The staff was warm to Grimm's touch, blending seamlessly with his hand. He had poured formless energy into it night and day for three months and, it now vibrated gently at his touch, like the purring of a contented cat. He placed it on the floor and walked ten paces.
'Staff, to hand,' he muttered in plain language, without touching his deeper power, and the staff flew to his outstretched right palm, fitting it with intimate closeness. With a deep breath, he moved away to Crohn's cell and tapped at the door, even though he knew well the lateness of the hour.
The dishevelled Magemaster looked haggard and peeved, standing shivering in a long night-gown. 'Could it not wait until the morning, Afelnor?' he groaned.
'My staff is finished, Senior Magemaster Crohn.' Grimm could barely control the eagerness in his voice. 'I am ready for my test at the Breaking Stone.' He held the brass-shod staff before him, and it glowed with blue balefire.
Crohn's eyes bulged, suddenly wide-awake. 'I agree,' he breathed. 'I can feel the magic in your staff, and it seems well attuned to you.'
He wagged an admonitory finger at Grimm. 'I trust you have done your work as well as I believe you can. For tomorrow, you will have to prove your staff against the Breaking Stone; only that severe test can prove the bond between you. Failure will mean more months of work before you can try again.'
Looking at the drawn Grimm, he put a friendly hand on the youth's right shoulder. 'You must go to bed, Adept Grimm. Of course, you have now condemned me to a sleepless night, for I must summon a Conclave to witness the event. But I would not miss it for the world. Say nothing to anybody else, not even your closest friends. Sleep now, for you must be up with the cockcrow. Go now.'
Grimm felt too tired to argue; he had expected a greater reaction from Crohn, but all he wanted now was sleep.
It seemed he had closed his eyes only minutes before, but here was Doorkeeper, arrayed in stiff, formal robes that Grimm had never before seen him wearing.
'Ten minutes, Grimm Afelnor; ten minutes and no more!' crowed the major-domo. 'You must be ready for their Lordships. Wear this robe; your own grandfather wore the same robe at his own Acclamation. Don't speak. Wash! Hurry now!'
Doorkeeper seemed no different from the man the seven-year-old Grimm had met on his first day, apart from the fact that Grimm now overtopped him by six inches. He flitted around the cell like a frightened mouse, chattering in the brief staccato phrases that Grimm recognised so well.
'The staff! Don't forget the staff; I can't touch it now, can I? Quickly, put your robe on. Tie your hair. Look, I'll do it. There. Tidy your beard a little, do!
'Oh, leave it, then. Come on, quickly now.'
They hurried down the corridor leading to the gate to the Great Hall, a gate that had been locked to Grimm for the last nine years, and Doorkeeper flung it wide with a flourish. Grimm hesitated for a moment, and then stepped through, suddenly nervous and a little giddy at the wide open space of the Great Hall. A host of formally robed wizards stood ranged around the Breaking Stone, with Thorn standing apart.
In a huge voice, the Prelate cried, 'Behold: an Adept approaches!'
'An Adept approaches,' echoed the hooded mages.
Motioned to the stone, Grimm stood before the Guild Master, suppressing the trembling that threatened to control him, and he spoke as Crohn had taught him.
'I offer this House my utmost allegiance and fealty unto death,' he said, pleased that his voice was clear and strong. 'A simple Adept beseeches elevation to the degree of Mage. I beg your indulgence.'
Thorn stood aside from the stone. 'Welcome, Adept,' he intoned. 'By a true staff forged by will and sorcery is a Guild Mage known. A lifeless token of wood and metal forged in the supplicant's own soul, formed into an extension of his will.'
Grimm stepped up to the stone, drew his breath and raised the staff above his head.
'It's just you and me now, Redeemer,' he muttered. 'Please don't let me down.'
If it breaks, you'll have to do it all over again, hissed a renegade part of his mind, and you'll lose face in front of all these mages.
Shut up, Grimm ordered his wayward alter ego. They're only men. And we won't fail.
He hesitated until the tension seemed unbearable, and then brought Redeemer, the painful labour of the last few months, crashing down on the magically-sharp edge of the stone. Blue sparks flew, but no splinter or crack appeared in the staff.
That's one; twice more, and we're there. Just remember that plenty fail on the second blow; three-quarters, as I remember…
With all his strength, Grimm brought the staff down again, and the hall rang. Still, the black wood seemed whole and undamaged, and Grimm's heart beat like a trip-hammer.
Well done; we're almost there. There are still no guarantees, you know. Many Adepts…
Not waiting for his treacherous inner voice to continue, Grimm put all his rage and fury into the final blow, slamming his staff onto the ebon ridge and showering the whole hall with blue motes.
Clangggg…
…and the staff remained whole: perfect, a living structure that seemed to resonate and rejoice in Grimm's hands.
Without stopping to think, Grimm slammed the brass foot of the staff on the flagstones, an impact that sent a further blizzard of blue magic-stuff throughout the hall, and he flung his arms wide in pure, unalloyed ecstasy. With his pounding heart threatening to burst from his chest, he spoke the ritual words that Crohn had taught him, his voice trembling only a little: 'With my own hands and my own mind, I fashioned this thing of lifeless wood and gave it life and a name: Redeemer. As it has been written, so let it be; to all present, I declare myself a true mage!'
The members of the assembly banged their own staves in similar fashion and chanted, 'This Adept is dead. A Guild Mage rises in his place!'
Grimm looked at the assembled ranks of mages and saw a smiling Crohn, a cheerfully-nodding Kargan, and an enthusiastically-beaming Dalquist.
Thorn stepped forward and intoned gravely, 'Behold a true Mage and Brother of this House. Let him be known from this day forth as a master of our Craft, and a bearer of our ring. We hail Grimm Afelnor a Mage, a Questor of the First Rank, and we honour him as true kin.'
Thorn turned to Grimm, and held out a gold-tasselled cushion bearing a large and ornate ring. In a quiet voice he said, 'It is your grandfather's ring, Questor Grimm: it was his wish that you take it and redeem the honour of the name of Afelnor in the eyes of this House.'
Grimm took the blue-and-gold ring with care and slid it on to his ring finger. At first too loose, it swiftly conformed to the circumference of his finger.
For a moment, he stared at his adorned digit, at the ring that meant all his struggles had been worthwhile. Then, he remembered his lines.
'I swear to this House loyalty and fealty unto death,' he cried, restraining hot tears that hovered at the margins of his eyes. 'I swear to uphold the tenets of our Guild and its precepts and laws. I swear to you, my beloved Brothers, love and friendship to the end of my days. I swear tolerance and understanding, and I pledge never to misuse the powers granted me by the beneficence of this House and its servants.'
'Hail, Grimm Afelnor! True Mage and Brother of this House!' the conclave chanted in rapturous chorus. Thorn rapped his staff thrice on the flagstones, and the ceremony was at an end.
Dalquist rushed up to Grimm and shook him firmly by the hand. 'Congratulations, Grimm. You are indeed a precocious little guttersnipe!'
'Careful, Brother Mage; we Questors are dangerous,' Grimm replied in mock warning, and then he added, more seriously, as the older mage clapped him on the upper arm, 'Watch out for Redeemer!'
'Oh, a Mage Staff can't hurt anyone while you're holding it and conscious,' Dalquist replied. 'That is, not unless you want it to! By the way, there's a banquet being laid on for you in the upper gallery. You and Crohn are guests
