raise a toast to the Craft of Thaumaturgy.'
'The Craft!' Grimm drank once more, this time draining his goblet. His head still seemed clear, although there was a slight ringing in his ears. He thought to use the magic in his staff but decided that he was well enough. A little unsteadily, he sat down.
Crohn took up the baton. 'I have never coached a more diligent or powerful scholar than Grimm Afelnor. In nine brief years, he has passed from my lowly Student to my Brother Mage. His Acclamation is the pinnacle of my years in the Scholasticate, and I feel sure that our brother, Grimm Afelnor, will bring great credit to our Guild, and to our illustrious Prelate: I raise a toast to our Lord Prelate, Thorn Virias!'
'Lord Prelate Thorn!' More drink. Grimm saw that his goblet was empty again, and it was swiftly refilled.
Then Kargan stood. 'My erstwhile pupil in Runes and Chanting, Grimm Afelnor, will join me in singing the old duet 'The Coronation of Meliar'; your best attention, please.'
Grimm stood, although he now felt an unaccountable lassitude in his legs. Perhaps the last few strenuous days had taken their toll on him, after all. He drained another goblet of wine and shook his head as if to dash away the spots that suddenly filled his vision. This was a mistake, since the room appeared to lag a little behind his gaze as his head moved; a brief spasm of nausea clenched Grimm's entrails, but it soon passed.
Kargan began the baritone part of the familiar song, and Grimm joined in at the appropriate time with a confident tenor. He was aware that his voice slurred just a little on some of the more difficult syllables, but not enough to notice, he thought.
When the duet was finished, there was an uproarious burst of enthusiastic applause, and Grimm and Kargan bowed. Grimm's head spun, and the new Questor made to sit back down. However, he managed to miss his seat entirely, and he sprawled on the floor. There was tumultuous laughter, in which Grimm joined immoderately, hoisting himself back into the seat.
Another drink…
Feeling giddy, but confident and carefree, he stood again, clumsily, and said, 'Watch this!'
He spread his arms and chanted: 'Skeyhak'te shaha'ghe n'yet!'
A thousand glittering bubbles appeared in the air and drifted through the room to bounce off the walls and then break, each emitting a musical note.
He laughed, pleased by the success of his impromptu spell. With an unsteady hand, he lifted his goblet from the table and made to raise it to his lips again. However, it fell from his nerveless fingers, the table rose up towards his face, and blackness came.
When pained consciousness returned to Grimm, fewer people sat at the table, and the sun was low in the sky. Discarded scraps of food littered the table, and black marks and misty outlines on the draperies and wood panelling showed that some ill-controlled magic had been at work.
Lord Thorn had left, and Faffel, who had warned Grimm against immoderation, sat with his head back and snored raucously, a toppled goblet before him.
Several other mages showed no more sign of life than the Magemaster, although some were still engaged in hearty drinking, with no apparent ill effects.
'More drink, Brother Questor?' Dalquist asked, grinning, who seemed to be among the ranks of the unafflicted.
'Don' feel well.' Grimm forced the words out with some difficulty; he wanted to say more, but the effort was too great. Dalquist just had time to push a bowl under Grimm's chin before the new mage vomited copious amounts of red-brown liquid into it.
'Skuguchne!' Dalquist muttered: the noisome contents of the bowl vanished. 'Feel better now, Questor Grimm?'
'Bit,' slurred Grimm, his tongue feeling like a dry lump of wood. 'Do' wanna drink wine again-ever.' Grimm had never felt worse in his life. 'Please… jus' lemme die, Da'quisst.'
Kargan leaned across the table. 'Remember your staff, Questor Grimm.' Grimm leaned forward to pick up Redeemer, and then wished he had not, as the room seemed to give an alarming lurch backwards.
'Staff, c'm 'ere,' he slurred, and the staff flew to his hand like a trained falcon. As soon as Grimm clutched it, the room stopped spinning and his aching head cleared. A rising hammering and ringing ran through his head, reaching an almost unbearable crescendo before it dissipated. He gave a shuddering sigh.
'That's better.' Grimm sighed. 'I'm sorry about that, brothers.'
His mouth tasted vile, so he took a deep draught from a carafe of water at his side, without waiting to decant the contents into a glass or goblet. Realising that this was a breach of decorum, he shot a quick glance at Magemaster Faffel, but the acid-tongued tutor still seemed nestled in the comforting arms of Morpheus.
'A good lesson, eh, Brother Mage?' said the ever-cheerful Kargan. 'A good friend but an awful enemy is drink; a giver of confidence, but a thief of capability. Sometimes it's handy to be a mage, though. There are those in the wide world who would give their eye-teeth to be able to dismiss a hangover as easily as that.
'However, I have a word of caution for you. Too much drink can do great damage as well as giving you a sore head. Curing the hangover doesn't get rid of the damage, and even a Healer might be hard pressed to repair the deeper ravages of drink. Some forget this and drink like there's no tomorrow, and they end up as demented wretches with ravaged bodies, lacking the lesson the hangover brings.'
'I have no intention of ever drinking alcohol again,' Grimm said fervently. 'It's a horrible thing to lose control of oneself.'
'You may disagree when you're a bit older, Grimm,' Dalquist said. 'There are times when alcohol can be a great comfort; but remember that 'moderation in all things' is part of a mage's credo.'
'Try some of this compote, Questor Grimm,' Kargan urged. 'It will line your stomach, so you may be ready for more drink.'
'What was that about moderation, Magemaster Kargan?' Grimm asked.
'Moderation in all things-only in moderation!' The elder mage, wearing his manic grin, helped himself to another flagon of wine and a brace of chicken legs. Recognising when he was beaten, Grimm surrendered again to the feast. This time, he kept Redeemer within easy reach.
Chapter 26: The Smith and the Sorcerer
The year ended with Grimm in a kind of limbo. He was a Questor, with his black, cowled robe, his unbreakable staff and his blue-gold Guild ring, but he had no Quests to his name as yet; the lack of even a single gold ring on Redeemer marked him as a tyro. His training with Crohn had worked to build up his speed of thought, his willpower and his decisiveness, but he felt quite unable to make up his mind as to what to do with his time.
He wandered through the main entrance hall with its dome of stars, soft thought-music and the pyramidal, obsidian Breaking Stone. Looking around to check that he was alone, he dropped a piece of paper onto the stone's sloping edge. The sheet barely shivered as it split into two, sundered under its own weight.
He then took a double-handed grip on Redeemer and swung it with all his might against the magically sharp and unyielding surface. A ringing sound and a shower of blue sparks were emitted, but Redeemer was as sound as ever. He smiled a little in mild satisfaction, and wandered listlessly back to his room in the West Wing.
'Questor Grimm, you are just the man I was looking for! Do you have a moment?' Grimm turned at the unmistakable voice of Doorkeeper.
'Mage Doorkeeper, what may I do for you on this fine morning?' Grimm spoke with an exuberance he did not feel.
'I am going on a visit to some relatives in Taddleton today, Questor Grimm,' Doorkeeper said brightly. 'I wondered if you might like to accompany me.'
Taddleton lay a scant quarter-mile from the village of Lower Frunstock where Grimm had been raised… a quarter-mile from the grandparents for whom he had spared barely a thought these six years past, he realised with a guilty start.
