Despite his aching bones, the Mentalist knew his physical body was not yet too tired to continue.
Thaumato-corporeal transference, he thought, finding comfort in the vast array of arcane technical knowledge his experience as a Questing mage and a Magemaster had given him. It's just the weakness of my mage sensorium leaking through to my para-mortal form.
He thought back to his younger days on the trail, with Questors expending their all in a single, tumultuous, incomprehensible yell, and he realised the gulf of magical strength that must lie between him and this young, troubled mage.
"All right, Questor Dalquist,” he said. “Give me whatever thaumaturgic energy you can spare. You'll need to keep back some strength for your own continuance. I just hope your Shakhmat has enough strength…"
Dalquist held out the staff. “Take whatever you need, Magemaster Kargan."
The Mentalist laid his hand over Shakhmat, drawing strength from it. His jaw dropped and he gasped as a massive surge of energy flooded into his body. Clenching his teeth, he withstood the mighty tide of power, accommodating and accepting the influx.
"Enough!” he gasped, as he seemed to feel his head bulging.
"Are you sure, Magemaster Kargan?” Dalquist asked. “There's plenty more here, I assure you."
Kargan drew a deep breath, marvelling at the unaccustomed access of energy washing through him. He felt almost young again, revelling at the feeling of invulnerability that coursed through his veins, nerves and muscles.
"That's more than enough, Questor Dalquist,” he crowed. “I feel twenty years younger! Well, if you're ready to take a trample through your memories, I'm willing to try it."
"I'm about as ready as I'm ever likely to be, Magemaster Kargan. Let's do the deed."
Kargan took a deep draught of water, swilling it around his mouth and gargling before swallowing it. Despite the potential calamity that might follow from any miscast, he felt enthused.
To my knowledge, only Bledel Soulmaster has ever succeeded in this spell, he thought. After decades wasted in prating at worthless, ungrateful, unheeding Students, this is my chance to show my true mastery. Even if nobody ever knows but Questor Dalquist and me, I'll still have done something almost unique in the annals of the Guild.
Kargan cracked his knuckles and stretched, easing the knots from his muscles.
"I'll just sing a little ballad first, if you don't mind, Questor Dalquist. It helps to free up the throat."
"Go right ahead, Magemaster Kargan. Whatever you need to bring you to peak efficiency is fine with me."
Kargan smiled to himself. Let's see if I can get a Questor to blush, he thought, and took up a singing pose, his hands clasped under his sternum.
"There once was a girl as fresh as new-mown grass,” he carolled. “Red were her lips, and fine was her shapely…"
By the end of the ditty, which grew lewder with each passing verse, the Mentalist smiled at the sight of Questor Dalquist's cherry-red cheeks.
Dalquist lay back on his couch and marvelled at Kargan's virtuoso performance. Although the complex sequence of runes was beyond his ability to follow, the Questor felt astonished at the apparent ease with which the aged mage negotiated complicated transitions and cadences that would have tied the average mage's vocal chords and tongue in knots.
How long can a single spell last? he wondered. It must have been fifteen minutes now, and his voice sounds as clear and firm as if he'd only just started.
He felt a little disconcerted that he sensed no effects yet from the powerful incantation. All of Kargan's previous attempts had invoked a slowly-growing torpor, which had begun to seep through Dalquist's bones after only a few seconds’ casting. However, he knew that the incantation must still be intact, since Kargan had told him that a miscast would be disastrous; this gave him confidence that the spell was proceeding according to the long-dead Bledel's plan.
Still, I wish something would happen, he thought. This is beginning to get…
"All finished,” Kargan said, with more than a trace of pride in his voice, and Dalquist opened his eyes. “Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct, as promised. It's never been done before-at least, not here."
To his astonishment, Dalquist found himself not in some mystical dimensional construct, but still in the Magemaster's chamber. The Mentalist's grin seemed at odds with the prosaic surroundings, and Dalquist sat up, confused.
"Er, Magemaster Kargan,” he said, “We just seem to be where we were. We don't seem to have moved at all."
"Of course not, Questor Dalquist; we're here because this is where we are."
Has Kargan lost his mind? Dalquist wondered. Perhaps he thought he was casting a spell but was really just exercising his throat!
"Your mind is here, and now, Brother Mage,” Kargan said, an almost manic glint in his eyes. “So that is where we are. However, when you access a memory, we will travel to the time and place at which that memory was recorded."
"How does that help?” Dalquist frowned. “We've already established that I can't remember what happened to me in Lizaveta's study at High Lodge."
Kargan sighed. “It's complicated, but I'll have to ask you to trust me. I suppose a demonstration is in order. I'd like you to lie back again and close your eyes. Concentrate on… let's say yesterday's lunch.
"By the way, you should find this pretty interesting."
Dalquist shrugged and did as the mad old man told him. This was an easy enough memory to access, and he took himself back to the previous afternoon…
With a start, he opened his eyes, as clamour assaulted his ears.
"Say something,” Kargan said. “Good, isn't it?"
He was standing beside Kargan in the middle of the Refectory, looking at himself. Students yammered, Neophytes and Adepts studied books and servants bustled around the hall, just as usual. He jumped as a waiter materialised in front of him, seemingly having just walked through him.
Perhaps this is just some bizarre illusion, he thought. All I've got to do is just-
"It's real, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said. “We're real, too, but we're in a three-dimensional construct outside the normal, physical world. We can move around, see, hear and smell, but we can't interact. This is the Refectory, yesterday, not some fantasy or glamour designed to beguile you. While you refrain from concentrating on some other memory, we remain here."
Dalquist frowned. “How does this help? I can see myself eating a dish of chicken breasts, marinated with truffles and almonds. I already know I ate that."
"Come over here,” Kargan said, pointing to one of the Students’ huddles. “Come on, you can just walk through the tables and chairs; they're no barrier to us."
Dalquist followed the Magemaster, involuntarily flinching as he seemed to contact the diners and the furniture. However, Kargan had spoken truth; his apparently solid body passing through these obstructions as if they were not there.
"…so we'll jump on him right after the study period, yes?” one of the silk-attired Students said, his brown eyes earnest and intent. “We won't leave him with anything that shows at all, of course."
The red-headed, freckled boy opposite him snorted."You're crazy, Gura. Crohn'll know, for sure. You know what that'll mean."
Gura smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “Crohn the Moan? He's in on it, I tell you, Uras! As long as we don't maim or kill him, we can do what we like to that whining little pauper brat! And I say we show that wastrel rat, Chag-bag, who're the bosses around here."
"If you're sure it'll be all right, Gura… all right; I'm in!"
"Me, too,” the other boys chorused, and Dalquist swayed a little, feeling nauseous.
"Pleasant little tykes, aren't they?” Kargan said. “I've had my eye on that Gura for some time."