Despite the nagging pains in his left leg and his ribs, Grimm walked towards the other travellers with a song in his heart.
****
Sprit-Lizaveta gasped as she felt the last dregs of earth-power fade with Weranda's-Drexelica's-words.
The disembodied soul thrashed and screamed to no effect. Devoid of her intimate contact with the nourishing, empowering earth, she felt her strength wilting like a candle in the fierce heat of a forge.
Guy… listen to me. LISTEN, rot you! Answer me!
She tried to contact her host, but she could not do so; all she received in return was a package of anguish, self-doubt and suppressed guilt.
Somebody… talk to me… talk to me…
Lizaveta had faced many setbacks in her long life, and she had defeated them all by guile, cunning and native power. Now, she, the pre-eminent witch of her age, was a helpless prisoner in the body of a callow girl. For the first time in her life since she had been the violated vassal of a Temperan slave-trader, whom she had later killed with her nascent Geomantic skills, she felt utterly alone and powerless.
It's all going wrong! Damn Afelnor and his bumbling grandson! Damn this worthless girl and the traitorous Score! Damn them all!
Labouring under the sick, heavy mantle of dread certainty, she realised that she had failed to complete the spell she had begun to cast on her grandson. She knew Geomancy had little in common with its mechanistic, male equivalent, but the concept of an inescapable, ever-amplifying Resonance was well-known to practitioners of both arts.
She knew she had given Guy the first part of his mission: Go to High Lodge.
The next part of the spell contained the message, Dominie Horin must be killed. Soon, I will identify the chosen assassin to you, and tell you your part in the deed. Wait for my signal. If you waver in your resolve, you will know my displeasure like this!
Guy must have received at least part of her spell, but Lizaveta did not know how much.
If he only heard a small part of it… oh, Names, this could be disastrous!
The corporeal Lizaveta would have sighed in dismay. As it was, the spirit-Prioress had to content herself with the fight to prevent her personality being submerged under her host's. Her former handmaiden, Drexelica, had forsaken her.
The stupid girl had succumbed again to Afelnor's blandishments and in so doing had deprived Lizaveta's wandering spirit of her last vestiges of power. The Prioress's spirit raged within her fleshy prison, but to no avail. Only one path seemed available to her; she needed to find another, more controllable host-and soon!
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Chapter 38: Travels
The road became narrow and rutted, and Grimm regretted his advice to General Quelgrum to give Yoren such a wide berth. The ill-sprung wagon jolted and jarred as if it were some living creature trying to escape its leash, and the young mage began to wonder how much longer he would be able to hold on to his last meal.
Only another two days, he told himself. Then we'll be back in civilisation, with decent roads ahead of us.
The thought did not enthuse him much: they had been bouncing on this dirt track for only four hours, and Grimm already felt nauseous.
Shakkar had abandoned the cart, preferring to take to the air on his leathery wings. Grimm had no intention of looking for the demon; only by focusing on the vehicle's relatively motionless interior could he retain any sense of equilibrium. The merest glimpse of the outside world sent his entrails into convulsions, and closing his eyes proved even worse.
In front of him sat Tordun, who seemed quite unaffected by this chaotic motion, lost in some pleasant world of his own as he hummed softly to himself. Grimm envied the warrior's iron constitution, not for the first time.
He looked down at Drexelica, who sat in silence beside him, her head lolling on his left shoulder and her right hand resting lightly on the other. Her face looked a little paler than usual; indeed, he fancied her ashen complexion had taken on a faint tinge of green.
Grimm turned his head slowly to the right. Sister Mercia seemed in even worse straits: from time to time, her throat twitched, and she held a slender, trembling hand over her moisture-beaded forehead. Her hair was matted and lank, and her breathing was shallow and fitful.
Refusing to surrender to his nauseous misery, the Questor drew Redeemer closer, hugging the staff as if it were some long-lost brother, drawing strength from it.
Redeemer! The bright thought flashed into his mind, and he thought of the very first spells he had first cast on the weapon: the Minor Magics of Stability and Inner Clarity. Magemaster Kargan had advised him to use these spells to combat the worst effects of inebriation.
Grimm drew hungrily upon the buried spells, like a starving man falling on a banquet. In an instant, he felt a cool flood of calm running through his rebellious gut and his fevered head, steadying and soothing him. He was whole again, able to look around with abandon.
As long as he accessed the spells, he would be able to withstand the rigours of the journey, and the simple Minor Magics required little energy to maintain. Redeemer held more than enough stored power to fulfil this paltry function.
"Ladies,” he yelled, his voice only just able to overcome the riotous din from the wagon's unsteady progress, “take hold of Redeemer. As long as you keep hold, I think you'll be all right."
Drex removed her trembling hand from his shoulder and reached out to grasp Redeemer. At once, he saw the colour returning to Drex's face, and her drooping eyelids shot wide open.
"That's wonderful, Grimm!” she cried. “I feel so much better!"
Mercia laid her own hand on the staff, just below the lowest golden ring. She did not speak, but her broad, grateful smile was answer enough.
Well, at least I've done something useful today, he thought. Let's hope the rest of the journey is a little more cheerful.
Drex leaned her head back on his left shoulder, and Grimm felt her contentment and her love. He smiled and rested his head against hers.
****
Prioress Lizaveta's soul could not suffer from motion sickness, but she felt as miserable as the love-struck mortals. She had hoped Drexelica might access her Geomantic powers at some point in the journey, perhaps allowing spirit-Lizaveta to regain full control over the girl's emotions and actions. However, she had not done so. Drexelica's rediscovered love for Grimm Afelnor was the last straw.
Spirit-Lizaveta knew her last vestiges of command had been obliterated by that blinding revelation. The intricate network of mental blocks, associations and aversions she had fostered were washed away like a spider's web in a flash-flood.
She knew now that nothing could stop her being delivered to the tender mercies of Lord Dominie Horin's interrogation at High Lodge. Having done her best to ensnare Horin, she had been thwarted by the same Questor Grimm who had contrived to kill her, and who now led her back to judgement.
Horin will never show me clemency, she berated herself. His Guild will never tolerate a challenge to their masculine supremacy by a witch; they will surely expunge my spirit.
It is my own fault: I underestimated Questor Grimm when I tried to control him, at the cost of my physical life. I assumed he would be a pale copy of his grandfather, Loras; but, if anything, he is Loras’ superior in skill and power. I should never have attempted to dominate him.
Her plans to exert control over the Guild, so that her own Order would gain the respect and ascendancy she craved, lay in ashes. Thorn, her ungrateful oaf of a son, had betrayed her, despite all she had done for him. She had also failed in her attempt to exert her full will on her bastard grandson, Guy, when her power was stripped from her in mid-spell by Questor Grimm.