"I'm sorry, Dalquist," he whispered as he stomped off to his room. He could not wait to leave for High Lodge, and to be on his next Quest. For good or ill, that was his life now.
****
Lord Thorn lifted his hands from his crystal and helped himself to another brimming goblet of brandy, shivering as the liquor's warming, soothing flames licked through his body, easing the pains that racked his head.
"I've been sitting behind this bloody desk for too long," he muttered. Nonetheless, he felt pleased that he had managed to cast a spell of Compulsion as powerful as any Seventh Level Mentalist could cast on a young, powerful Questor, without the least word or gesture. It had taken considerable effort to keep his expression neutral while casting, but he had remembered the advice given to him by his long-dead tutor: "It is hard to change a man's mind, Adept Thorn. The least change is the best change. A small push in the right direction is all that is needed in most cases, and then he will be yours."
To hell with High Lodge! he thought, gulping down another draught of the potent brew. A true Afelnor, who owed all loyalty and fealty to you, would be a potent weapon indeed. That was what Lizaveta had told him on the day that the boy had first appeared before him.
You were so right, Mother, he thought. Now you're going to find out just how right you were. Your problem is that he is mine, rather than what you really meant: ours. And this potent weapon is now pointed right at you.
Through his magical link with Afelnor, the Prelate had seen all that had passed between the two Questors in the Library, and, although pleased beyond measure with the boy's response, the arguments of his older friend gave Thorn some concern.
Questor Dalquist, I find your attitude unsatisfactory. I can be a good friend, but you'd better think twice before making an enemy of me. I could easily send you on a Quest from which you'd never come back.
It could wait. Dalquist was a useful mage, and Thorn did not truly want to waste him. Nonetheless, he would keep an eye on this potential renegade. The question of Dalquist's loyalty was only of secondary importance to the destruction of his hated mother.
Questor Grimm would be leaving for High Lodge on the morrow, and the Prelate expected positive developments in this regard.
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Chapter 8: Control
"It's a pleasant morning, don't you think, Grimm?" Numal said.
Grimm knew the Necromancer was just trying to make polite conversation as the Questor drove the small cart down the mountain path from Arnor House, but he had to force himself to reply in a fair facsimile of a cheerful voice.
"Yes, indeed, Numal. It's good to be out."
In truth, Grimm felt seedy and ill-tempered. He was beginning to worry that the herbs, Trina and Virion, to which, inadvertently, he had once been addicted, might once more be exerting their insidious influence on him. Since the herbs had relinquished their tyrannical hold on him, it had been his habit to carry a pouch of the potent substances with him at all times, to remind him of the thrall in which they had once held him. He had left the pouch behind at General Quelgrum's desert lair, and he began to regret that he had never replenished them.
No! All that is behind you, Grimm. You're never going to touch those damned herbs again, ever!
Nonetheless, despite his id-voice's urgent chiding, he found it hard to think about anything else.
"Aren't we getting a little close to the edge, Brother Mage?"
Grimm snapped out of his reverie as he saw the cart's wheels spinning mere inches away from the edge of the track, and oblivion. He vowed to keep his mind on the job in hand, and not to stray into absent-minded introspection.
"Sorry, Numal, my mind was wandering," he said, guiding the blinkered horses back into the centreline of the road. "I spent a sleepless night, I'm afraid."
"Yes, I thought you seemed a little dull at breakfast. Excited about the prospect of gaining the Sixth Rank?"
"Yes, that must be it," Grimm lied. That's another bad habit you're getting into, Afelnor, chided his inner voice, which he tried to banish to the back of his mind.
"I hear you're reckoned a fair singer, Grimm," the devotee of the dark arts called. "How about a little sing-song to brighten the trip?"
"No, I don't really think so, Numal. Not right now, anyway. I need to keep my mind on driving the cart. We don't want another scare like we had back there."
Grimm just wanted peace and quiet, although he resigned himself to the odd snippet of conversation lest he appear odd or ill. Nonetheless, the normally garrulous Necromancer managed to hold his tongue until the pair reached the foot of the mountain.
Once the trail widened and the gradient reduced to a gentle slope, however, the older mage began to speak again, and it cost Grimm a deal of self-control not to tell him to shut up.
"Er… Questor Grimm?"
"Yes, Necromancer Numal, what is it?" Although he was determined to be polite, Grimm's response was brusquer than he had intended.
He noted that the Necromancer's voice was hesitant and nervous, and it was all he could do not to snap "Spit it out, man!" With great effort he managed a more civil reply.
"I'm sorry, Numal. What's up? Is something on your mind?"
Numal twisted his hands together, and his voice firmed. "Grimm, I can't help but notice how ill at ease you are in my company since yesterday. I can only imagine you were felt offended when I implied you might be-you know-fond of men. If that's the reason, I'm truly sorry."
Grimm brought the two speckled carthorses to a halt, and turned to face the older man. At the rate he was going, he would have no friends at all if he did not gain control of his unaccustomed spell of ill-humour.
"Listen, Numal, it's I who should be sorry. I was a little taken aback at what you asked me, but that's nothing to do with my being in a bad mood, I assure you. The last couple of days, my emotions seem to have been all over the place, and I don't know why. Just as a matter of interest, though, why did you think I might be inclined that way? I assure you I'm not. Don't worry, although the Guild spits fire at any hint of carnal awakenings in its mages, I won't take offence, I promise. I just want to clear the air, if I can."
Numal cleared his throat. "Well, I think I started to wonder when I saw you talking with Magemaster Crohn at my Acclamation feast. Your eyes seemed almost misty when you talked to him. And then, the next day, you just seemed very friendly towards me. I think it's just that you Questors can be so intense at times."
Grimm flicked the reins, and the cart began to rumble onwards once more. Had he really been misty-eyed when talking to Crohn? He knew he had felt almost overjoyed after leaving Lord Thorn's chamber, and he had felt happy to meet his former tutor again. Yes, his reaction had been intense, although he had no idea why.
Then he had leapt into his new, unofficial Quest with almost frenetic zeal, despite knowing that such a secret undertaking would garner him neither acclaim nor official recognition. Grimm just felt so honoured that Lord Thorn trusted him to carry out the deed alone. When he encountered Crohn in the dining gallery, he had been filled with the warmth of deep gratitude at the very sight of the man who had made him what he was: a Mage Questor.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Numal's quizzical gaze as he mulled over his recent behaviour. Nonetheless, he was in no mood to answer until he was ready. He had chewed Numal out, considering that the man had belittled and demeaned his calling. Then he had turned his back on his best friend, after Dalquist's suggestion that Lord Thorn might be responsible for an uncaring and callous disregard for his Neophytes. Perhaps he was…
No! The thought-word slammed through his head like a crossbow bolt, and Grimm stifled the thought at birth. He was just becoming older and wiser, and finding a new and just respect for his superiors.