'Please, Lord Mage; do not mention it. At least it seems that your spine is not badly damaged, although that was a foolhardy way to find out. Apart from pains in your head, arms and legs, how do you feel?'
'My chest feels tight, and I'm having a little trouble breathing,” he said, and Mercia nodded.
'You have a couple of broken ribs, so I have bound your chest with tight bandages under your robes. Let me know if they impede your breathing too much.'
'No, Sister, I can live with it-what, under my robes?” Grimm felt a hot frisson of embarrassment at the thought that this young nun might have seen him naked.
'I did not expose any more of your body than necessary,” Mercia assured him. “All I needed to do was to expose your upper torso. You had a dislocated hip, but your friend, Tordun, dealt with that, under my instruction. I did not look; it would not have been seemly. I treated your other injuries, a collapsed lung and internal bleeding, with some healing spells. By good fortune, neither of the spells required much power; for some reason, my energy is at a low ebb since the Prioress’ demise. I thank the Names that they were successful, even though several castings were required. Sister Judan knows far more magic than I, but she has fled the Priory.'
Well, that's no bad thing, Grimm thought, flexing his arms to test the limits of his battered body's mobility.
Not too bad, he told himself, wincing as he felt a rib grate when he pressed his hands together.
With Mercia's aid, he rose to his feet. His left hip felt stiff, and it sent a metallic, shooting pain up his spine as he essayed a couple of cautious steps. However, after a few cautious experiments, he found that if he kept his leg straight, the discomfort was much reduced. This made his progress clumsy and inelegant; but, at least, it was bearable.
'The discomfort will remain for a few days,” Mercia informed him, “but there is no reason why you should not make a full recovery. I recommend that you convalesce here for a week or so, and you will then be ready to resume your journey.'
'I can't afford to stay here a week, Sister!” he expostulated. “I have a duty to report back to the Lord Dominie at High Lodge!'
'Your friends are prepared to wait for as long as necessary,” Mercia said, her tone soft and soothing. “I am sure your Dominie would not expect you to travel when incapacitated. Please; just rest here and allow your body to mend itself.'
Grimm nodded slowly. “I suppose you're right, Sister.'
'I know what you are thinking: you think the mighty Thorn Virias resisted me from the first, do you not? I assure you, this defiance is a most recent development. He has been telling me Guild and House secrets for years.'
The words of Prioress Lizaveta, spoken before the Death-sickness struck, echoed in his head, and he shivered with sudden, eager anticipation. He had no reason to assume the old witch had been lying to him, and, if he could persuade Lizaveta's disembodied shade to confess, it might put an end to Lord Thorn's treachery. More than that, it might lead to a full pardon for his beloved grandfather!
'No, Sister,” he said, locking her eyes with his fierce, implacable, Questor stare. “I cannot wait. I thank you for your diligent attention and your healing skill, but I must go to High Lodge with all speed.'
Despite her cries of protest, Grimm pushed past Mercia and through the sackcloth flap at the large tent's side.
He hobbled a few steps, screwing his eyes half-shut at the glaring, golden spears of sunlight, and then stopped, as his eyes adjusted to the brightness.
Where once had stood the magnificent Priory, he saw a scene of utter devastation: a huge crater extended before him, with a few isolated stubs of stone rising from the ground like the remains of a rotted tooth. Only a single turret remained intact, a lone sentry over the destruction.
His jaw dropped, and he stared at the vast, bleak expanse of rubble.
I did this, he thought. I, Grimm Afelnor, a blacksmith's boy, turned a mighty fortress into a heap of fallen stone…
For the first time, he realised the true extent of the terrifying power a Questor held in his head. The scene before him was ghastly, yet he could not tear his eyes from it.
I can do anything! I am power! I am a weapon! I am DESTRUCTION!
The proud, defiant shout thrust upwards from his subconscious mind, blazing into his forebrain, but Grimm tried to push it aside and deny it.
'This cannot be all I am,” he muttered, shaking his head, feeling as if he were teetering on the brink of a deep slough of despair. “I refuse to dedicate my whole life to death and ruin!'
He became aware of a presence behind him, and he turned to see Sister Mercia looking at him with an impenetrable expression on her face. Was it one of pity? Hatred? Contempt? He could not tell.
'What are you thinking, Questor Grimm?” she asked in a soft, level tone. “Are you proud of your work here?'
He heard no condemnation in her voice; only a weary desire for knowledge; for understanding.
'I'm scared, Sister,” he confessed, trying to make sense of his warring emotions. “I'm awe-stricken. So much destruction…'
'But are you proud?” she pressed him. “Thirty-eight good, blameless women are dead; women who devoted their lives to a cause they thought was right. Some of them died in my arms, and I was powerless to help them.'
Grimm thought long and hard. Did Mercia want him to confess to shame? In truth, he felt none.
'I am sorry for their deaths,” he said, with a catch in his voice. “I mean that with all my heart, Sister. But I will not lie to you; I am not ashamed. This place was a home of evil, whether you see that or not. The foundations of the Priory were soaked in the blood of countless other tormented innocents, killed for no other reason than to give Prioress Lizaveta and her acolytes greater Geomantic power. I did not seek to kill those thirty-eight nuns; all I wanted was to free those poor, imprisoned souls, who numbered in the hundreds or thousands. Should I have turned a blind eye to their continuing suffering?
'I did not set out to raze the Priory. All I did was to draw the blood of the sacrificed from the earth. I could not have known that there was so much that its removal would undermine the very foundations of the building. All I knew was that, once I had started, I couldn't stop. I just couldn't stop, Sister. All those anguished souls, crying for release… so much pain, fear and death. I couldn't help myself! Must I be ashamed of that? I'm not a mindless murderer, Sister! I'm not.'
He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing fast, shallow and spasmodic, struggling to regain control over his rebellious emotions.
You're a Questor, Grimm Afelnor, whether you like it or not, he told himself. You're not supposed to have any damned emotions!
Drawing the deepest breath his tight bandages would allow, he opened his eyes again and met Mercia's gaze, his racing heartbeat steadying.
'No, Sister, I won't be ashamed. Not for you, and not for anyone. Because of me, thirty-eight women are dead, and I regret that. At least their spirits are free to find their eternal home. But, also because of my actions, countless tortured spirits are free from decades of torment and anguish. If I were confronted by the same situation, knowing what I know now, I'd do the same thing again.
'I would, Sister; accept that or not, as you will, but believe it. I'm sorry, but I'm not ashamed. Hate me if you must, but don't despise me. I may be… I am a killer and a destroyer. But I'm no murderer.'
He saw moisture beading the young woman's red-rimmed eyes. She looked so helpless and vulnerable as she stood before him, trembling and forlorn, that he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her. Nonetheless, he restrained himself, awaiting her judgement.
'I have been here since I was a little girl,” she whispered, so that Grimm had to strain his ears to hear her words over the soft moan of the morning breeze. “I have known no other life.
'I am scared, too, Questor Grimm. All my life, I have fought to save lives, not to destroy them, and your words trouble me. But I believe you speak the truth as you see it, even though I may never understand. I have seen much death in my life, although never in such profusion, and I have always fought against it as best I could.'
The young nun shook her head, beautiful even in her misery. “The world is complex and frightening, Lord Mage, and I have seen so little of it.'
