"Numal, I'm sorry, truly sorry, for treating you like some wayward, recalcitrant dunce. I know that doesn't wipe out a word of what I've said, but I just want you to be aware that I've been acting out of character. Perhaps I'm sickening for something. Perhaps I've been… I don't know, homesick for Crar, perhaps. Perhaps the strain of my last Quest has finally caught up with me: I don't know. Will you forgive me?"
"Oh, the mighty Sixth Rank Questor beseeches forgiveness from the lowly First Rank Necromancer, does he?" Numal sneered, over his left shoulder. "Well, I can't refuse that, can I? Just do me a favour, will you, Lord Mage? Just let me know when you think you're about to get up on that pedestal again, so I can take cover before you start throwing stones at me."
Grimm drew a deep sigh. What was the matter with him? Why, it was as if he had been labouring under… under some kind of spell.
Yes, that was it! A Geas or a Compulsion of some sort was the only sensible explanation: a Geas to make him revere High Lodge and Lord Prelate Thorn to the exclusion of all else, but to worship Lord Thorn above all. Thorn had been tampering with his mind!
Grimm thumped his fist on the table, his clenched teeth bared.
"Well, that little resolution didn't last long, did it?" Numal sneered. "Good night, Questor Grimm. I'll arrange my own transport back to Arnor, thank you very much."
The Necromancer lunged to his feet and strode off, his staff following him like an obedient puppy.
"No, please wait, Numal! That wasn't…"
The older mage did not even favour Grimm with a backwards glance as he left the bar, and several patrons of the establishment cast cool, amused glances at the young Questor, who felt his face redden in response. He turned his baleful, Questor glare on the onlookers, who were for the most part Seculars, and they returned to their own business, with an alacrity that Grimm noted with some pleasure.
Think, Afelnor! Why would Lord Thorn need to do this to me? He has my full loyalty, and he should know it by now.
Of course, there was still that nagging suspicion that Thorn knew more about Grimm's grandfather Loras' disgrace than he had said. But was the Prelate perhaps just concealing details of the Prelate's best friend's actions because they were just too painful for him to relate? Yes, Thorn had profited from Loras' downfall, by being elected Prelate in his place, but it must be admitted that he did not seem to enjoy the lofty position to which he had ascended. In addition to this, Lord Thorn knew, could know, nothing about Grimm's doubts. Why, Thorn himself had recommended Grimm's promotion to the Sixth Rank, even over the recommendations of… yes, of Questor Xylox!
"Why, you slimy, conniving, self-obsessed worm," Grimm muttered, taking up his glass, and draining it.
Of course, it would be just like Xylox, who had chided him, harangued him and excoriated him for his perceived lack of respect throughout their recent Quest, to take revenge on his junior mage after being overruled! This must all be Questor Xylox's warped, pathetic idea of justice, to try to turn Grimm into a flag-waving, dutiful, respectful model of what he considered the Questor ideal.
"Oh, yes, Xylox," Grimm hissed, pouring himself another glass of wine and draining it at a gulp. "You and I will have a little talk on our next meeting, I promise you!"
He would show the proud, haughty Questor who was the better, more valuable mage. Grimm had intended to leave his unofficial Quest until after he had received the sixth gold ring on his staff, but he now considered that a little initial reconnaissance might not come amiss. It was time to pay a visit to Reverend Mother Lizaveta.
****
"Enter, supplicant." The voice from within the chamber was somehow dry and dusty, like dead leaves crushed underfoot, and Grimm shivered; nonetheless, he was determined to appear dutiful and respectful before the woman he suspected of slaughter and cannibalism.
Opening the door, he saw the old woman at ease on a comfortable divan. She wore a dress of sheer, white silk, whose pristine purity seemed somehow at odds with her appearance. This could not be the face of some caring, gentle grandmother; the years had left indelible traces that spoke only of anger and meanness. Still, he must conceal his disgust for this ghastly harridan under the mask of respect.
He sank to his knees. "Reverend Mother, I am Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank, Arnor House. I bid you homage and honour."
The Prioress extended a hand like a claw wrapped in paper-thin, blue-veined skin, and Grimm leant forward to kiss the ruby on the Reverend Mother's profession-ring. It seemed to him that the hand dallied for a little longer than was necessary for strict protocol, but it was, eventually, withdrawn. He rose to his feet, and gave a courteous bow.
"Questor Grimm, welcome. What brings you here?" The voice seemed like death, somehow decayed and unwholesome, but the Questor forced himself to appear civil.
"Reverend Mother, I have been summoned to High Lodge for accession to the Sixth Rank, following my last Quest, and I wished to pay my respects."
"It seems that congratulations are in order, Questor Grimm, and your respect is noted." She sat up, and patted the velvet cushion of the opulent divan. "Come, sit here with me, my son."
The thought of sitting next to the loathsome woman was repulsive, but he complied, sitting as far from the Prioress as possible.
"Few mages, indeed, choose to favour us with their presence, Questor Grimm. We are honoured. How may I help you? Are you in need of spiritual enlightenment?"
I am, at that, lady, but not from you. The words came unbidden to Grimm's mind, but he took care to keep his spoken words a little more deferent.
"I must confess to an ulterior motive, Reverend Mother," he said.
"An ulterior motive; how intriguing!"
Lizaveta moved closer to the young man, and he realised that he had no further room for manoeuvre.
"Reverend Mother," he said, quickly, "I once became friendly with one of your Sisters: a girl called Madeleine. I merely wished to enquire of her whereabouts and wellbeing."
"Ah, yes, Questor Grimm. Now I recall the affair."
Lizaveta's voice is like silk, thought the mage, but mouldy, decaying silk.
"Madeleine was a witch, and she ensorcelled me," Grimm said, "but I never wished her ill. I would only hear that she has learned her lesson, and that she is well."
The Questor engaged his Mage Sight, and he noted Lizaveta's plain, white, unblemished aura. This proved her to be a witch, as he had learned from Madeleine, and as he had suspected.
"Yes, I am also a practitioner of the Geomantic art," the Prioress said, and Grimm wondered if she had read his mind. "I apologise for the actions of that wayward girl. As you may imagine, those of our Order who abuse any such powers, given them by Mother Nature, are not tolerated, and so Madeleine was dismissed from the Order as soon as the matter was brought to my attention. I regret that I have no knowledge of her whereabouts since that day."
The old woman's pale eyes, the colour of faded acorns, bore into him, as if she were challenging him to call her a liar. Grimm felt tempted to tell her of his nocturnal vision of the butchering of the body of the young nun. Now, more than ever, he was convinced that his vision had been true.
She moved closer to him, and he felt himself shrinking away from her. "Thank you very much, Reverend Mother. You have answered my question, and I thank you."
"Questor Grimm, you are lying to me."
The sharp, accusatory words shot through him like a fusillade of crossbow bolts, but they seemed to give him an excuse to get off the divan. He scrambled to his feet, in an attempt to display righteous indignation.
"Reverend Mother, I am shocked by such an accusation, especially from a lady in your position! On what grounds do you dare accuse a Guild Mage of deception?" What he had intended to sound as affronted outrage emerged as a peevish, juvenile complaint, and Grimm felt disgusted at how Lizaveta had contrived to unman him after such a short time.