"Your problem is that you think you have to tell people what to do: you have to have all the answers available, no matter what. Well, I can tell you that nobody ever has all the answers. You've not helped yourself at all by that little display back there, but you need to concentrate a lot more on who, rather than what you are. You know Questor Guy's never going to get down on his knees and worship you; why do you bother to try to impress him? From what I see, that's one of your major problems. What you need to realise is that he's a lot like you."
Grimm felt his eyes bulge, and his breath surged. “I don't think he's like me at all!” he said. “He thinks he's better than everybody else-"
"-Don't you, Lord Baron?"
"No, I don't, General!"
"You act like you do, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said in a calm, quiet voice. “You take on an apparent suicide mission. You expect to perform miracles, and you burst into tears when you can't achieve them. If there's one thing I've learnt in all my years of fighting, it's this: win or lose, act as if you expect it.
"If you lose, then you tried your best against insuperable odds. By crying that way-it's quite distasteful to me, in fact-you told me and the others you didn't trust or want us to help you."
"It wasn't like that at all!” Grimm protested.
"I know that, Lord Baron… Look, with all due respect, you're still just a kid. A kid with balls and some muscle, I can't deny, but a kid in any case. You let us all down by bursting into tears like that. Your best bet is to be open about the whole thing, rather than just trying to let it lie. Apologise, and plead your youth if you need to-but apologise for that disgusting display of self-pity as soon as you can. Otherwise, you'll lose all your friends, including me."
Grimm thought he heard more than an echo of Magemaster Crohn there, and he nodded at once. “I will, General. I just want to-"
He heard a distant creak that he recognised, the sound of a key being turned in the inner door, and he spun around as the portal swung open.
Forgetting his shame and his pathos, he leapt to his feet and cried, “We've got company! Let's move!"
He summoned his magical power and swore to sell his life dear.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 19: ‘A Dangerous Game'
Dalquist found himself in Prioress Lizaveta's former apartments in High Lodge, which looked as opulent as he remembered them. Lizaveta, clad in white, lounged at ease on her crimson, gold-tasselled divan, her hand extended to receive his former self's polite obeisance. Nothing conflicted with his memory of the scene.
"Ah, Lord Mage, welcome. How may I be of service to you? I normally receive visitors only by appointment, but I am happy to make an exception in the case of such a distinguished mage,” the Prioress said, and Dalquist shivered anew at the unpleasant, crackling quality of her voice.
Dalquist felt somewhat disgusted at the sight of himself kissing Lizaveta's ruby ring, but it again accorded with his recollection.
I can certainly see why Bledel's spell requires such a high level of skill and power, he thought. The clarity and detail of this vision is astonishing!
As the scene unfolded, Kargan asked, “Anything unusual so far, Questor Dalquist?"
The younger mage shook his head. “It's all exactly as I remember it, except…"
Lizaveta had just uttered the words, “I am sure that this is no more than a friendly liaison between two young people."
Dalquist's memory was that he had agreed with the Prioress at this point, and that he and she had shared a convivial glass of wine before he left. However, this earlier version of him seemed to have taken on a will of his own, insisting that sinister forces were at work.
"I don't remember any of this,” he admitted. “How can this be if this spell works on my powers of memory?"
"Bledel's enchantment accesses the true, unfettered memories of your subconscious,” Kargan replied. “Trust me; what you see here is what really happened."
"My word, this is a sorry state of affairs; a witch within my own Order! I will have her expelled immediately,” the image of Lizaveta said.
"That is not all, Reverend Mother,” dream-Dalquist replied with a shake of the head. “The girl Madeleine does not appear to be casting the magic. It would appear to be coming from outside her."
At these words, Dalquist saw the Prioress’ face assume a vicious snarl, and the old woman flung a spell that made his former self stagger backward. Blue motes filled the air as dream-Dalquist countered the ensorcelment with Questor magic.
"So, now the truth is out,” he gasped, “Know that you are dealing with a Mage Questor, witch. I am also not some besotted adolescent, unaware and unprepared."
"That was rather good, Questor Dalquist.” Kargan seemed to be enjoying himself, “a nice turn of phrase, and excellent presence."
"This isn't some Scholasticate lesson, Magemaster,” Dalquist snapped, as a fierce exchange of magic turned the air into a blue, soupy fog. “This is part of my bloody life!"
"She is a strong one,” Kargan observed. Lizaveta's defiant snarl remained undiminished as spell after spell crashed into her. “You wouldn't think it to look at her. Ah, there we go! You're beginning to get the upper hand now."
Lizaveta sank to her knees, her eyes becoming glazed and unfocused, and Dalquist felt rather proud of his commanding presence. This was a conflict of which he had been unaware, and it was a revelation to see himself in action.
The Questor heard the door creak, and he turned to see a small, violet-clad figure entering the room. It was Sister Madeleine, the sweet, cheerful young nun whose innocent dalliance with Grimm had prompted the meeting.
However, this girl's expression was far from innocent as she saw the altercation. Her face a mask of hatred, her mouth compressed into a tight slit, she raised her hands as the two combatants battled on, seemingly oblivious to her presence.
Dalquist shot out a hand as Madeleine strode forward, trying to stop her. His arm swept straight through the nun, as if she were no more substantial than mist. Madeleine squeezed her eyes shut, her flawless, gritted teeth exposed in a feral grimace as dream-Dalquist toppled to the floor. The magical fight was over.
He felt stunned, drained and astonished. His memory was invalid, a fantasy.
"Say something, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said.
Dalquist shook his head in confusion. “This whole meeting seems strange to me now, Magemaster. I remember meeting Lizaveta well enough, but in a quite different sense; a purely social one. As I now realise, I only began to recall any contact with the Prioress when Shakkar mentioned her name. What seemed so sure a few hours ago now seems hazy and indistinct."
"That is the nature of recall,” the Mentalist declared. “In memory, context is everything."
After a brief exchange between Lizaveta and Madeleine, the younger nun left the room, walking right through Dalquist as she did so.
Now, dream-Dalquist lay rigid, staring up at his nemesis, his face wearing a stony, blank expression.
"When you leave here,” Lizaveta was saying, “you will not remember that you have met me, but you will remember what I have said as if the conclusion is your own."
"But I do remember-almost. Or, rather, I thought I did,” Dalquist said, his mind reeling with confusion.
"Rationalisation,” Kargan said. “You could not have justified defending Lizaveta to yourself, if you had no memory ever of meeting her. Nonetheless, this is the truth of the matter. You were ensorcelled by a powerful witch, and her spell has been controlling your thoughts and emotions, to some extent, ever since this time."
"Ah, yes, thank you, Reverend Mother,” the empty-faced figure said. “I just wanted to be certain that my friend would not get into any trouble with you. I am relieved that he will not. He and Sister Madeleine will make such a nice couple."