Chapter 7: Friendly Discourse.

Grimm Afelnor stood in the doorway of the Scholasticate Library and smiled at the young man sitting at a smal table and grimacing as he shuffled through a jumbled mass of books and papers.

"Grimm! It's good to see you again!" Questor Dalquist rose from his seat and clapped his young friend on the shoulder with his customary warmth. "I understand further congratulations are in order."

Grimm shrugged. "I'm just lucky, I suppose."

"Don't belittle yourself, Grimm. Luck is an important factor for a successful Questor; some would say an essential one. Our Quest together was no cakewalk, and from what I've read, it seems your second was even harder. You're a rising star within the House, Grimm Afelnor. Having gained the Sixth Rank after two difficult trials, you can be sure Lord Thorn wil soon entrust you with your own Quests, and the responsibility and credit for the success of these wil be al yours."

The overriding principle within Arnor House and, to an even greater extent, within the Guild was * rank hath its privileges' . An expedition's senior Questor was expected to garner the lion's share of the honours and plaudits, since he would bear the brunt of any failure. The life of a Mage Questor might often be dangerous and chal enging, but it was at least exciting, offering the potential for great rewards commensurate with the risks taken for those daring or lucky enough to gain promotion to higher rank.

The desire of al young, hungry Questors was to strive and succeed against mighty odds and, with luck, to become *noticed' by their superiors.

Even beyond the coveted Seventh Rank, the potential prizes of a position on the Conclave, the individual Houses' ruling bodies, or even election to the post of Prelate beckoned. Beyond Prelateship, the opulence and prestige of High Lodge awaited the most ambitious, the most talented, the most daring and above al the most fortunate mages.

"And you, Dalquist?" Grimm asked, as the two mages sat down at the table. "I never had you marked as a bibliophile. Are you studying in preparation for another Quest?"

Dalquist shook his head. "No such luck, I'm afraid, Grimm. However, it's not too bad. Senior Magemaster Crohn's asked me to help out in the Scholasticate on occasions. It seems our recent successes-namely yours and mine-have led to an increase in Student uptake, and Crohn desperately needs more Magemasters. I'm just boning up on rune signatures, and I should start as probationary Magemaster in the next few weeks."

"Congratulations, Dalquist." Grimm tried to keep his tone bright, but did not fool his friend.

"I know, Grimm, I know." Dalquist smiled and raised his hands in mock-surrender. "A Mage Questor teaching runes to a bunch of snotty Students seems a sheer waste of talent, like shackling a racehorse to a farm cart. But I'l only be doing this in between Quests and, if I'm good at it, it'l get me noticed by the Conclave. I'l stil be a Questor, first and foremost, I promise you.

"It's easy duty, if you ask me. It's a lot better than sitting around in my room, waiting for the cal to risk my life on some soon-forgotten Quest. I thought of hiring myself out to some insecure prince or Duke as a magical advisor once I've paid off the House for my tuition, but politics bores me stupid."

"Me, too," Grimm said with fervour. He had found his brief sessions presiding over the city council meetings of his barony of Crar mind-numbingly tedious.

Nonetheless, at least he had the companionship of his lover Drexelica to sustain him, although he dare not admit this, even to his closest friend; the misogynistic Guild regarded even the most innocent flirtation with a woman as a serious crime. Sexual congress was regarded as the ultimate transgression, since it was believed to erase a mage's powers. Grimm now knew this to be no more than a myth, whose reason he could not fathom. Nevertheless, it would be impolitic in the extreme for him to say so; even to Dalquist.

"I'm real y happy for you, Dalquist," he said. "As a Magemaster, perhaps you'l get the cal to raise another Questor. Who could be a better choice than a man who's actual y faced the Ordeal and won?"

The senior mage shuddered. "No thanks, Grimm! I'd rather eat broken glass. Two years of chiding, nagging, and shouting at some hapless kid doesn't appeal to me. You had it much easier, getting through in seven months. I guess you were lucky there, too."

" Lucky? " Grimm exploded, unable to believe his friend's insouciance. "Are you serious? "

Dalquist laughed. "Wel , of course I know how tough it is, Grimm. I often found myself wanting to kil Magemaster Urel. I broke out when he whacked me with his staff for dropping a plate in the Refectory, and you know the result of that. I real y lost it, but that impromptu display of amateur demolition did make a Questor of me, after al ."

The young Questor gaped in sheer astonishment. Dalquist must be some superman to have withstood two whole years of the daily torment Grimm had faced.

