"Please, Questor Grimm, you misunderstand me. What I intended to say was that I believe you just wanted to be with me. Do not hide your feelings, my son. Liaisons between the sexes are not forbidden within our Order."
The Questor recoiled, as Lizaveta simpered at him in the manner of a love-sick girl of tender years. Summoning all the self-control he could muster, he rushed to the door.
"Reverend Mother, you forget yourself!" Grimm snapped. "I wished only to be sure that…"
"Ah, of course," the Prioress crooned, leering at him. "Such liaisons are forbidden to honourable Guild Mages, are they not? Yet, I believe, our young Questor has some young lovely waiting for him, somewhere… yes, waiting for him within the city walls of Crar. I am right, am I not?"
With sick horror, Grimm realised that the old witch was, indeed, using her powers to scrutinise his mind, and that he had no defence against her. He slammed down his mental defences as best he was able, in an attempt to prevent any further intrusion. What he had intended as a covert assault against the forces of evil had turned into a rout. He had not even been able to detect her intrusion into his psyche and his deepest memories. He was helpless against her in his current state of mind.
Lizaveta laughed! It was not the warm sound of innocent humour, but a hateful, knowing cackle. She could read him like a book; how could he hope to prevail against her? She no longer even pretended innocence, but flaunted her invulnerability.
"Good day to you, Reverend Mother," he gasped, making his way to the door.
"Good day to you, Grimm Afelnor. You Questors are strong, indeed. However, your revered Lord Dominie Horin is a mere Weatherworker."
It might seem strange for a Weatherworker to be so disparaged; within the Guild, such thaumaturges were respected above most other mages, perhaps with the sole exception of Questors. Nonetheless, Grimm knew just what she meant: in matters of willpower, Questors were pre-eminent. If she could so easily cow a Mage Questor, in the prime of his life, the control of an aged Weatherworker should prove child's play.
"You can always attempt to blast me with your mighty power, Questor Grimm," Lizaveta said. "But poor old Horin favours me and protects my Order. I think he might disapprove of any attempt upon me. I have already sent him a subliminal message that you have come here to pay your respects…
"Do I make myself quite clear? If you cease your attempted interference in the Order's affairs, I may choose to leave you alone. Otherwise, it may go ill between us, and your Guild career may not evolve to your advantage."
What Grimm had thought would be a simple matter of outwitting a simple, evil old woman had turned into a complete debacle. He made his exit as best he was able.
"Good day, Reverend Mother. You make yourself quite clear. Thank you."
As he rushed from the room in confusion, Grimm could not help but hear the last words from the Prioress: "Please, do try to oppose me, Questor Grimm; my victory will be all the sweeter. You will be finished. Finished, do you hear?
"However, I like you, and so I shall not destroy you on this occasion. I feel also that this confrontation was not all your idea…"
The Questor knew he had gambled and lost, and he fled the chamber. He felt sick and scared; had his casual assessment of the witch's powers compromised not only him, but his lord and master?
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Chapter 11: Confrontation
With a confident, determined air, Senior Magemaster Crohn knocked on Lord Thorn's chamber door.
"Go away." The voice from within sounded dull and lifeless, and Crohn looked at Dalquist with a worried expression. The Questor could tell the old tutor was in a quandary: to enter the Prelate's chamber uninvited would be considered a major breach of House protocol.
"This is Questor Dalquist, Lord Prelate," the younger mage called. "Senior Magemaster Crohn and I wish to discuss a matter of the highest importance."
"Go away!" Thorn's voice now carried a tinge of peevish frustration. "See Doorkeeper to arrange a meeting, and I will see you when I have the time. I am busy."
Dalquist drew a deep breath, trying to steady his jangling nerves. "This will not wait, Lord Prelate. We insist on seeing you. Or would you prefer that we shout what we know through the door, so that all in the House may hear?"
After a long pause, the door creaked open, and Dalquist felt shocked at what he saw. Lord Thorn's clothes were crumpled and stained. Dark rings like bruises surrounded his eyes, and his beard was unkempt and matted. Dalquist saw a wild profusion of papers and empty bottles scattered across the floor. The Prelate's normally ruddy face was the colour of parchment and dripping with perspiration.
"What is so urgent that you must disturb me during my meditation?" Thorn snarled, a thin tendril of saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Crohn moved to stand at Dalquist's side. "The unfortunate fate of Neophyte Erek Garan, Lord Prelate."
Thorn's bloodshot eyes flitted around like maddened moths near a candle, and the young mage knew Crohn had managed to attract the Prelate's attention.
Thorn said, "Senior Magemaster Crohn, I am surprised that you should choose this moment to rake over old coals. As I told you before, Senior Magemaster Urel was overzealous in his training of the boy. It was none of my doing. Now, go away and let me meditate in peace."
The Prelate squeezed his eyes shut and moaned, "My head aches so!"
The mighty ruler of Arnor House, a Seventh Rank Questor and a member of the High Lodge Presidium, sounded more like a petulant, whining child than an all-powerful mage, and Dalquist guessed the reason for the Prelate's dissolute state.
"You may find it easier to think clearly if you first relinquish whatever Geas or Compulsion spell you have cast on Questor Grimm, Lord Thorn," he muttered, and Thorn's bloodshot eyes sprung open.
"I beg your pardon, Questor Dalquist!" the Prelate growled. "Of what do you dare to accuse your Lord and Prelate, to whom you swore a solemn oath of allegiance? Have you been spying on me? If you have, I will have your Guild Ring, if not your head, before you can blink!"
Dalquist guessed that Thorn had mined deep into dwindling resources to retrieve a remnant of his former fire, but the Questor stood his ground.
"Bluster will avail you little, Lord Prelate," he said. "I have always been true to my sworn Oath, and I remain so. It would be a simple matter to engage my Mage Sight and confirm my suspicions, but I choose to refrain from this. However, if you deny my charge, I shall have to assume that your current condition is due to some unspecified illness, and that you are unfit for office. Senior Magemaster Crohn, are you prepared to relieve Lord Thorn on this basis?"
Thorn gasped, "Crohn: surely you would never dare!" He looked like a cornered rat, and Dalquist made a small moue of distaste at Thorn's wretched appearance.
Crohn nodded to Dalquist, and then turned to face his lord and master. "Lord Prelate Thorn. By the power vested in me through my position as a member of the House Conclave, I now invoke Ordinance 35–17 of the House Articles of Establishment, and declare you unfit to continue as Prelate of this House until such time as the Senior Healer declares you fit to return to office. Having observed at first hand your current condition, I believe I will have little trouble in enforcing this ordinance."
Thorn waved his hands in a scissor-like motion. "All right, all right; there, it is done."
For a moment, it seemed that all life had gone from the Prelate's face, as if it had become a pasty, imploding mass of inanimate dough. A rasping, hacking sigh escaped Thorn's lips and he sank to his knees. When he stood, Dalquist noted that the Prelate's gaze had regained some of its accustomed intensity.