was behind it, but you were held by some kind of a spell. You deserve another trial; I will call Lord Thorn at once.'
'Thorn is involved in the spell, as I told you,” Loras croaked, feeling the words peeling from him like leaves from a dying tree. “He is imprisoned, as is Questor Xylox. Questor Dalquist and Magemasters Crohn and Kargan are with me. Doorkeeper will know by now…'
'Thank you for telling me that now, Loras.” Olaf groaned, rolling his eyes. “Now I am convinced at last that there may be some doubt concerning your guilt, you tell me that you have imprisoned a lawfully-elected House Prelate! Are you going out of your way to make my life difficult, Brother Bile, or is this just a knack?'
Loras smiled. “We Questors are trouble, are we not?'
'I declare myself acting Prelate,” the older mage said, raising his right hand, “until a High Lodge Conclave may be assembled to investigate your contentions. You, Questor Loras, and your confederates, are my prisoners.'
'I am your prisoner,” Loras agreed. “All I ask is that you arrange for the detention cells to be cleaned; I understand the sanitary facilities there leave something to be desired.'
'You will have your retrial,” Olaf growled, standing up, “but do not presume too much upon my good nature. You are under arrest.'
Loras stretched and rose to his feet. Now the pain of his rebirth had passed, it felt good to be alive.
'As you command, Lord Prelate,” he said.
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Chapter 11: ‘Laudable Aims'
'May the Order free my mind from base, unclean desire.'
Crack!
The kneeling Sister Weranda bit her lip almost hard enough to draw blood as she brought down the lash once more onto her naked back. Nonetheless, she did not hold back, and the leather thongs bit into her spine and ribs once more.
'Let the Order grant me serenity, and the courage to do right.'
Her hand trembled, but it did not betray her.
Crack!
'Let the Order show me enlightenment!'
Weranda tottered and almost fell, but she raised the lash again.
This must end soon, a rebellious part of her mind cried, but she pushed the thought away, crushing it into nothingness. Penance was just, and it was unworthy of a potential member of the Anointed Score to wish it over before it was finished.
'Blessed be the Order!'
Her right hand rebelled, refusing to lift the whip. She gritted her teeth, trying to overcome the traitorous member, but without success. Tears of shame and helplessness spilled down her cheeks.
'Sister,” she said to her attendant, Sister Brin, without raising her head, “My body has betrayed me. Please wield the Corrective for me.'
'This happens to us all sometimes, Sister,” Brin said, a slender woman of maybe thirty years. She wore a perpetual expression of serene contentment and never raised her voice. “You completed the chant, and I did not see you skimp a single lash. As your petty Superior, I give you permission to forgo the final stroke, in recognition of your diligence.'
Weranda opened her mouth to protest, but it would be a fault of Obedience to disobey even a temporary Superior, who represented the Reverend Mother in her absence.
'Thank you, Sister Brin,” she said, instead. “Blessed be the Reverend Mother!'
'Blessed be she, the Wielder of Truth!” Brin responded, bending over to pick up the lash. “I declare you shriven.'
With shaking hands, Weranda drew her habit around her shoulders, cursing herself for her human frailty. Brin seemed so kind, so beatific, and Weranda longed to unburden her troubled soul to her. However, the Order's strict rules forbade this.
'Take a few minutes to collect your thoughts and compose yourself, Sister,” Brin said. “Give thanks that your vocation is still strong, and reflect on what you have learned.'
Her head still bowed, Weranda heard the nun's soft footsteps tapping on the flagstones, followed by the creak and bang of the chapel door. She was alone with her thoughts, and she felt more alone than she had in her entire life.
This is your fault, Afelnor, she raged internally, as saline streams ran down her cheeks. You have ruined my inner peace, you foul rapist! I found my vocation, and you did your best to destroy it! I hate you and all those like you.
Instead of finding solace in her meditation, as she had so often done before, Weranda became more and more agitated. Her bloody back and her aching knees screamed at her with their trifling, physical demands, and she wished Brin had not removed the Corrective.
Although she tried to push away the memory, her mind went back to their times together in the big bed in Grimm's tower at Crar.
How nervous he was at first, she thought, so careful not to hurt me, trying to please me…
No! That was just his perverted male artifice! Mother Lizaveta has shown me the true way, free of physical lust and distraction. I will never again surrender my soul to a filthy male!
Denied the painful, mind-numbing solace of the Corrective, Weranda pounded her shoulders and breasts with her small fists, trying to rid herself of the foul image of the flushed, sweaty male grimacing and grunting over her like some filthy, rutting animal, but she could not.
I hope the Reverend Mother is ripping the flesh from his back right now; him and his bestial confederates!
She longed for Sister Brin to return, to bring a measure of order and serenity back to her life. The normal peace and contentment of meditation had been denied her, and she could not drag her mind from memories of her former, debased existence. Perhaps it would help her to see Grimm being punished for his evil acts.
'Thank you,” Grimm whispered, forcing himself to stay on his knees. His head lolled on his heaving chest, but he did not-would not-fall.
Another pain, dull and inchoate, and he felt his head pulled back by the hair.
His eyes focussed on a wizened, sweaty, hate-filled face he dimly recognised as that of Lizaveta.
'Why do you thank me?” the Prioress's harsh voice demanded. “Why do you not curse me?'
Grimm spat a thick gout of bloody sputum onto the floor. “Because you want me to curse you, witch,” he croaked through cracked lips. “I had to thank Magemaster Crohn whenever he beat me as a Neophyte Questor. He knows more about torment than you ever will; he broke me, but you won't.
'Your only recourse is to kill me.'
Lizaveta's face contorted, and Grimm's body writhed within the grip of the demanding tentacles of self-doubt and fear. However, he knew now how to resist the Prioress's emotional attacks: he let them wash over and through him, but he retained a small inner mental sanctum, an island of resistance within the sea of pain and misery.
'Thank you,” he gasped, as the Prioress released his hair.
Grimm collapsed to the floor, the shackles on his arms preventing him from holding himself upright, but he felt a warm glow of satisfaction. He had taken everything she and her two attendants had thrown at him, and he had prevailed. He could not attack them with his body or his magic, but he had withstood them.
Nonetheless, the onslaught of physical violence and Geomancy had been shocking, and he wondered how many more of these sessions he could stand. He knew he could hide his inner drives and personality from Lizaveta,
