I like strong men; I like it when they try to stand against me. I like to see the look on their faces at the moment that they finally realise their mistake, just before they drop to their knees, begging for mercy. I trust you are not pretending you are a 'strong man', my dear son…
There was a lengthy pause, inviting further challenge from Thorn, but he remained silent. He knew Lizaveta would be wearing a thin smile, her most dangerous expression, and he knew how his mother liked to control and dominate him or, indeed, any other man.
As usual, the mighty Prelate was thoroughly cowed by this wizened prune of a witch. At times, he hated his mother with a burning passion, yet he could never win free of her, could never win true independence. Without her, he was nothing.
Accept the child, Thorn, hissed Lizaveta's words in his head. Even if he proves no mage, it could be fun to have your own Afelnor as a scullery brat. If he should grow to resemble his grandfather, I may even pay him a friendly visit. If Loras' blood runs true and the lad should become a Questor one-tenth as powerful as his grandfather, he will be a useful token to put in play, as you move towards your destiny as Lord Dominie of High Guild. A Questor even half as powerful as Loras, who owed all loyalty and fealty to you, would be a potent weapon indeed.
If I ever become Dominie, Mother, it will be because I will it, not you! Thorn snapped mentally, a trace of rebellion flickering briefly within him.
You aren't trying to be strong, are you, my darling son? Remember what I said about men who try to oppose me. I will not stand that from any man, least of all my ingrate oaf of a son, and I do not think that you would prove much of a challenge. After all I have done for you, I expect humility and gratitude, not whining and braggadocio.
You will work to become Dominie in order to gratify me, to show me that all my work on your behalf has not been for nothing. You will accept Afelnor's grandson into the House because it amuses me, and because it may eventually advance this goal. If you do not see the truth in my words, I have more than enough power to make you see. Is that clear?
Thorn gulped; what his mother had said was all too true. She could snap his will like a dry twig underfoot, and she would do so without a second thought. Thorn knew the folly of displeasing her only too well, so he assumed a more complaisant tone.
Yes, Mother, it is clear. I meant no disrespect. If the Afelnor boy has true power, I will accept him as a Student. However, it would be at least a decade before he could become a Questor; twenty years if he would be better suited as a Reader, and far longer if his vocation is as another kind of mage. As you must know, a Student's antecedents cannot guarantee his calling.
In order to advance my case further with High Lodge, I need to take in far more Students, because I need more mages; I am working on that. The quickest solution would be to take on more charity Students, so that I may put a few more Neophytes through the Questor Ordeal. Even that is uncertain and time consuming.
You are soft, Thorn, spat back Lizaveta. All those years spent sitting in comfortable armchairs and drinking yourself stupid have dulled your resolve. If your recalcitrant Neophytes do not respond well to this Ordeal you speak of, it is because it is not sufficiently rigorous. A more severe lesson is a shorter lesson, is it not?
It is not that simple, Mother, complained Thorn, trying to make the old woman see sense. Some Neophyte Questors risk becoming unhinged by the Ordeal as it is.
Then they are weaklings who are not worthy to carry the Staff, she snarled. I am sure even you are more than wily enough to cover up the odd accident. You do not need milksops, but powerful mages under your full control. Remember that, and act accordingly.
I will tolerate no further excuses from you, Thorn. You must resolve such problems on your own from now on.
With an unpleasant mental slither, the slimy form of his mother's will withdrew from Thorn's mind, leaving the Prelate alone in his chamber, with only a parcel of vague fears and worries for company.
The Prelate felt many misgivings, but he would see this boy on the morrow; he preferred an easy life, and it was far simpler to go along with his mother than to try to oppose her. Thorn put away the scrying-crystal and wandered over to a wrought-iron washstand by the window, washing his face and hands in the porcelain bowl, as if this could wash away the taint of his mother's influence over him.
He went back to sit in reverie at his worktable. His thoughts were of earlier, happier times with another young Afelnor, a youth with whom he had played and exchanged jokes and tricks.
Acclaimed on the very same day, each had warmly toasted the other's success.
Good days…
The sick memory of how he had duped and betrayed his blood brother swam into his daydreaming like a hungry shark, devouring the quietude he sought.
Rubbing a trembling hand over his aching brow, he summoned Doorkeeper with a brief, telepathic pulse.
When the major-domo arrived, twitching and trembling as ever, the Prelate cut through the old man's twittering prattle with a curt wave of his hand.
'Bring the Afelnor boy to me early tomorrow morning, Doorkeeper. You are dismissed.'
The major-domo left with a clumsy bow, and the Prelate was alone again.
Chapter 4: The Prelate
'Quickly, quickly; chop-chop! Do hurry, boy. The Prelate doesn't like to be kept waiting.'
Doorkeeper wrung his hands with nervous fervour, as Grimm swam his way into a clean robe plainly intended for a larger boy.
When the child was finished, Doorkeeper took a step back to assess his charge. Grimm's face shone lobster- pink after vigorous scrubbing, and his hair was neatly tied behind the neck. Despite the over-large clothes, the overall effect was not too comical, and the boy looked much more presentable than he had when he had first arrived at the House.
'All right, boy, you'll do. Come along now.' As Doorkeeper led the way out of the scullery, Grimm struggled to keep up without tripping over the hem of his voluminous robe. At almost every step of the way, the major-domo called out instructions on how the boy must comport himself in the presence of the Prelate.
He was not to speak unless directly addressed; he must address Thorn only as 'Lord Prelate'; he must bow on entering and on leaving the chamber; he was to volunteer no information not specifically requested by the Prelate. The list seemed endless to Grimm, who was breathing heavily by the time the pair had ascended the stairs to Thorn's chamber.
Before the old man's fist had touched the door, a voice boomed from within. 'Enter, Doorkeeper.'
The major-domo motioned Grimm to approach the Prelate's large and forbidding desk, and the boy managed a passable bow. He gazed at the stone floor, barely daring to breathe. This was a mighty wizard.
'Lord Thorn, this is the boy I told you about, here as you commanded.'
'You may leave, Doorkeeper,' intoned the Prelate in an off-hand tone, and Grimm heard the door close behind him. As long minutes passed, he waited nervously to be addressed as Doorkeeper had advised him, aware that the senior mage's eyes were seriously appraising him.
'Your name is Grimm Afelnor, is it not?' asked the Prelate.
Grimm nodded, his nerves stopping his tongue. With an effort, the child managed to whisper 'Yes, Lord Prelate.'
More moments passed. 'Do you know why you are here, child?'
In a slightly stronger voice, Grimm replied, 'Granfer… my grandfather wants me to become a magician, Lord Prelate.'
'The term used within the Guild is 'mage', Grimm. A magician is merely a town performer, a mountebank, a bumbling purveyor of simple charms and illusions with which to bedazzle the uneducated and the credulous.'
Grimm felt a little bedazzled himself at several of the strange words the Prelate used, but he held his tongue as Doorkeeper had ordered.
'A mage is a true master of the arcane arts, a man to be feared and respected, a man with true dedication