"I think another day of what I faced would have seen me mad or dead," he declared, shivering a little. "I guess you're made of stronger stuff than me, and I respect you even more for it. I scarcely knew my name by the time Magemaster Crohn had finished with me. How did you stand it for two whole years?"

Dalquist frowned. "I know you're no weakling, Grimm. You're more powerful than I was at your age, and your wil power and drive are second to none. The Questor Ordeal's designed to drive a man, or boy, to his limits. I reached mine after two years, and you're at least as strong as me in that regard; perhaps stronger. Power like yours doesn't come from nothing." He leaned back, his brow stil furrowed.

"Could you give me an account of a typical day you spent as a Neophyte Questor? Assume you're tel ing someone who knows nothing of it."

Merciful y, Grimm now found memories of much of his Ordeal to be little more than a blur, but he applied himself to his friend's request, rubbing his bearded chin as if it could stimulate recal .

"Wel , if I'd displeased Crohn the night before, I might have to do without breakfast. We'd start the morning with three hours' repetition of a long runic spel , often one I didn't know. If my repetition rate was too slow, Crohn slapped me; or worse if he was in a bad mood. He could scream at me for as much as twenty minutes because I'd made even a smal mistake on one of the repetitions, and then we'd start over. That'd lead to another three hours' practice, with a slap or a kick for each mistake. More screaming by Crohn, and, of course, a proper beating if I hadn't already had one. If I hadn't made a mistake, he'd beat me for my tone of voice or my facial expression, or the condition of my shoes, or because his arm ached from beating me the last time ... any little thing he could think of, you know. That might mean bread and water for lunch, or perhaps no lunch, and then we'd start again in the afternoon.

"The evening session could go on into early morning until I could hardly speak. I'd be given exercises to complete for the next session, but I'd be so hungry and tired I could never finish them in time. Sometimes you just have to eat and sleep. If I did manage to finish them, get some scraps to eat and grab a couple of hours' sleep, it was a good day, but it became almost impossible by the end. You could have closed your thumb and forefinger around my bicep, and my clothes just seemed to hang off me-so I often got beaten for looking untidy, even if my clothes were clean and in good repair.

"Sometimes, on very rare occasions, Crohn seemed to take pity on me-he'd pretend he was too busy to attend to me the next day, and he'd forget to give me any exercises. I'd spend half the day in bed and the rest in the refectory, but I couldn't keep food down. I wasn't al owed to talk to anyone or go to the Library, of course, so al I had was myself."

Grimm swal owed, trying to keep his voice level. "Of course, those little days off were just designed to make it even harder to start again. The next day, Crohn often told me how nobody would miss me if I died, and sometimes I real y, real y thought about ... you know..."

The mage's voice faded almost to a whisper as emotion stuffed an iron bal into his throat. "You know the way it goes, Dalquist. Seven months of that nearly finished me; I'd never have lasted two years! "

The senior Questor whistled. "Grimm, I can assure you Urel wasn't anywhere near that hard with me, and I thought he was a tyrant. Sure, he slapped me on occasion, and I had privileges revoked. I was restricted to bread and water from time to time, yes, and I was barred from seeing my friends. Stil , I always had the sense that Magemaster Urel was testing me, and he usual y stopped short of outright assault. I now realise he was seeing how far he could take me, and then backing off. Things got worse as time went on, but at a measured rate, stretching me, pushing me to the limit. Towards the end, the last month or so, I'd start to have the odd day where he'd treat me like you describe, but I couldn't have stood a solid month of that, let alone seven. I saw the way you looked after your Outbreak, and it puzzled me that you were as shattered as you were. Now I understand. Crohn must be a complete sadist."

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 stil a Student in those days, and we al used to laugh at him. You know how cruel boys can be."

Grimm nodded. He remembered only too wel 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 al 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 al ."

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 kil ed 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 al 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. "Wel , 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, wil you?"

Grimm stood, his face burning. "I'm sorry, Dalquist, but I real y don't want to talk about this. Perhaps when I come back you'l 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 bel began to rang, reminding him of his empty stomach, and he made his way to the Refectory, his emotions varying between sorrow for having fal en 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 al 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 il 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 cal ow adolescent, fil ed 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 al 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 il , 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 spel 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 al 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 renegade. 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.

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 smal 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 il -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 al times, to remind him of the thral 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 dul 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 cal ed. "How about a little sing-song to brighten the trip?"

"No, I don't real y 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 il . Nonetheless, the normal y 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 tel 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 al 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 il 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 al if he did not gain control of his unaccustomed spel of il -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 al 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. "Wel , 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 real y 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.