"Questor Dalquist," he said, "I am Neophyte Afelnor. You introduced me to the Library on my second day here."
Dalquist looked a little lost for a moment, and then he slapped his brow as his face cleared.
"Of course!" he cried. "Your name's… Grimm; I remember you now! Why, you're as tall as I am now! I'm so pleased to see that you are still here. How are your studies going?"
"I'm a Neophyte studying to be a Mage Reader, Lord Mage," said Grimm, trying to keep his voice cheerful.
"I do seem to remember telling you that my name is Dalquist. I'm almost sure of it."
The Questor accompanied this with a conspiratorial wink, giving Grimm a flash of the old Dalquist he remembered so well from his childhood.
"I'm sorry, Dalquist," he said with a smile. "I need to ask you some questions, if you don't mind. I have been forbidden the Library and the company of my friends. Now, everybody else has turned against me. Could I have done something wrong without knowing it, something for which I'm being punished?"
Dalquist spoke slowly: "Have you done well in… in your Reading studies, Grimm?"
The Neophyte shrugged. "Magemaster Crohn used to be quite complimentary to me," he said with a sigh. "The only time he looked unhappy was when I levitated my feather without using the usual chant. He also looked disturbed when I suggested an improvement to one of the Minor Magics to make it more powerful. He wasn't too happy but, in the end, he let me try the spell, and it worked; he then congratulated me on finding a new variation. Now, he finds fault in everything I say or do."
Dalquist gave a neutral, noncommittal grunt. "And all these strictures and problems; did they all start at the same time?" Grimm scanned the Questor's face for any sign of comprehension in his older friend, but he saw none. He knew now, of course, that it was considered a serious breach of Guild protocol to use Mage Sight on a Guild Brother without express permission, so he refrained from invoking the skill.
"Yes, Dalquist," he said. "It started almost immediately after Magemaster Crohn was called to visit Prelate Thorn one day. That's why I'm worried that this is some sort of punishment. I once asked Magemaster Crohn if there was any reason for his sudden displeasure, but he punished me for insolence without a word of explanation."
Dalquist's brow furrowed and Grimm could tell that his friend was struggling to find the right words. "Grimm, I… I do think I comprehend your Magemaster's… ill humour towards you. I will tell you that I do not believe that you have committed any grave offence. However, I can and must say no more.
"Since these… penances are evidently your tutor's will, it would seem best if I we do not converse again for some time. I cannot tell you the reasons for this, but suffice it to say that you will understand in time. Work hard and do as you are bidden. Goodbye, Grimm Afelnor, and be of good heart."
Dalquist turned on his heel and rushed off. "Dalquist, wait!" cried Grimm in anguish, but the mage was already out of sight. He had counted on his oldest friend in the Scholasticate but, now, even Dalquist had deserted him. He had not failed to notice that the Questor had even switched into the starchy, formal Mage Speech, as if to exclude him from any kind of intimacy.
Fighting black despair, Grimm heard a mutter of "Traitor's bastard!" as a missile struck him on the shoulder from behind. He whirled to see a group of sneering younger boys, their faces contorted in hateful sneers. He advanced towards them with menace in his eyes, but they ran away.
"Just leave me alone, or you'll regret it!" Grimm yelled to an empty corridor. He felt a great weight on his shoulders as he trudged disconsolately to his monotonous afternoon session with Crohn.
Fighting to keep his voice clear and level, Grimm ran through the spell of Mage Light for the hundredth time that afternoon but, this time, he found it hard to concentrate. The light flickered, but it died rather than bursting into the luminous globe he had produced in his earlier efforts. Once, Crohn would have expressed solicitous concern for Grimm's health, but, this time, the Magemaster slapped him around the face, hard, and he raged at the Neophyte. Grimm was too stunned to speak. Crohn had never raised a hand to him before.
"Is there any point in teaching you anything, you useless ingrate?" the Magemaster screamed. "Did I spend decades mastering a noble art in order to waste my efforts on an untalented, indolent pauper? You can't get the simplest spell right! Doubtless you find these minor incantations beneath the dignity of such a high and mighty magic-user?"
Grimm began to stammer an apology, astonished at the heat of Crohn's ire, but the tirade continued heedlessly for another ten minutes, brutal and unremitting.
"Get out!" Crohn spat at last, "and do not bother to come back until you have some control over yourself! Look at you now, like a dying duck in a thunderstorm! Pull yourself together and apply yourself, or you will find yourself back in the gutter from which you came! Get out of my sight, you pathetic excuse for a Neophyte, and do not even think of returning until you have improved your attitude!"
A few short weeks before, Crohn had encouraged Grimm's least success. Now, the Magemaster jumped on his slightest error with furious zeal. Time and again, Crohn forced the Neophyte to carry out a simple chant, over and over again, until fatigue or hoarseness prompted a mistake, and then he exploded in a towering rage, which often involved physical violence from his hand, his Mage Staff, or from any other convenient nearby object.
The training sessions now became longer and longer, usually ending only after Grimm had finally made a mistake. It seemed to Grimm that Crohn was deliberately trying to force him into error, so he could load yet further toil onto his pupil's shoulders. Grimm now had almost no spare time, due to all the punishments and extra studies Crohn had imposed on him, and he began to dread the start of each new day.
Shumal and his ilk seemed to revel in finding new ways to humiliate and hurt him, and he slunk through the corridors, trying to cling to the shadows.
Months of pain and anguish passed with dreadful lethargy. Now, Grimm could feel his misery pouring out of him like a thick, black, oily smoke that oozed from his every pore and rolled across the floor in all directions. Could nobody else see this? Why couldn't they leave him alone?
Grimm desired nothing more than to be left in peace in his black cloud, but the animosity and abuse continued unabated and, if anything, increased. The young Neophyte often cried himself quietly to sleep at night and then had dreams in which he was possessed by intense, hysterical, racking jags of tears for no apparent reason. His other dreams were strange and unnerving, involving violence against gangs of faceless mannequins, or where he found himself naked in front of a cackling multitude of mocking children.
Chapter 23: The Edge of Insanity
Grimm turned fourteen but, instead of the occasion being a day of celebration, it merely blurred into the featureless mass of roiling black smoke, his one constant companion. The daily torrent of depredation continued apace.
Always slender, he had now become emaciated and gaunt, and he flitted like a shadow through the corridors, trying not to be noticed. He often skipped meals, so as to avoid the cruel taunts of the others. In itself, this was an infraction of the Rules, and it often earned him severe punishment from Magemaster Crohn for his transgression. Nonetheless, tempting as it was to surrender to the darkness, Grimm soldiered on for the sake of his sullied family name. Eventually, even that solace was lost to him; he no longer knew what he was doing, or why. He simply was.
The end of a typical day for Grimm:
"Why do I bother with you, idiot? I should be retired by now, living in the comfort that decades of service to my House have justly earned. Instead, I am given the tutelage of a lazy brat who throws my solicitude back into my face!"