"Neophyte Grimm destroyed-devastated-an entire classroom,” Crohn said. “He was almost insane with rage and pain.
"Pain I visited upon him."
"I know pain,” Xylox replied. “It is a Questor's-"
Crohn saw the Questor's eyes bulge, his fists clench and his jaw drop, as all colour fled from his face. Then, with a hoarse, agonised groan, Xylox collapsed to the flagstones.
"You know pain now, Questor Xylox,” came a voice from the floor, and Crohn saw Questor Dalquist sitting up, rubbing an egg-sized lump on his temple and grimacing.
"What magic did you cast on him?” Kargan asked.
"I didn't,” confessed the younger Questor. “I just brought Shakhmat up between his legs; crude, but effective. We don't have time for diplomacy and civilised debate."
"Bundle him into one of the cells,” Crohn ordered, suppressing a smile at Xylox's ignominious downfall.
In a moment, Kargan and Dalquist had thrust the almost comatose Xylox into a clean cell, and Crohn locked the door.
"Let us pay Lord Thorn a visit,” he said.
****
Loras struggled to summon his power, but Chag's mindless, wordless, insane assault continued unabated. It was all he could do to resist the formless bolts of naked power, and he knew he could not defend himself much longer.
He writhed on the floor, his eyes shut and his teeth clenched in agony, when the magical beating stopped. Opening his eyes, he saw Thorn standing over him, the drooling, wild-eyed boy at his side.
"I like my position, Loras,” the Prelate said, his tone almost apologetic. “I am sorry, old friend. Will you not reconsider your demands? I would prefer not to have to kill you."
"How kind of you, Thorn,” gasped Loras, licking his sore, teeth-torn lips and tasting the acrid, metallic tang of blood.
"What do you think of our new Questor?” the Prelate asked. “Of course, he will never go to the Breaking Stone, but he makes a formidable bodyguard, does he not?"
"Questor?” Loras said, spitting out a broken incisor. “He is a chimera, an inhuman abomination, not a Guild Mage.
"May the Names forgive you, for I cannot."
Thorn sighed, and sat back in his chair.
"Is that your final word, Loras? Remember that it is in your power to remit your suffering. I would prefer to have you at my side as a reinstated Guild Mage and an ally.
"Think hard, my friend."
Loras thought, I cannot beat this boy; I have no Questor defence against his perverted power. It would be foolish to throw my life away in this manner. Personal pride is insufficient reason.
"If I agree to maintain your fantasy,” he croaked, “what happens then?"
"I remain Prelate,” Thorn said. “I admit my mother's part in your disgrace and recommend your absolution by the Lord Dominie. I will declare Questor Grimm free of his obligation to the House, and you may both resume a normal life in honour or remain here as full Questors, as you wish. Either way, I will arrange a comfortable stipend for you."
"I am a married man,” Loras said, sitting up with some difficulty. “I will not renounce my wife, and a Guild Mage cannot engage in any liaison with a woman."
"I am sure that problem can be overlooked,” Thorn said, with a casual shrug. “The circumstances are, after all, most unusual."
"And what must I do, Thorn?"
The Prelate smiled. “All you have to do is to agree to a little Compulsion not to betray my… my less conventional decisions,” he said. “I fancy I can only do this to a Questor of your strength with your acquiescence."
"What else will you put in my head if I agree, Thorn?” Loras demanded. “How do I know I will not end up as much a slave as this poor boy?"
"I am not my mother,” Thorn replied, “and I have no desire to subdue or dominate you. I ask only a little security in my position, and I do not wish to become Dominie. I am content in statu quo, and that is all I want."
"What about the boy, Chag?"
"If you wish, I will put him in the care of a competent Mentalist and a Mage Healer,” Thorn said, opening both hands towards Loras, “after you have agreed to my little caveat. Chag need remember nothing of this, and no word will go outside this door."
It all sounds so reasonable.
Loras might have to swallow a little injured pride, but he could have almost all he wanted: his family; his redemption in the eyes of the Guild; freedom from poverty. After years of struggling, self-condemnation and penury, he might be free.
It was all he might have hoped for, and the smith-Questor felt the strings of temptation tugging at his heart.
What will happen if I refuse? Loras wondered. What will happen to Drima without my support? What will happen to…
Loras clamped down on his train of thought with the discipline of a full Mage Questor, killing it.
"You told me that Grimm is on a Quest to eliminate Lizaveta,” he said, feeling an electric pang of horror that he had spared his grandson so little thought. “Where is he?"
Thorn shrugged again, as if the answer to the question were unimportant. “He must be in Rendale,” he said. “Most of the nuns know little of my mother's darker activities; only twenty witches know her true nature. Questor Grimm and his well-armed retinue should be able to overcome them. Set your mind at rest on that score.
"If you wish to add your skills to his, I will be happy to allow you to do so, once we have completed our negotiations."
Loras had never voyaged to Rendale, and he knew nothing of its possible perils. He scanned Thorn's aura, seeing only calm, blue shades of unconcerned contentment.
He felt a cold shock scurrying up his neck.
He's lying; or, at least, he's found some way to hide the fact from me!
He's already used magic on me! he thought, with a shiver. He's been pushing all thought of Grimm out of my head! He's been playing with me all the time!
One part of Loras’ psyche screamed at him to throw the Prelate's false generosity back in his face, while another pleaded for a more cautious approach.
What to do? he wondered, casting a nervous eye at the drooling, lethal Chag. Do I die, saving my honour at the possible expense of my family, or do I pretend to go along with Thorn, waiting for a propitious moment that may never come?
"Do you agree, Loras?” Thorn asked.
The smith felt as if his tongue had turned to ashes. He knew he must give some kind of response: a cold refusal or a false, cloying acceptance.
"Thorn,” he said, indecision clinging to him like a thick, stifling cloud, “I must know-"
At that moment, the thick, oaken door to the office disappeared in a blizzard of blue sparks, and Thorn sprang to his feet, his eyes wide. Loras saw an unfamiliar, young man with a seven-ringed staff step through the opening, with Magemasters Crohn and Kargan just behind him. Chag uttered a guttural growl, raising his hands. As the insane youth diverted his attention from Loras, the smith saw his moment.
"Aghamaner-setset!” he screamed, feeling the incomparable, long-forgotten joy of thaumaturgic release as he launched an impromptu spell of lassitude at the boy. “Orgimaringem'ist framintes!"
Chag spun towards him, his mouth slack as his knees began to buckle, and Thorn flung his head back, beginning to chant.
Still holding the spell on the tumbling boy, revelling in the stream of magical power flowing from him, Loras took a strong, two-handed grip on Blade and swung it at Thorn's chest. Blue motes flew as the two staves, Loras’ and Thorn's, smashed into each other, but the smith had the advantage of greater momentum.
The Prelate gave an eerie, high-pitched squeal as he flew back to thud into the wall with a wet sound like a plank hitting a freshly-plastered wall. He sank to the floor and lay still.
"Greetings… gentlemen,” Loras gasped, grimacing at the strain of maintaining his spell on the dormant Chag. “Would one of you please restrain this poor boy? I am a little out of practice, and this lad is a touch excitable."