Grimm had not the least idea of what might be required of him, but he asked, "And if I am successful at the Stone?"
Crohn shrugged. "Should you and the staff prevail, you will be Acclaimed as a Guild Mage and given the Guild Ring, which only you can remove from your finger.
"Go now and start work on your own staff, and come to see me when you are ready. You may use any of the grimoires in the Library, and you may use any spells that you have memorised, or any that you can formulate with your spell-language; the results will be the same, whatever spells you choose. Only complete dedication to your task will bring the desired result.
"I will await your return with eagerness. Certainly, you may see Questor Dalquist or me at any other time, but ask nothing of creating the staff, for none of us can tell you what to do. This will be your own work, and only yours. I wish you clarity in your thoughts, Grimm Afelnor. This is your room now, and no other may enter, upon my order."
Crohn gave a hesitant half-bow and left Grimm with the piece of wood.
Grimm ran his hands along the rough wood and gauged how it would cleave, trying to ascertain the form of the staff beneath the bark. He sat in silence for perhaps an hour; probing, feeling, assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the material.
"I dub you Redeemer," Grimm muttered. "Together, we will work to redeem my family name."
Then, in a single, decisive motion, he drew his penknife, one of his few personal possessions, and began to carve. He was careful to remove the minimum amount of material at each stroke and, after each, he re-assessed the wood. He began to feel the grain structure, where the knots might be, the shape of the supple, strong heartwood.
The rumbling of his stomach awakened him to the fact that several hours had passed. He looked down at his feet and saw a pile of small shavings that would have to be cleaned up, and he felt a little surprised at his progress. However, the staff remained just a rough piece of wood, and no magic resonated within it. How was he to imbue it with all the powers it was meant to attain? The completion of Crohn's staff, Mist, had taken seven months, but Grimm had consistently outperformed Crohn's expectations before; he hoped that he would continue to do so.
He realised he was very tired and hungry, and he shuffled off to the Refectory with the rough, fledgling staff, vowing that Redeemer would never leave his side for a moment until his Acclamation, no matter when that might be. He sat alone as he ate, but he felt no loneliness. Soon, he would be leaving the Scholasticate and venturing into the wide world outside. With a start, he realised that he could remember next to nothing of the regions outside these walls, of which he had seen nothing for nine years. Was it really that long? The concept seemed to mock him, and he shivered, realising that the Scholasticate was his home and his whole world. He slept fitfully that night, the staff at his side. In his dreams, he stood, teetering, on the brink of a vertiginous cliff.
For the next month, Grimm flitted like a brown bat around the Scholasticate with his dormant staff. Some days, he spent hours shaping and whittling, or even just softly taking to the dead piece of wood. He forged the staff's brass shoes on his own, annealing copper and zinc ingots with his magic and allowing them to shrink onto the gleaming wood as they cooled. To his immense pleasure, they were a perfect fit.
At other times, he spent his time in the library, steeping himself in the grimoires and librams once denied him, but which were now his friends. On occasion, he would talk to his human friends, Madar, Argand and Dalquist, but his mind was elsewhere, reaching forward in time to his Acclamation and freedom.
The staff was warm to Grimm's touch, blending seamlessly with his hand. He had poured formless energy into it night and day for three months and, it now vibrated gently at his touch, like the purring of a contented cat. He placed it on the floor and walked ten paces.
"Staff, to hand," he muttered in plain language, without touching his deeper power, and the staff flew to his outstretched right palm, fitting it with intimate closeness. With a deep breath, he moved away to Crohn's cell and tapped at the door, even though he knew well the lateness of the hour.
The dishevelled Magemaster looked haggard and peeved, standing shivering in a long night-gown. "Could it not wait until the morning, Afelnor?" he groaned.
"My staff is finished, Senior Magemaster Crohn." Grimm could barely control the eagerness in his voice. "I am ready for my test at the Breaking Stone." He held the brass-shod staff before him, and it glowed with blue balefire.
Crohn's eyes bulged, suddenly wide-awake. "I agree," he breathed. "I can feel the magic in your staff, and it seems well attuned to you."
He wagged an admonitory finger at Grimm. "I trust you have done your work as well as I believe you can. For tomorrow, you will have to prove your staff against the Breaking Stone; only that severe test can prove the bond between you. Failure will mean more months of work before you can try again."
Looking at the drawn Grimm, he put a friendly hand on the youth's right shoulder. "You must go to bed, Adept Grimm. Of course, you have now condemned me to a sleepless night, for I must summon a Conclave to witness the event. But I would not miss it for the world. Say nothing to anybody else, not even your closest friends. Sleep now, for you must be up with the cockcrow. Go now."
Grimm felt too tired to argue; he had expected a greater reaction from Crohn, but all he wanted now was sleep.
It seemed he had closed his eyes only minutes before, but here was Doorkeeper, arrayed in stiff, formal robes that Grimm had never before seen him wearing.
"Ten minutes, Grimm Afelnor; ten minutes and no more!" crowed the major-domo. "You must be ready for their Lordships. Wear this robe; your own grandfather wore the same robe at his own Acclamation. Don't speak. Wash! Hurry now!"
Doorkeeper seemed no different from the man the seven-year-old Grimm had met on his first day, apart from the fact that Grimm now overtopped him by six inches. He flitted around the cell like a frightened mouse, chattering in the brief staccato phrases that Grimm recognised so well.
"The staff! Don't forget the staff; I can't touch it now, can I? Quickly, put your robe on. Tie your hair. Look, I'll do it. There. Tidy your beard a little, do!
"Oh, leave it, then. Come on, quickly now."
They hurried down the corridor leading to the gate to the Great Hall, a gate that had been locked to Grimm for the last nine years, and Doorkeeper flung it wide with a flourish. Grimm hesitated for a moment, and then stepped through, suddenly nervous and a little giddy at the wide open space of the Great Hall. A host of formally robed wizards stood ranged around the Breaking Stone, with Thorn standing apart.
In a huge voice, the Prelate cried, "Behold: an Adept approaches!"
"An Adept approaches," echoed the hooded mages.
Motioned to the stone, Grimm stood before the Guild Master, suppressing the trembling that threatened to control him, and he spoke as Crohn had taught him.
"I offer this House my utmost allegiance and fealty unto death," he said, pleased that his voice was clear and strong. "A simple Adept beseeches elevation to the degree of Mage. I beg your indulgence."
Thorn stood aside from the stone. "Welcome, Adept," he intoned. "By a true staff forged by will and sorcery is a Guild Mage known. A lifeless token of wood and metal forged in the supplicant's own soul, formed into an extension of his will."
Grimm stepped up to the stone, drew his breath and raised the staff above his head.
"It's just you and me now, Redeemer," he muttered. "Please don't let me down."