On reaching the Refectory, Grimm felt no surprise to see several mages already taking their morning repasts. Five sat alone in silence, their attentions absorbed by scrolls or books, while four others sat in a huddled group, deep in earnest but quiet conversation.
The young Questor, although his appetite this morning was keen, decided to take a frugal meal; an over-full stomach was not conducive to happy riding. A crusty roll, a small pickled fish and a glass of orange juice would have to suffice. As he moved to a table, he noticed a solitary figure hunched over a full plate. Although the mage's head was covered by a hood, Grimm noted his naked staff, bereft of any rings denoting status, marking him as a very recent addition to the senior ranks of the House. This silent figure could only be the new Necromancer, Numal.
"Greetings, Brother Mage."
Numal's head jerked up, and Grimm looked into a face of misery. The Necromancer's sallow complexion seemed even paler than usual, and the Questor could not help but notice Numal's bloodshot eyes.
"Greetings, Grimm," was the whispered reply. "Do you think you could talk a little more quietly?"
Grimm suppressed a smile; Numal's malady was an easy one to cure. In a softer tone, he said, "Take hold of my Mage Staff, Numal. It has some very useful spells cast upon it. Don't worry, it can't hurt you if you touch it with my permission."
The fledgling Necromancer reached out a trembling hand and clutched Redeemer. He shuddered as if palsied for a few moments, before falling back into his chair. Grimm was pleased to see that, although Numal's eyes were still red, they seemed more focused and clear.
"Thank you, Grimm," Numal said. "I needed that. How did you do it?"
"It's just an application of the Minor Magics, Numaclass="underline" a spell of Stability to steady your stomach and stop the world spinning around, and a spell of Clarity to clear your head. If you cast them on your staff, using the Third Instance, they'll stay there forever."
"What do I use for activation energy?" the Necromancer asked.
"They're simple enough spells," Grimm said. "Body heat's more than adequate as a source of energy."
The new mage eyed his neglected breakfast with renewed interest and began to attack it with vigour, while the younger man polished off his own.
"I made a complete fool of myself last night, didn't I, Grimm?" Numal said, looking up from his breakfast. His face was ruddy, embarrassed.
Grimm's shrugged. "Don't worry about it, my friend. 'When the wine's in, the wit's out', as they say. I fell face-down into my food at my Acclamation feast. As I look back on it now, getting so drunk was unbelievably foolish. If you miscast a runic spell, it doesn't work and your hangover just gets worse. You can't miscast Questor magic; you invent it on the spot, but you can still make mistakes. As a Questor, I could have wrecked the place if I'd cut loose with the wrong spell while drunk. I understand there are quite a few regrettable accidents at Acclamation banquets; it's an opportunity to let your hair down after years of self-denial."
"I don't have any hair," was Numal's sullen reply.
Grimm shrugged. "That's just a figure of speech. I'm sure a lot of mages lose control of their mouths at these affairs, and I doubt your heartfelt little outburst last night was any exception. Remember, I fell over and spewed my guts up in front of the Lord Prelate himself, so you can count yourself lucky."
"Looks like he couldn't be bothered to turn up for a mere Necromancer's celebration," the new mage observed. "You can bet if I'd been a Weatherworker, a Shapeshifter or…"
"Or a Questor." Grimm disliked the self-pitying tone in the Necromancer's words, and his mood was not improved by his growing headache.
"I know it must look that way, Numal," he continued, "but Magemaster Crohn told me Lord Thorn was in mortal combat with the quarterly accounts, or else he'd have been there."
Numal, his expression still sour, opened his mouth to speak, but Grimm pre-empted him.
"Numal, my friend, did you join the House as a Charity Student?"
"Of course not: my tuition fees were paid by a trust fund set up by my now long-dead parents. They were keen enough to get rid of me, I noticed. Oh, I got to go home during Scholasticate closures, of course. All my parents ever asked me was how I was faring with my studies: about the Magemasters, what I was learning. But I don't think they ever asked about me, my wishes or my feelings. My parents were both teachers, and I don't think they cared about anything else in the world.
"After seven years as a Student, and twenty more as a Neophyte, they died of Badlands sickness during some damned stupid expedition. Oh, the trust fund carried on paying for my tuition, and my uncle Baran, my father's brother, began to take me in during the holidays. He was no barrel of laughs, either. He was a merchant, and I think he thought more of his damned accounts than of me. Just like Lord Thorn."
"My heart bleeds for you, Numal," the Questor snapped. "I don't even remember my parents; they died when I was very small. You wanted to be an entertainer, and I wanted to be a blacksmith, like the father I never knew, and my grandfather. So I guess neither of us got what he wanted."
Numal's mouth opened again, but Grimm interrupted him again. "Please let me finish, Necromancer Numal. Thank you. All right, I passed from Student to mage in ten years, but they were ten years in which I never set a foot outside the Scholasticate walls. Unlike you, I loved the people who brought me up, but I saw my grandmother only once in those long years. I didn't get to see my grandfather until after my Acclamation. My grandfather, Loras: the Renegade; The Oathbreaker; the Traitor. I'm sure you've heard of him."
Numal's eyes opened wide. "You are his grandson?" His voice was no more than a whisper, as if Grimm had spoken blasphemy or treason.
"I guess you can imagine how that glittering reputation brightened the days of a charity Student," the young mage growled. "Traitor's spawn: that's a pleasant little nickname, isn't it? I spent ten years walled up here, eating slop with the rest of the paupers while you ate the finest food the Refectory has to offer. I studied hard; I had to, just to keep myself from being condemned to an endless period of meaningless servitude."
Numal frowned and reasserted himself. "Ten years? You think that's a long time, Questor? I studied for four whole decades, just for a pretty ring and a piece of wood I made myself!"
Grimm felt heat flooding into his face. "Oh, that's not all, Numal, not nearly all. During the last seven months of my blissful tenure as a pauper Neophyte, I was slapped, harangued, beaten, starved and reviled on a daily basis by my tutor. He gave the other boys free reign to add to my misery, without the least interference from the Magemasters. At the end of that, I became a Questor, but it was a close call between that and losing my mind. There were many, many days and weeks in those seven months that I gave serious thought to committing suicide, and only my determination to gain this pretty little ring sustained me.
"How was your time as Neophyte, Numal? A little tedious, perhaps? Was the prime steak you were served a little tough on occasions? I'll wager any price you name that those last seven months made your forty-odd years seem like a picnic."
Grimm noted Numal's slack jaw, and several moments passed before the older mage got it under control.
"Can they really do that to you?" the Necromancer whispered, his eyes wide. "Magemaster Sheban was often brusque and curt when I skimped on my preparation, but he never raised a hand to me."
"They can do anything they want to a charity boy, Numal. Have you ever been forced to eat a whole bar of soap when you protested after the fifteenth slap of the day? Have you ever had to repeat a spell-chant twenty times without error, only to be beaten when fatigue made you botch a single syllable on the twenty-first? Have you ever looked over the edge into that black, deep abyss of insanity, and thought that it looked inviting?