So it was to be a tongue-lashing, at least, and Grimm's heart sank into his boots. The smallest of black marks on his record as a Questor might blight his future career for as long as it lasted.
Nonetheless, he would go down fighting as best he could.
"As far as I can tell, Lord Prelate, Questor Xylox begrudges me my youth, my staff, my ring and the very air I breathe. He made it quite clear that he despised me at our very first meeting, despite my best attempts to treat him with all the respect his rank deserves. His attitude towards me went downhill from there. Questor Xylox seemed to believe it as his personal privilege to govern any and all facets of my behaviour at any time. More than once, he swore to break me and see me condemned to menial servitude in the House scullery for the least of perceived transgressions. Whilst he tempered his opinion of my thaumaturgic abilities somewhat by the end of the Quest, I could tell he still looked down on me, for whatever reason."
Thorn remained immobile, his hands clenched under his chin, his face an enigmatic and unreadable mask.
His speech increasing in intensity and speed, Grimm continued: "Lord Thorn, I swear to you that I acted in the best interests of the Quest, the House and the Guild at all times. I do not regard omitting Mage Speech on a few occasions as either mutiny or insubordination. If saving a poor girl from slavery is an act of rebellion, then I will acknowledge myself a rebel. However, the fact of the matter is that Questor Xylox, called the Mighty, has a chip on his shoulder the size of the Royal Barge. I lack the strength to dislodge it, so if I must suffer for the fact, then so much the worse for me."
Grimm felt his face burning with anger, and he realised he was staring straight into Thorn's blue eyes; this might be construed as an act of defiance on its own.
"That is all I have to say on the subject, Lord Prelate," he said in a softer voice, averting his piercing gaze.
"Well, well, well," the Prelate said, and Grimm could swear he heard a trace of amusement in Thorn's voice. "I see that Questor Xylox's assessment of you bore at least a kernel of truth."
Grimm said nothing. He had to admit that Xylox was correct on at least one count: he was hot-headed, and he realised he might well have overstepped the mark in his forthright assessment of the senior mage's character.
"However, provided the bounds of propriety are not breached, I appreciate a certain degree of outspoken candour in a Questor," the Prelate intoned.
Grimm made to expostulate against an unfair judgement before the actual meaning of Lord Thorn's words hit him. He looked up, his eyes wide in disbelief.
Thorn nodded. "That's right, Questor Grimm. I find it a useful asset to have independent minds at work on a single problem. I don't want mannequins or puppets."
Grimm felt as if he had to make a conscious effort to keep his jaw attached to his face. The severe Lord Thorn, using common vernacular-what was the House coming to?
"Relax, young Afelnor. I'm not about to throw you to the lions. I have known Questor Xylox for many years, and I hold the deepest respect for him as a Questor. However, I'd be the first to admit that, as a human being, he leaves a little to be desired. Our friend Xylox tends to imagine he has more influence in the House and the Guild than he really does. I don't take kindly to mages who think they can issue orders to reward or punish one of my subjects as they see fit.
"Consequently, I'm going to ignore Xylox's advice to bar you from further promotion; I think that a certain amount of initiative and imagination needs to be encouraged and fostered. I think you performed admirably on a long and difficult quest and, in recognition of that, I have recommended to Lord Dominie Horin that you be elevated to the Sixth Rank. You will be pleased to know that he has acceded to my request; congratulations, Questor Grimm."
Grimm's head seemed to whirl. Instead of censure as a renegade and a rebel, he found himself congratulated and rewarded for a job well done. Thorn's next words did not reduce his disorientation: "Would you like a drink, Questor Grimm?"
The young mage blinked, wondering if this was some test of his character.
"I have a particularly good brandy here," the Prelate continued, "and I find drinking more enjoyable in good company. I would be grateful if you would share a little of this liquor with me."
The Prelate poured a generous dose of the golden liquid into a goblet, and placed it on the table in front of the stunned Grimm.
"Thank you, Lord Prelate," was all Grimm could say as he picked up the goblet and took a healthy swig of the enlivening beverage. The fiery liquid steadied him, and he recovered his equanimity.
Thorn leaned back in his throne and stretched. "Now, Questor Grimm, that's enough House talk. Relax, have a drink and tell me a little about yourself and your recent Quest, in your own words. I learn so little about many of the mages in my House, and my position is often tedious. I welcome the chance to meet talented young questors like you: you remind me of how I was at your age."
The rest of the meeting seemed to pass in a blur. Grimm felt as if his world had been turned upside down, and he had no idea of most of what he had said in response to Lord Thorn's prompting. He had come prepared for an argument, and to defend himself, and Thorn's unexpected reaction had quite wrong-footed him. He walked out of the Prelate's office as if he were floating on air.
Thorn had even granted him leave to stay in Crar when he was not on House or Guild business. Drexelica would be pleased.
****
As the door closed behind the Afelnor boy, Thorn smiled, and toasted himself with more brandy. "In no time, I'll have him eating out of my hand. Look out, Mother, there's a storm brewing."
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Chapter 4: Misgivings
Grimm smiled as he strode back to his chamber. The interview had gone better than he could have hoped, and the young mage had the ultimate goal of the coveted Seventh Rank in sight at the young age of seventeen.
As he passed the Breaking Stone, he paused and slapped a hand against his forehead. He had intended to ask Lord Thorn, the only living eye-witness to the deed, more about the circumstances of Loras' attempted murder of Prelate Geral, and he had forgotten. With Thorn in such good humour, it would have been an ideal opportunity, and, doubtless, tomorrow the Prelate would be back to his normal cold, acerbic self. Grimm toyed with the idea of going straight back to Thorn's chamber, but this would be a breach of protocol. With his slate wiped clean, it seemed unadvisable to sully it by annoying the Master of the House with aimless questions.
"You appear lost, Brother Mage," a cold, sepulchral voice said behind him. "May I help you?"
The young mage spun around, to see a tall, spare, black-clad figure. The man carried a plain, unadorned staff, which meant that, although technically a First Rank Mage, he had not yet distinguished himself enough to gain the first gold ring. The man appeared to be of middle age, but this was unsurprising, since most mages took decades to reach mastery. Mage Questors were the only exceptions to this rule.
"Please, don't trouble yourself, Brother," the Questor replied. "I was lost only in thought. I am Questor Grimm Afelnor."
"Necromancer Numal Falwort, at your service," the pale-skinned apparition intoned, and Grimm remembered.
"Congratulations on your Acclamation, Necromancer Numal," Grimm said. "We met once before, when I was a new Student."
The tall man's brows knitted, as if he were trying to make the memories flow.