"Do not worry about it, too much, Afelnor. I have been told that such destructive incidents are not uncommon during the training of Adept Questors. You were thinking in terms of how much power you needed to put into the Minor Levity spell, and you multiplied it accordingly. It does not work like that, I am afraid; you really have to feel how much power you need. Do not use Minor Magics as a prop; you must make your own spells."
Grimm nodded, still a little in awe of his new power.
"I have asked your friend, Questor Dalquist, to sit in on some of these sessions when he is available," Crohn said. "He should be able to help you better than I can, because most Questors can cast spells that do not even have physical or Minor Magic equivalents that can be used as a reference."
Grimm brightened; the presence of his friend would make his load easier to bear.
"Often, the same spell may not even have the same chant depending on its use," Crohn intoned, in his habitual Magemaster's bored drone, "and you do not need to learn a thousand inflections and accents as you need to do with Runic magic. It is not very complex, but it may seem more so when your stomach is empty. Let us eat now."
Eating in the Refectory was not such a chore now as it had been, since Grimm was now allowed to sit in the comfortable end reserved for mages and paying Students, and to share their richer menu.
Crohn, always an epicure, maintained that it was necessary for a mage to keep his strength up, and that insipid food dulled the mind as well as the appetite; Grimm did not disagree with him. During his Ordeal, he had not been allowed to associate with Madar and Argand, who had once often helped him to some of their goodies; the monotony of his diet had added to his misery.
As he entered the Refectory, he received respectful, and even friendly, nods from many of the boys there, which he returned with all the grace he could manage; Dalquist's advice to exercise generosity seemed to have proved correct, as many of the boys smiled in relieved response.
Two who did not acknowledge him were Shumal, wearing a bandage around his head and sporting a broken nose and black eyes, and Ruvin, with a splint on one arm and numerous contusions on his face. Grimm considered apologising to these two boys, but he found this beyond the charity he had shown to the others. They had revelled in their bullying, and Grimm could not find it within himself to forgive them. He hoped dearly that they had learnt a severe lesson and would think twice before picking on another unfortunate.
Dalquist joined them as Grimm was wolfing down a large piece of ham. Grimm worked manfully to swallow, so he could acknowledge his friend, but Dalquist waved a hand at him, encouraging him not to rush his much-needed meal.
"Good morning, Magemaster Crohn," Dalquist said respectfully, "how goes our new Questor?
"He finally managed his first casting since his Outbreak today," Crohn said, between mouthfuls. He has done well."
"How much damage is there?" Dalquist asked with a knowing smile.
Crohn rolled his eyes. "There is a new hole in the chamber ceiling, and it will be a week before all this plaster and these stone splinters are gone from my robes, but the general intent was there. You Questors may be useful for Guild policy, but you are a menace to clothes and buildings, Questor Dalquist."
"But a friend to tailors and plasterers, eh, Magemaster Crohn?" Dalquist observed.
The Magemaster looked affronted, perhaps at Dalquist's use of vernacular speech, but he said nothing.
"Is it always like this, Dalquist?" Grimm asked before starting on the next slice of ham.
"It's usually a little slower and a little less violent, Grimm, but often messy. It was four months after my breakout before I managed to summon the pattern. Magemaster Urel bade me set fire to a stick for the thirtieth time in a row."
Dalquist chuckled. "He really got annoyed when I cheated and used the Minor Magic chant for Fire, and I snapped back at him. When I succeeded in forming the words, he put me off by laughing at my thought-language; it came out "Shuckle-a-guckle-luckle-duck," which he found rather amusing. As a result, I only charred the stick.
"On the next time I attempted the spell, I vaporised the stick, and it was almost instantly consumed. It cost Urel his eyebrows, and he said he would never again laugh at even a fledgling Questor.
"I was eighteen years old at the time, and I was reckoned a prodigy. You must be-what, nearly fifteen?"
Grimm nodded. "Nearly."
"I predict great things for you, Grimm Afelnor. I wouldn't be surprised if you were Acclaimed Questor next week."
"Well, let us not rush things, Questor Dalquist," Crohn replied. "Nonetheless, I would say that Afelnor has made encouraging progress. I confidently expect to be alive when he is Acclaimed, as he surely will be. My first Magemaster had been dead for thirty years before my Staff rebounded from the Stone. I must say that it irks me a little." His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "I spent decades of earnest study in pursuit of mastery, only to have some callow adolescent come along to eclipse me. You Questors! I hope you never try to emulate the Weatherworkers; the House could be destroyed by a flood or a tornado."
"Don't worry, Magemaster Crohn," Dalquist drawled, making show of inspecting his immaculate fingernails. "I've never been any good at weather; I lack the touch. It's sad to say, I suppose, but most of a Questor's best spells are destructive. I could destroy a ship with a tempest, but it would require a true Weatherworker to bring a steady breeze to drive one along a channel. If a farmer asked me to summon a gentle rain to water his fields, I would likely swamp his lands.
"I can Heal well enough, but I lack the true intuition of an Acclaimed Healer; cuts, bruises and broken bones are about my limit. We Questors lack finesse in many of these skills, even though we can turn a hand to all of them.
"I've worked for five years to master the summoning of fire so I can safely light a taper one day and blast an ogre into oblivion the next, as required. Of course, unlike most Readers, I learnt the latter case first. Questors need to keep the other Specialists around for the easy, gentle spells."
Grimm had been listening to this exchange with interest. It seemed that a Questor was a man to be reckoned with! He vowed to himself to be the greatest Questor he could be in order to vindicate his vilified grandfather's hopes.
With a start, he realised that he had barely thought of Loras since his accession to the rank of Neophyte. In a panic, he wondered if the memory of his grandparents' faces had faded from his memory and quickly called them up in his mind's eye. The faces were there but somehow blurred, although he still recalled the gentle strength and forbearance of his grandfather. How could such a man have been the foul traitor so despised by the House and by the Guild?
He cleared his throat and spoke hesitantly: "Magemaster Crohn, did you ever know my grandfather? I find it hard to believe that the man I remember could have turned traitor."
Crohn looked a little uncomfortable, but he answered. "Yes. Yes, I did know him, quite well. He was a fine Questor… before his fall. I remain convinced that Loras' acts were prompted by pity for the old Prelate, since I cannot imagine for a single moment that he had senseless, pitiless murder in him. But, as the sage said, 'only by our deeds are we truly known.'"
Grimm nodded. "But you still believe in the truth of his accusation." His voice was level, but he had to fight to keep it so.
"As sad as it is for me to say it," Crohn said, with a sigh, "let any doubts of your grandfather's guilt be gone, Adept Grimm. He fully confessed to his deeds in front of the whole House, and it was Lord Thorn himself, his beloved Brother Mage, who discovered him in the act, with a pillow pressed over the Prelate's face. Lord Thorn was truly sorrowful, almost in tears, and he admitted to astonishment at what his greatest friend had so nearly done, but even he acknowledged Loras' guilt in the end, as did Loras himself."