Realising his fists were tightly clenched, Grimm relaxed them. His fight was not against Guy Great Flame; it was against the witch, Lizaveta, the root cause of both mages’ problems.
"What would you rather be?” he continued. “An anonymous pauper despised for his lack of social status but respected for his success in the Ordeal; or the Renegade's Spawn, loathed for his grandfather's treason? I have laboured under that stigma since I was seven years old, and I grew up believing that it was all true: my beloved grandfather was a damned, bloody murderer! Now, I know Lizaveta was behind all of that, and I intend to make her pay for every single insult I had to endure as a Student.
"Compared to what I had to face as a child, Great Flame, your life must have been a bloody picnic!"
To Grimm's surprise, the wrinkled lips just smiled. “I can see I've misjudged you, Grimm: you're no different to me, are you?” the juxtaposed mage croaked. “You aren't just some jumped-up little nobody trying to make a name for himself, are you? You hate the old witch just as much as I do; maybe more so!
"It isn't just a Guild Quest for you, is it, youngster? You're just as hungry for revenge as I am!"
Grimm tried to speak, but could not do so; the older Questor had touched a sensitive nerve.
Guy/Numal slapped him on his right shoulder. “Don't worry, Grimm, I understand: you're only human after all."
Numal/Guy walked, or rather shambled, over to the woodpile and tripped, sprawling prone in front of the wagon.
"I want my own body back!” the imprisoned Necromancer yelled, hoisting himself back to his feet. “As I told the General, I even have trouble peeing, because these damned legs are too bloody long: I find it difficult to stand still long enough to finish."
A brief moment of silence ensued, and Grimm shot a stern glance at the old soldier, who just shrugged.
"What's the matter,” Numal croaked. “Did I say something wrong?"
"But I thought…!” Harvel started, his face reddening before he started to laugh again. This time, even Guy joined in the mirth.
Lizaveta sat on her magnificent, gilded throne and pounded a long rod on the flagstones. The nervous, chattering nuns before her became silent, assuming positions of religious modesty as they knelt before their Superior.
"Sister Judan; I declare you Mistress of this solemn ceremony,” the Prioress intoned. “We are all in your hands; I entrust to you the success of our endeavour."
"Thank you, Reverend Mother,” the matronly nun said, rising to her feet. “May I address the Conclave?"
"Please do so, Sister,” Lizaveta replied. “As I told you, for the purposes of this Great Spell, you may consider yourself an Authority over all present, including me."
The Prioress could not be sure, but she imagined she detected a faint sparkle of triumph in Judan's grey, bespectacled eyes, as the nun scanned a thick sheaf of papers.
"I would like to call the Score to order,” Judan said in a curt, businesslike manner.
"Is the room sealed, Sister Ulian?” she asked of a short nun in her thirties.
"It is, Sister Judan."
"Sister Ellen; do you have the bees’ eyes?"
"I regret that I was unable to obtain a sufficient quantity at such short notice,” Ellen replied, a stout, red-faced woman who looked as if she might have felt more at home in a laundry than a nunnery. “Consulting my own notes, I took the liberty of substituting dragonflies’ eyes for one-third of the requirement, and wasps’ eyes for the remaining three-eighths. I hope this will be satisfactory."
A spark of annoyance in her eyes, Judan riffled through her papers. “The quantities are exact?"
"To within a drachm or so, Sister,” Ellen said. “I was careful to use only green dragonflies and wood wasps. I used a flint blade for removing the dragonflies’ eyes, of course, rather than one of obsidian."
Judan leafed through her notes for a few minutes more before replying. “The signatures match; however, I see that I will need to adjust the cadence of the second phase of the third chant."
Taking forth a pencil from within her robes, the nun scribbled on the relevant page, pausing at intervals to scan the ceiling, muttering as she did so. Three times, she scored through her calculations and began anew, before pronouncing herself satisfied.
"The lodestone dust is sufficiently fine, I trust, Sister Sofia?"
"Sieved twenty-eight times, as required, Sister,” Sofia said, her large, long-lashed, blue eyes at odds with her stern expression. “I followed your instructions to the letter.
"I trust you used a pure asem mirror, Sister?"
"Of course… Sister!"
Judan's eyes blazed at the girl's affronted, impertinent voice. “Do not dare to take that tone with me!” she snapped. “When the spell is complete, you may subject yourself to three hours of Penitence of the third grade!"
Sofia's blue eyes widened and her jaw dropped: Judan had condemned her to lie prone on a layer of sharp stones, with her arms raised behind her like wings. The least movement would result in a lash from a steel-tipped martinet held by a watchful attendant.
"Can Sister Judan do that, Reverend Mother?” The words burst from the girl's lips as if torn from her, and she raised an imploring gaze to the Prioress. “I worked for many hours on my preparations!"
"Sister Judan is the Authority here, Sister Sofia,” Lizaveta hissed. “She may assign any punishment she wishes, as you should know well.
"However, you have compounded your error by disregarding Custody of the Eyes. Your sentence is hereby extended to four hours, and I shall be your attendant during the Penitence. “I trust you will apply yourself to your work here with diligence; I should not like to have to condemn you to a Penitence of the fourth grade. Apologise at once!"
A slight, weak girl like Sofia would be unlikely to survive such an ordeal, and her expression showed that she knew this only too well.
"I apologise with full humility, Reverend Mother, Sister Judan and all my beloved Sisters,” Sofia breathed, lowering her eyes and prostrating herself before the conclave.
"Apology accepted, Sister Sofia,” Lizaveta said, favouring the prone nun with a curt nod. “Should you perform well tonight, I may choose to substitute a horsewhip for the martinet, if Sister Judan is amenable to this."
"I have no objection, Reverend Mother,” Judan replied, curtseying. “May I continue? We have many other stipulations and conditions to consider, and the spell must be cast within the next two hours if it is to succeed."
"Please carry on, Sister. You may rise, Sister Sofia.
"Thank you for your indulgence, Reverend Mother."
Judan consulted her detailed, specific notes for the next ninety minutes, firing pointed questions at each Sister in turn; every woman present had a vital role to perform, if the spell was to succeed.
A few Sisters confessed to minor failures of attention or detail, and two nuns were condemned to minor punishments for their transgressions. At each negative report, Judan made adjustments to her calculations but, at last, she declared herself satisfied.
"Sisters, please go to your posts!” she cried, consulting a small compass. “Reverend Mother, may I ask you to move to your left a little? Thank you."
"Sister Vanar; the brand should be in your left hand, you idiot!” Judan screamed, departing for a moment from her tutelary mien.
"My apologies, Sister."
"Hmm. Tribunes; please move a little closer together… more… thank you. Sister Jana, raise your left arm a little higher… there. Thank you-hold that pose.
"Reverend Mother; we are ready."
"Carry on, Sister Judan."
"Sister Moran; the first chant, if you please!"
The spell was under way.
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Chapter 3: The Summoning
The two armed guards at the entrance to Grimm's tower in Crar had strict standing orders to challenge any person approaching the building. In the case of Shakkar, however, such niceties were waived; there was little chance of any miscreant being able to disguise himself as the titanic demon Seneschal.