"Sometimes, on very rare occasions, Crohn seemed to take pity on me-he'd pretend he was too busy to attend to me the next day, and he'd forget to give me any exercises. I'd spend half the day in bed and the rest in the refectory, but I couldn't keep food down. I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone or go to the Library, of course, so all I had was myself."
Grimm swallowed, trying to keep his voice level. "Of course, those little days off were just designed to make it even harder to start again. The next day, Crohn often told me how nobody would miss me if I died, and sometimes I really, really thought about… you know…"
The mage's voice faded almost to a whisper as emotion stuffed an iron ball into his throat. "You know the way it goes, Dalquist. Seven months of that nearly finished me; I'd never have lasted two years!"
The senior Questor whistled. "Grimm, I can assure you Urel wasn't anywhere near that hard with me, and I thought he was a tyrant. Sure, he slapped me on occasion, and I had privileges revoked. I was restricted to bread and water from time to time, yes, and I was barred from seeing my friends. Still, I always had the sense that Magemaster Urel was testing me, and he usually stopped short of outright assault. I now realise he was seeing how far he could take me, and then backing off. Things got worse as time went on, but at a measured rate, stretching me, pushing me to the limit. Towards the end, the last month or so, I'd start to have the odd day where he'd treat me like you describe, but I couldn't have stood a solid month of that, let alone seven. I saw the way you looked after your Outbreak, and it puzzled me that you were as shattered as you were. Now I understand. Crohn must be a complete sadist."
Grimm waved his hands, as if to expunge Dalquist's last words. "But he's not, Dalquist. Almost the first words I remember when I awoke after my Outbreak were 'I'm sorry, Grimm, so sorry. I had no choice.'"
Dalquist entwined his hands, the index fingers forming a steeple that touched the middle of his forehead, just over the bridge of his nose. Long moments passed before he spoke again.
"There was a Neophyte a couple of years above me, with Crohn as his personal tutor. What was his name…
"Mitar: that was it. I'm pretty sure he was being tried out as a Questor, too. He liked books and music, just like you and, of course, Crohn took those privileges away from him. After a few months, Mitar started to act strange. He'd sit in the Refectory, rocking back and forth and muttering to himself. I was still a Student in those days, and we all used to laugh at him. You know how cruel boys can be."
Grimm nodded. He remembered only too well the sly trips and pushes, and the venomous hisses of 'Traitor's by-blow' from the shadows. Yes, boys could be unimaginably cruel at times.
"After a few days of this," Dalquist said, enunciating his words with great care, "Crohn came into the Refectory and sat with him. We all thought it was odd, a Magemaster sitting in the paupers' area. I couldn't hear much, but I caught the words, 'terrible mistake', and Magemaster Crohn led him away by the hand, as if he were a toddler. We didn't see him for a few days, but he was much better when he came back. He said he was being tried out as a Healer instead. I believe he's an Adept now."
"There you are," Grimm replied, "Crohn's not a total sadist after all."
Dalquist shook his head. "Perhaps not, but I think things must have changed over the years. Look at what happened to your friend, Erek. He never should have been put through the Ordeal. Too sensitive, too highly-strung, but they pushed him and pushed him anyway, and he killed Senior Magemaster Urel and hanged himself. Something's changed in Arnor House, and I don't like it."
Grimm sighed. "Lord Thorn must have found out what happened. Don't you think he would have told Crohn to take it easy after what happened to Erek and Urel, once he discovered the truth?"
Dalquist's looked into Grimm's eyes, his expression stern. "Grimm Afelnor, you have a brain in your head, a good one, too. Use it! Of course Lord Thorn would have done that once he realised what had been going on… unless he was the one who ordered it."
Grimm opened his mouth to expostulate, but the words did not seem to come. The fatherly Urel was no sadist, either, and yet he had pushed Erek beyond his limits of tolerance. Crohn was a dedicated, kindly educator, and he had taken Grimm to the very edge of that same precipice.
Surely… no, it couldn't be!
"I'm sorry, Dalquist, but I can't believe that. Lord Thorn's done all right by me, and you, too. I don't think he'd tolerate a regime of concentrated brutality like that. I think we both owe him a debt of gratitude, not innuendo and slander."
Dalquist snorted. "Well, it looks like it worked on you, then. Grateful Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor, Weapon of the Guild, thankful to his betters for being beaten and starved every day. Just open your eyes, will you?"
Grimm stood, his face burning. "I'm sorry, Dalquist, but I really don't want to talk about this. Perhaps when I come back you'll be in a more reasonable state of mind.
"No, I don't want to hear any more, thank you!" He turned on his heel, and strode towards the door.
"Grimm, just listen to yourself!" Dalquist shouted.
Without turning round, his hand on the handle of the door, Grimm snapped back, "No, you listen, Dalquist. I think it's high time you realised who your real friends are. You owe Lord Thorn everything, as I do! I think a little appreciation would be in order, don't you?"
Not waiting for his friend's reply, he opened the door, stepped through and slammed it behind him, nearly tripping over Redeemer. The unpleasant, dissonant lunch bell began to rang, reminding him of his empty stomach, and he made his way to the Refectory, his emotions varying between sorrow for having fallen out with his friend, and anger at Dalquist's rank ingratitude. Perhaps he would meet his old Scholasticate friends, Madar and Argand, at lunch: a little friendly discourse might improve his mood.
****
His two friends did not appear in the Refectory, and Grimm stared at his empty plate, not even remembering what he had eaten. A group of humble charity Students chatted and squabbled with customary gusto in their dingy corner of the room, and the Questor became more and more annoyed as he tried to marshal his thoughts over the incessant clamour.
"Show a little respect for your seniors, can't you?" he snapped. "It's all I can do to hear myself think!"
The loud conversation stopped as if a branch had been lopped from a tree, and Grimm saw several mages were looking at him, their faces shocked and incredulous.
What's the matter with you idiots? What this House needs is a little more respect! The words rose in the Questor's gorge like acid bile, but he managed to stop them before they reached his mouth. In ill humour, he rose to his feet and swept from the Refectory.
"What am I? I'm a freak, a sport, a mutant!" That was what he had screamed at Magemaster Crohn during his violent Outbreak, the final, cataclysmic eruption marking his transition from humble Neophyte to powerful Questor. Words torn from a callow adolescent, filled with pain and confusion, before the sick-sweet realisation that he had prevailed against almost insuperable odds.
He rubbed his pained brow, grimacing. Had he not left all that debilitating angst behind him? Surely so, and yet he had subjected Numal to a vicious tongue-lashing that very morning, and now he feared he had lost a valued friend to an unaccustomed burst of vitriol. Where was that Questor self-control? Where was that iron command over his emotions, now?
He knew he must seek out Dalquist again and beg his forgiveness, but he, who had faced demons without fear, who had risen from the lowly status of a blacksmith's son to the rank of Baron, could not face such a confrontation.