this occasion, but I will brook no further interference into matters which do not concern you. In the future, you will treat me with the full respect that my rank demands. Do I make myself quite clear?"
Dalquist's iron resolve had begun to melt away into uncertainty. “It might be better to let the matter drop, Magemaster Crohn,” he said.
What had seemed so clear and indefensible earlier now seemed hollow and insubstantial. Dalquist's righteous wrath had evaporated, to be replaced by a vague, puerile sense of injustice. This was no justification whatsoever for revolution and revolt; nonetheless, he felt that he could not just allow the issue to dissipate with such ease.
"Lord Prelate: may I ask why you felt it necessary to cast a spell of Compulsion on Questor Grimm?
Surely the sincerity of his Oath of Allegiance cannot be in doubt after two dangerous and successful Quests?” He knew his voice sounded thin and peevish, and he hated himself for his loss of spirit.
Thorn clasped his hands across his chest. “I am quite within my rights to refuse to discuss such matters with you, Questor Dalquist, and I feel tempted to do so. You have meddled in matters of which you know nothing, and your lack of respect displeases me greatly, not to mention the inconvenience to which you have put me."
The words hung in the air, and Dalquist knew that he might be facing a severe reprimand, if not worse, but the Prelate's mouth twisted into a reasonable simulacrum of a companionable smile.
"Nonetheless, you are still young. You are also high-spirited and forthright, as I suppose a true Questor should be. At your age, I was as idealistic as you. I am, therefore, moved to answer you, impertinent though your question is. I will advise you that this information is not to be repeated outside this room, on pain of the charge of treason. Far more is at stake than you realise, Brother Mage, and I will not allow any further inquiries into the matter; meddle at your peril!"
Dalquist nodded, unable to meet the Prelate's gaze.
Thorn cleared his throat and continued, “Questor Grimm adduced some evidence that there may be an active, malevolent cult of witchcraft present within our beloved High Lodge. The leader of this cult is a witch of considerable power, and I feared that she might sway Questor Grimm from his loyalty and duty with her eldritch powers. Rather than choosing to risk this, I elected to reinforce his motivation with a spell of Compulsion, so that he might not be deterred from gathering evidence of the cult's influence, and to report back to me. I anticipate no untoward influences, but I cannot take the risk of a Questor turning against his Prelate. I pray that Questor Grimm is successful in this Quest, but you may well have put him at considerable risk through your rash actions."
Thorn presented the very image of conspiratorial concern, holding each mage's eyes for a few moments with his intense gaze before he spoke.
"I see now that it would have been better to take Questor Grimm into my confidence beforehand; my current, sorry state is the result of trying to mould and reinforce his will, and it has been a mighty struggle, I assure you. This boy has great potential within this Guild, and it will be recognised. I may have been over-cautious; neither his loyalty nor his strength of will is in doubt, but I feared the insidious incursion of external forces. For my part, I now pity any who seek to oppose him.
"In fact, I acknowledge a debt to both of you: once the spell was cast, I became lost in the struggle for Questor Grimm's
will, no longer caring that even a Seventh Rank Questor of many years’ tenure found it difficult to control him. Questor Grimm should, as I hoped, prove a great asset to our common cause, and I thank you for your concern and your diligence.
"That is all, gentlemen."
It had been a dazzling performance. Dalquist opened his mouth, but no words came. His suspicions continued to nag him, but he could not fault Lord Thorn's presentation. Why would such a man choose to try to impose his will on one of his most brilliant and loyal protégés, if he had not some more overarching, important reason to do so?
"Thank you, Lord Thorn,” he found himself saying. “I apologise for my impertinence, and I acknowledge my lack of faith in your motives."
"I, too, Lord Prelate,” Crohn added. “I cringe to think that I suspected you of injustice or cruelty. You are my Prelate, and I reaffirm my faith in your leadership."
* * * *
Once the two men had left his office, Thorn emitted a low moan of agony at the red-hot bolts of pain shooting through his head. He knew he could not hope, in his current condition, to re-establish his link with Afelnor, but he felt a warm glow of pride that, even although his powers had been at such a low ebb, he had managed to exert his will upon his Senior Magemaster and another powerful Questor with a similar spell to that he had used on Questor Grimm. The Prelate noted with some concern that he seemed to have lost peripheral vision, and his left hand was numb and lifeless. He began to appreciate better the immense power his mother, Lizaveta, had wielded when she had cast her spell on Loras Afelnor.
Thorn had told Crohn and Dalquist the truth: he had become sucked into the Compulsion spell until he had been unable to extricate himself of his own will. Thorn had intended a gentle push, a subtle encouragement to persuade young Afelnor to begin to see his Prelate more as a father than a master, so the Questor would be more prepared to go to any lengths to carry out Thorn's will. It had ended up as a battle of wills, and Thorn felt far from convinced that he had held the upper hand. He knew the reason for his inability to extricate himself from the spell: Thaumaturgic Resonance. Afelnor had been fighting him without knowing it, and it had taken all Thorn's power just to hold the spell on him, causing the Prelate to be sucked ever deeper into the link until it had taken over his whole being.
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