"I am not mistaken. That must be General Quelgrum."
Grimm caught sight of the seven gleaming rings on Redeemer, his hard-won symbols of rank as a Guild Mage. Regarding the staff with near-reverence, he took firm hold and all remaining traces of guilt and worry flew from him, as if a cool, refreshing breeze had blown then away.
Thank you, Redeemer, he thought, I won't forget where my duty lies again.
For a few moments, he wondered if Redeemer were somehow enforcing Guild dogma on him, but he then realised it was just restoring the indomitable sense of purpose he had felt when he had carved the staff, imbuing it with his personality as he did so.
Now, he did not need to pretend to feel better; he did.
"Thank you for your kind words and support, Sister Mercia. I really appreciate them,” he said.
"However, I do have a mission to fulfil… three missions, in fact,” Grimm added, thinking of his disgraced grandfather and his bewitched lover. “I intend to succeed in all of them."
Mercia said nothing as the wagon came into view on the long, straight road, drawn by four horses. Then, she leaned close to him and whispered, “I am afraid, Questor Grimm."
"Don't worry, Sister,” Grimm said. “You will be in the company of a Seventh Rank Questor, a mighty demon and three accomplished warriors. Only the most foolhardy of bandits would seek to attack us."
"It is not that which scares me, Lord Mage,” Mercia replied. “I… am seventeen years old, and I was sent here at the age of six. I know nothing of the larger world. I wish to travel with you and your companions because you seem so confident and accustomed to travel…"
She shook her head. “No, I am being foolish. It is unfair of me to lay my burdens on you."
"Not at all, Sister,” Grimm said. “I was sent to Arnor House at the age of seven and imprisoned in the Scholasticate until I was sixteen. I understand just how you feel, believe me. I can tell you, from personal experience, that you will soon overcome your fears. The world is a fascinating and lively place, and you will soon make friends. Have you given any thought as to what you will do?"
Mercia gave her head a vigorous, earnest shake. “Not truly. All I know is healing. I imagine I will have to offer my services to some physician or apothecary."
"Would you like to carry on to the city of Crar?” Grimm asked. “There is a very gentle, kind old man there, by the name of Querl. He is the physician for the whole city, and he works very hard. I'm sure he would be very grateful for the services of a young and talented healer like you."
"Do you think so?” Mercia's face still bore the lines of worry, but they seemed shallower now.
"I'm certain of it,” the mage said. “I'll arrange a meeting as soon as we get there; I promise."
"Thank you, Questor…"
The remainder of Mercia's words were drowned by the clatter of horses’ hooves and the rumble of the wagon as it rolled into the Priory courtyard.
"I just hope I can convince General Q that this is a good idea,” Grimm shouted.
"I do not think you will have to worry about that,” the nun called back. “He… he seems to like me."
The wagon drew to a halt ten feet away from Grimm, and the General leapt off it, wearing a broad smile on his face.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 31: Arguments
Loras heard a now-familiar clanking announcing the opening of the cell door, which swung aside to reveal Questor Olaf. The former mage sat up on his bed, feeling a rush of relief when Olaf addressed him.
"The Conclave awaits you, Master Loras."
Now, Loras vowed, he would have his say, no matter what the members of the Guild court might do to restrain him. He stood to allow Olaf to unfasten his chains from the stud in the centre of the cell floor, trying not to smile.
If they want to quote laws and regulations at me, they will find that I can play their little game, too, he thought.
His former friend stood up, clapping a hand to the small of his back and wincing as he did so.
"Even a Seventh Rank Questor cannot avoid the depredations of age, eh, Lord Mage?"
"Nonsense,” Olaf grumbled. “I am only eighty-seven years old. I must have sat too long by an open door, or some such."
Loras raised an eyebrow, but he said nothing. He knew Olaf was at least ten years older than that. Mages might on average live far longer than Seculars, but they were by no means immune to the passage of time.
"Good luck, Questor Loras,” Magemaster Crohn called from the opposite bed, and he was echoed by Magemaster Kargan and Questor Dalquist. Loras acknowledged them with a courteous nod and a ghost of a smile.
"You're not to accord the prisoner that title!” Olaf snapped, rounding on Crohn.
"Did I just hear you utter a vulgar, Secular contraction, Questor Olaf?” Kargan asked, sitting up, his face contorted in mock-horror. “Surely not!"
Crohn and Dalquist smiled, and Olaf's cheeks reddened.
"You must be hard of hearing, Mentalist Kargan. This often accompanies enhanced age."
Kargan burst into a deep guffaw, and Olaf rose to his full height.
"Be silent, prisoner! Have you forgotten that you are on trial for your lives? This is a serious matter, and I will not have it treated with juvenile jocularity! Remember that your every word here is heard and recorded."
Both Crohn and Kargan stiffened, and their smiles fell from their faces. Loras, too, realised he had almost forgotten the gravity of the charges levelled against him and his fellow prisoners. He had begun to think of his trial as a contest between him and his accusers; a game of skill and cunning.
I have heard of ‘prison madness', he thought, when men succumb to the pressures of long confinement and lose their hold on reason. I think I have just seen its spectre; I was looking forward to baiting and berating the Conclave, without a thought as to the possible consequences for all of us.
"My humblest apologies, Lord Mage,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Please forgive our puerile foolishness. It will not recur, I assure you."
"I apologise with all my heart, Questor Olaf,” Crohn said, rubbing his left temple. “Our asinine behaviour was unforgivable."
Kargan and Dalquist did not speak, but their abject expressions spoke for them.
"This Conclave will be treated with due respect,” Olaf growled. “I will tolerate no more buffoonery."
With that, he tugged Loras’ chains. “Come with me, prisoner. We must not keep the Conclave waiting."
As the smith stumbled behind his warder, he began to rehearse his speech to the court. Outright confrontation would, he now realised, be treated as contempt; a more circumspect approach seemed eminently desirable.
****
"Enter!"
Loras, freed of his fetters, stepped into the hall, feeling his heart beating faster and the hairs standing to attention on his arms, legs and back. He knew he might have only one chance to get his point across; one chance to have his voice heard. He did not want to waste it.
He heard a soft click as the door closed behind him.
"The Conclave admits the prisoner, Loras Afelnor, of the village of Lower Frunstock,” Rithel intoned; the officious, hectoring Voice who had so badgered him two days before.
Bang-bang!
"The Conclave is in session, by order of the Lord Dominie of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges,” Rithel declared, unseen in the shroud of darkness that hid Loras’ accusers from him. “I request permission to read from the closing records of the Conclave's last session with the prisoner, Lord Dominie."
Loras knew his chance might be slipping away from him; as he remembered it, the Conclave had ended his last session with a concerted call for the death sentence. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lord Horin's voice forestalled his incipient protest.