I never imagined Loras’ grandson would be so easily taken, she thought, amazed. I'd have thought he'd have seen through Brianston in an instant. Oh, well; I suppose that's just the folly of youth! Still; he's young and strong, and I'm sure he'll find his way out.
"I hope you do, young Questor, I really do,” she said aloud. “I'd relish meeting you again. If you ever do escape, we'll be ready for you. Won't we, my dear?"
The faithful young handmaiden touched her head to the hem of Lizaveta's robe, as required by the Order's strict protocol.
"Yes, Reverend Mother; we'll be ready."
"I wonder if we should give the boy a little help, Weranda. It'd be a pity to waste all this effort."
"He's dangerous, Reverend Mother,” the girl replied. “May I speak freely?"
The Prioress waved her hand: “Of course, dear Sister."
"Begging your pardon, dear Mother, I think it better if that rat-spawn does die in that place, Brianston. You've done so well to prepare the Priory for his attack, but this mage is powerful. Even a Wiccan as strong as you might be far better off letting the dream-people kill him, rather than facing him."
Lizaveta regarded the girl with a condescending smile. “I will forgive your presumption on this occasion, Sister, having granted you permission to speak freely. However, I will remind you for the last time that I am stronger than any man ever born, including Loras’ jejune spawn."
"I apologise for my most grievous fault, Reverend Mother,” Weranda said, her eyes lowered. “I am yours to chastise as you will."
"Blessed Sister,” the Prioress replied, tapping the handmaiden on her right shoulder. “We must keep you whole and unblemished for now, mustn't we? Just in case…"
Lizaveta laughed, and Weranda joined in.
"Just in case, Reverend Mother,” the girl said, tears of unalloyed mirth running from her eyes. “But, whatever happens, he's dead or enslaved, believe me."
"I do, good Sister."
The Prioress dismissed the young Novice, pleased with Weranda's progress. The girl already seemed to have forgotten her birth-name: Drexelica.
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Chapter 14: Imprisonment
Grimm saw no deliverance from his current straits. He cudgelled his brain for over three hours to no effect before Murar returned.
"Uncle sleeps peacefully once more.” The old man beamed, as if the young mage should feel elation at the news. “The Dream continues, and we thank you for your noble sacrifice."
"What sacrifice?” Grimm demanded, burning with frustrated rage. “Which of my friends did you destroy for the perverted purposes of your foul, barbaric rituals?"
"Fear not, Blessed One,” the old man said, shaking his head. “All of your companions are well. However, we obtained a goodly meal for Uncle from your large, pale friend. Gruon willing, he will provide further sustenance on many future occasions. Your friend sleeps at the moment, but he will be well fed and watered to return his strength before the next feeding ceremony."
Grimm opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again without uttering a sound; foolish vituperation and puerile insults would be of little help.
"Your compound is almost ready, Blessed One; all the citizens of Brianston have been working on it. It is crude and rough at the moment, but it will be secure enough for the protection of all our beloved Realsters. We shall not rest until it is a structure of sufficient grandeur for our guests. It is based on the stone building we use to protect our precious Breeders, but, of course, plain stone would not provide one such as you with sufficient protection."
Protection? He means a shield against Questor magic,” Grimm thought. How by the Names does a dream being know about Questors? Still, it's probably better to go along with him at the moment. With any luck, Thribble will find some loophole or chink in their armour.
"I'm glad to hear it, Murar,” he said, aloud. “These chains are becoming pretty uncomfortable."
The old man's face crinkled, and his distressed expression appeared genuine. “I am sorry to hear that, Blessed One! Your confinement will not last much longer. Our smithies and foundries have been working for several hours to produce metal fitments for the structure, so that your security will be assured."
"Could you not find temporary housing for us, Murar? The imposing stone building over there would seem quite adequate for our needs.” Grimm nodded in the direction of a large structure he saw through the chamber's single window.
On several occasions in the last hour, he had seen the edifice warp and mutate as Gruon shifted in his sleep. With any luck, Murar would accede to Grimm's request, and he and his companions might be freed during another such episode.
To the Questor's regret, Murar shook his head. “You are a naughty one,” the aged Revenant said with a chuckle. “You know full well that the building is one of Uncle's dream-structures and subject to periodic change! In any case, as I told you, we are well aware that stone is a poor material with which to protect a magic-user of your abilities. We need metal bars and meshes of the purest iron to meet your needs; the slightest contamination or impurity constitutes grounds for rejection of a delivery. Our assayers are hard at work ensuring the perfection of the structure, in your honour."
"Thank you so much,” Grimm replied, with a sardonic, twisted smile. “I'm sure we all appreciate the… great honour you do us."
Murar offered a deep bow, seeming to take Grimm's sarcastic words at face value.
"You are more than welcome, Blessed One."
At that moment, Grimm heard the chamber's door creak, and he turned his head to see a slender woman standing in the doorway. She appeared to be in her early twenties, with long, blonde hair, blue eyes and a flawless complexion. In circumstances other than this, the Questor might have found her ravishing. However, this woman, honest, decent and good-humoured as she appeared, must be another of his jailers.
"Revenant Murar, the compound is ready to admit our new guests,” she said in a pleasant contralto, a broad smile brightening her face. Then her gaze lighted on the fettered mage, and her happy expression blossomed into one of pure rapture.
"He is far younger than I would have thought, Revenant Murar! Uncle will sleep well for years to come, with his help!” the young woman crowed. “Welcome, Blessed One, welcome!"
"Beloved guest,” a beaming Murar intoned. “Permit me to introduce Revenant Elamma. It was she who first divined Uncle's culinary tastes, and she is, therefore amongst the most respected of our citizens. In recognition of this, she holds the august position of Protector of the Breeders."
"I am Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Dragonblaster. I am honoured to meet such a respected citizen of Brianston."
Elamma dipped a deep, respectful curtsey. “No, Blessed Grimm, the honour's all mine,” she said. “We last saw a full Mage Questor over thirty years ago, and he served Uncle well before he had to leave us."
Before he died, you mean, thought the mage. You people seem to have a remarkable talent for self-deception and euphemism. I must say, you seem very well-preserved for one of your age. You're probably old enough to be my great-grandmother.
"Living in this fine city seems to agree with you, Revenant Elamma,” he said aloud, deeming diplomacy more advisable than outright confrontation.
The woman's face crinkled into a bashful smile. “Thank you, Blessed One. Uncle seems happy with my current form. I was first created in this image over ninety Dreams ago, and I've remained exactly the same in all of my returns. I look forward to delivering your offspring for many generations. I'll be sorry to see you leave."
Grimm fell into a deep, dark pit of despair, seeing himself as a human stud animal, greying and wrinkling as the years passed, until his pale, shrivelled corpse was tipped into the sleeping Uncle Gruon's maw.
Self-pity flowed through him in a sluggish, murky stream. Drex will grow older and die, never knowing what happened to me, he thought, wallowing in muddy lakes of helplessness. Granfer Loras will live on after his death as the foul Betrayer of the Guild, and the House will write me off as his worthless, renegade progeny. So much for all those dreams of glory and triumph!