"He added a new cadence to the Closure chant without my coaching," he blurted, "which makes the spell equivalent to the major Walling spell in the Discontinuous Surface class. I do not know how he managed to do this; it took me five years to learn that spell. I have been careful not to let him try it out yet, but the principle appears unassailable; Scholar Geban is looking at it in his spare time, and he seems quite impressed.
"Last week, I was called away unexpectedly. On my return, he was controlling his feather without words; Afelnor said he could form the pattern without the need for any chant. I chided him for practising in my absence, but I feel that the Minor Magics cannot suffice for long. I have no idea as to his limits. The level of energy within him is, quite frankly, frightening."
"A Questor, do you think? Is it possible?" asked Thorn, leaning forward in sudden, eager interest.
"Perhaps… perhaps. It has been a long time. If only I could be sure."
"He has self-control?"
"Like iron, Lord Thorn. But the Ordeal is no minor matter, as you know well, and the risks are great."
"Nobody knows that better than I do, Crohn. But we need new Questor blood. Only Xylox and Dalquist Rufior are available for Guild Quests, and the need is great. High Lodge expects more of us, and it is my duty to explore all possible avenues." He sat for a while in contemplation.
"Has he friends?" the Prelate asked.
"Two close friends: one a Neophyte Scribe, the other showing signs of a strong calling to Illusionism. Afelnor is on good terms with most of the other boys, and he shows no signs of loneliness. He also gains great solace from spending time in the Library."
"That will make it easier," Thorn said, nodding. "You will arrange for Afelnor's Ordeal from this day. It means extra work for you, of course. Are you up to the task?"
Crohn spoke with a touch of pride. "I may be old, Guildmaster, but I am still strong. I have never trained a Questor before, but if you are certain that it is necessary for the good of the House, I will try."
His face darkened. "But I feel for the boy."
"A Questor, Crohn!" Thorn pounded his fist on the desk. "A Questor; a true weapon of the Guild! Personal feelings must not interfere with this; you must start his Ordeal at once."
"Lord Thorn," Crohn said, a concerned expression on his face, "Remember what happened to Urel and Garan. This boy could be ten times as destructive. His power is phenomenal."
Thorn leant forward, steepling his hands under his chin. "Magemaster Crohn, I order you to look for any incipient insanity in the boy. Watch him like a hawk. Nonetheless, I-we-need another Questor. The prestige of the House is at stake. I deplore cruelty as much as any man, but our need is too great to ignore."
Crohn struggled with his emotions. He was a mage of the old school, loyal to his House and his Prelate unto death, and refusal of a direct order from his superior mage was unthinkable; the House came first.
"Do you suggest any levers for me to use, Lord Prelate?" Crohn sighed in a resigned tone, hating himself for what he would be required to do.
"You should be able to do something with his grandfather's name. Forbid him access to the Library. Work him to the bone. Spread enmity. You remember how Arrol trained Rufior? He has turned out to be an excellent Questor. Break down the boy's defences. He will thank you for it when he is Acclaimed.
"Remember; if you help a chick from its egg, it will never attain its full strength. Always bear that in mind. You will need to be cruel, but the pain you feel will be worth bearing, and Afelnor will benefit also. Start today. You may go."
Thorn began to leaf through his papers: the audience was at an end. Crohn left the office with a heavy step; this would not be easy.
"Afelnor, it has come to my attention that you have been spending too much time in the Library: time which you might more profitably spend in the pursuit of your studies. This privilege is suspended. As a Neophyte, you should be above such trivialities."
Grimm felt puzzled and aghast. "What is the reason for this, Lord Mage?"
"Do not dare to question my instructions, Neophyte! You do not need to know the reason, Afelnor. Just do as you are told.
"It has also been noticed that you are spending some time with another Neophyte, Forutia, at a crucial time in his training and yours. You are also consorting with Neophyte Gaheela, who is a distracting influence upon you. I understand that you have even been seen gambling with cards! This is forbidden, as you well know.
"I have chosen to assume that this was a passing phase until now, but I will henceforth apply the full rigour of the Rules. You will not consort with these boys again. Do you understand? I might point out that, in the absence of Uric, the scullery boy, Master Chef Margus needs some more help. Do I make myself abundantly clear? Either you will cease to associate with these boys or I may decide that your vocation does not lie in this Art."
Grimm shrank from the Magemaster: Crohn's ire was terrific.
"Now, I regret, it seems that we must return once more to the Levity spell. You have not mastered some aspects of this simple spell to my satisfaction. Doubtless, the distractions of which I have spoken have dulled your mind. The only other explanation is that you regard such basic matters as beneath you. Deeper and longer study is necessary if you are to make progress as a Neophyte Reader. Attention to details is the mark of a true Reader."
Grimm's heart sank. Did Crohn see his future as a Reader only? So much for his dreams of higher callings! Allied to this, he had felt sure that his command of the spell of Levity in all its forms was faultless, and this brought bitter disappointment.
He fought to cover his deep chagrin. "Thank you, Lord Mage, for your guidance," he said, eyes downcast. "I will try my very hardest, and I apologise deeply for my slackness."
"So, you admit to laziness," sneered Crohn. "That must stop, and stop now! Evidently, any zeal that you may have had needs to be renewed. So, let us begin once more; perhaps it would be best to revert to Basic Runes. Let us see what else you have neglected. Recite!"
"The First Family: Adzh, Karkh, Tekh, Rukh… " Grimm chanted, as he had as a first-year Student. After hour upon hour of faithful chanting, he began to make occasional mistakes, whereupon Crohn would berate him heatedly.
Thus began a life of leaden monotony for Grimm. Worse, and to his mystification, many of the boys in the Scholasticate began to taunt him as "Traitor's spawn", or worse. Some would spit at him as he passed. Some attempted physical violence upon him, and it seemed that a Magemaster only ever intervened if Grimm began to gain the upper hand, where once they had appeared at the first sign of bullying. It was always Grimm who was punished, and never his assailants.
Sly trips, slaps, pushes and so forth became routine, and his former nemesis, Shumal, and his ever-present toady, Ruvin, reverted to their former depredations, never tiring of finding new torments for Grimm, now that he no longer had the protection of Madar or Argand, and now that the Magemasters seemed no longer to care. They took care not to pick on other boys, but Magemaster Faffel had idly mentioned in their presence that the peasant boy Afelnor seemed to have been getting rather above himself, and that he might be all the better for a little lesson in humility. This last was punctuated with a meaningful look at Shumal, who had grinned in understanding. Who was he to refuse a Magemaster's request?
With the Library denied him, Grimm sought out Dalquist on one of his rare visits to the Scholasticate. Dalquist was now a confident, imposing figure of a man, wearing a finely trimmed black beard and blue silk robes. His face was bronzed and his movement confident. Evidently, the life of a Questor agreed with him.