Dream-Dalquist rose to his feet and left the chamber, now wearing a seraphic, mindless smile.
"Wait!” Kargan cried, as Dalquist turned to follow his former self. “There may be more interesting revelations here.” The Mentalist's warning hand on his shoulder felt as solid as any mortal's, and Dalquist turned to watch the Prioress.
Lizaveta shook down her crumpled, white dress and arranged her dishevelled hair, checking her reflection in a full-length mirror. After a deep breath, she strode over to a leather-topped desk, sat down and drew a glass globe towards her.
The Prioress’ hands looked like avaricious, pink spiders as they scuttled over the surface of the crystal sphere, which began to emit a pale green glow at her touch.
After many minutes of glass-fondling, she snorted and jerked in the chair, as if suffering a brief fit.
"Worthless ingrate!” she snapped. “Were you intending to leave me waiting all night, you poor excuse for a mage?"
"It seems you are not the only mage victim of her magic,” Kargan said.
"So you say,” Lizaveta snarled, in response to some unheard reply. “I am so sorry to disturb the rest of such a busy, important man! I trust now you are ready to attend to your mother, after your slothful reverie?"
This situation grows stranger by the minute, Dalquist thought. The mage son of a witch mother!
"Yes, yes, yes-I know all that!” the nun growled. “However, the truth is that you have been drinking again, is it not?
"What? Do not dare to take that tone with me!"
It seemed strange to Dalquist to hear a conversation from one side, but he felt fascinated by the unilateral discourse.
"I am so sorry to hear that! However, it might interest you to hear that your poor mother has been engaged in mortal conflict with one Questor Dalquist… yes, I thought that might wake you up!"
Who is she talking to? the Questor wondered. If I could only hear the other side of the conversation…
"No, he is not damaged, he has just… changed his mind, shall we say?” Lizaveta chuckled, a sound like worms wriggling through a pile of dead leaves.
Who in Perdition is she talking to?
"So the poor, beleaguered, worshipful Lord Prelate Thorn is worried about his little chickens, is he? Well, then, he'd better start working a little harder, had he not? You will never become Dominie by lying on your back in a drunken stupor all day!
"Perhaps not; but I will it, oaf! Take better control of your underlings, or you and I will fall out. Is that quite understood?
"Good. See that you remember that, Thorn."
The words hit Dalquist with the force of a gale. He might not like Thorn, but he had never suspected that the Prelate might be the puppet of some Geomantic megalomaniac.
He looked at Kargan; the Magemaster's face was ashen, his eyes wide.
"I had no idea!” the older mage gasped.
"Nor I,” Dalquist said. “Thorn must-"
The Prioress’ brows lowered. “Do not try, ever to play the mighty sorcerer with me, Thorn!” she said, snorting. “Loras Afelnor was twice the mage you are, and you know what I did to him! I made a mistake by not taking him as my consort, but I will not make the same mistake twice. Just remember that Grimm Afelnor might be your vassal, but he will belong to me! I trust you understand me well.
"Horin is expendable; remember that. You will be his replacement.
"Yes, I thought you might say that. However, that is the end of the matter. That is all, Thorn, dear son."
The nun snatched her hands from the globe like a conductor bringing some orchestral crescendo to a staccato close. The green glow ended, and the bauble became, once more, a plain glass sphere.
Dalquist's mind whirled. He had felt sorrow for the extra burden Grimm had borne as both a charity Student and the grandson of the Betrayer, and he had understood the young Questor's reservations in this regard. However, it now seemed that Grimm's suspicions were more than amply confirmed. Loras had been, somehow, ensorcelled by this woman, and his grandson was, even now, marching into her demesnes.
"I had no idea,” Kargan said, his face red and sweaty.
"Nor did I, Magemaster.” Dalquist fought to control his veering emotions. “But we need to get back now. The House may be at risk, Kargan. Grimm is also in danger, and, should he be compromised, perhaps even the Guild itself."
"He had a lovely voice… such fine delivery-"
"Never mind that,” Dalquist snapped. “How do we get back to the real world?"
Kargan shook his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts.
"The book is open at the correct page on my work table,” he said. “You must focus on the memory of my chamber. At the moment of casting of the spell, our physical bodies will appear to freeze. We then take up the same positions, inside them, and I will deliver the closing incantation."
"I'm ready,” Dalquist declared, and Kargan nodded. The Questor closed his eyes and remembered…
…he looked down at his supine form, and then across at the past image of the Mentalist. Dream-Kargan's face was an intent mask of concentration: his brow furrowed; his flesh red and sweaty. Nonetheless, the flawless voice belied this impression of effort, flowing cleanly from one tongue-tangling phrase to the next.
"…ajamar-asturantikhurimat-TE!"
"That's it,” the ‘real’ Kargan said, as the two images became stiff and immobile. The earlier Mentalist still stared at the book on the table, and the figure of Dalquist lay frozen on the couch, his eyes shut.
"Let's take up our positions. I'll go first, and I want you to tell me when my posture exactly coincides with my older version. There is a little leeway built into the spell, maybe two inches in any direction, but greater accuracy will maximise the chances of success."
"What about me?” Dalquist asked. “You're looking at the book, and I have my eyes shut. How can you tell me when I'm in position?"
"I was careful to place my chair in the optimum position, Questor Dalquist, so I can see you without moving my head. At the end of the spell, I was focusing on the first syllables of the closing chant, so it should be easy to resume that posture."
"How will the chair and the divan support us, Magemaster Kargan? Won't we just sink through them?"
Kargan shook his head. “The preamble to the spell provides fixed, solid reference planes for just such an eventuality. It's all horribly complicated, and I can't pretend I understand it all, but we won't fall to the floor any more than we're falling through it now. Thank the Names; this bit is supposed to be considerably easier than the initial casting. Remember, it doesn't have to be exact."
After a few adjustments, Dalquist declared himself satisfied; he could not tell where one image of Kargan ended and the other began.
His own position was more difficult to ascertain; Kargan fussed for several minutes, advising Dalquist to move an arm here, a leg there, and so on. At last, Kargan said, “Hold it just there, Questor. Close your eyes… excellent. Here we go."
Whereas the spell had taken maybe fifteen minutes to cast, its closure lasted only a few moments. After scant score of runic syllables, Dalquist felt a strange tension pulling on his entire body, and he almost cried out in pain. After another few runes, Kargan stopped chanting.
When the Questor opened his eyes, Kargan was on his feet, stretching and beaming. The chair was empty. Dalquist sat up and knew that he, too, was back in the mortal world.
"Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct,” the Mentalist said, shaking his head as if in disbelief. “It's a shame nobody will ever know of it except you and me, but that will be enough for me."
"Never mind that, Kargan,” Dalquist said. “What do we do now? We know Thorn is a traitor to the Guild. I say we contact the other members of the Conclave at once."
Kargan sighed. “We can't, Questor Dalquist, not on spoken evidence alone. How can we prove any of it? This is only the starting point. We need solid, tangible evidence, and people we can trust."