deep satisfaction.
'From this point on, I wash my hands of you. Do whatever you want, because your days as a Guild Mage are numbered. When I have finished with you, she may be your only friend in the House scullery, where you belong. The proud and lucrative Barony of Crar may well await you, but you are not yet free to pursue your own desires. You still owe the House and the Guild the considerable cost of your scornfully rejected education, and you will repay it, my friend, I assure you. I will recommend that you pay with servitude rather than cash. I suspect Lord Thorn will agree with me.'
Xylox stretched and assumed a satisfied expression, indicating that he knew full well that he had won the final victory over his upstart junior. 'For the nonce, we have a Quest to complete: your last Quest, I am afraid, Questor Grimm. If you carry out your remaining duties in a satisfactory manner, I may recommend that you be allowed a dishonourable discharge from the Guild, rather than condemning you to servitude. It is up to you. I, at least, know where the best interest of the Guild lies. Acknowledge my superiority, and you may be allowed to bask in your unearned wealth. If you attempt to balk me again, you will learn what it means to try to oppose a true, loyal, Questor of the Seventh Rank.'
Grimm said nothing. His lofty ambitions, his heartfelt dreams, had all been scotched by a moment's hot- headed opposition to a vain, yet influential and powerful, man. At that moment, he knew himself damned.
'Tell me what you have learned concerning the Quest, Brother Mage, and you may yet raise yourself in my estimation.'
The older man's voice bore a tone of quiet triumph.
Numbly, Grimm told him all he had learned, as Xylox made notes on a paper pad.
'Questor Xylox,' he whispered. 'I am your man for the remainder of this Quest. I spoke to you in an unforgivable manner and I accept your judgement, whatever it may be. My Oath still binds me, and I offer my life for our Quest. I beg you to spare this girl, no matter what may happen. She is even more wilful than I, but she seems to have no malice in her. Pray, do not destroy her for youthful impetuosity.'
Xylox indicated assent. 'We must move on; time is of the essence. Kindly make the necessary orders, Questor Grimm.'
Grimm nodded, feeling as if scalding water had been poured across his back. He now knew that he had made a huge mistake in standing up to the powerful, older man, but he swore to fight to the last.
Assuming a confident air, he shouted 'All right, everybody, it's time to go. Let's fetch the horses, and head up into the mountains. Look lively now; we haven't got all day.'
Xylox smiled, as if bestowing some benison upon his junior mage. He looked as if he had had a very good day.
Chapter 29: In the Mountains
'Lord Mage, what's the matter?' Drexelica asked in a soft, concerned voice. She clung to the young mage as he rode out of Griven at the rear of the party, having no horse of her own.
Grimm could think of nothing but his folly in opposing Xylox in such a bullish, confrontational manner; he felt tired and crotchety after a sleepless night. His confident, angry, defiant words rattled around inside his head, battering against the inner walls of his skull and becoming more strident and louder by the minute. He ignored the girl's solicitous question, excoriating and berating himself for having tossed away his heartfelt dreams in a moment of idiocy.
How could I have been so stupid?
'Questor Grimm, is it me? Are you in trouble? Is it my fault? Please say something.' Drex's tone was more urgent, almost pleading.
'Just call me Grimm,' he grunted. 'That's my name, not 'Lord Mage' or 'Questor'.
'Yes, I am in deep trouble, Drex, and it is over you. Still, don't blame yourself; it was my decision to take you with us and nobody else's.' He returned to his self-pitying reverie.
'It's that horrible man, Xylox, isn't it?' the girl said, denying Grimm the solitude he sought. 'I couldn't hear what he was saying to you, but I could see the way he looked at you and me. If you like, I'll tell him that the whole thing was my fault and my idea. You were just being kind.'
Grimm turned his head as far around towards Drex as he could. 'Don't you dare to say anything to Questor Xylox,' he hissed. 'You'll only make things worse.
'If that were possible,' he added with a deep sigh.
He had visions of a High Conclave like the one his grandfather, Loras, had faced, with stern-faced, nameless mages joining in a Great Spell to strip him of all his magic. Grimm imagined the final step would be the reduction of his staff, Redeemer, to a simple wooden rod, after which he would then be ordered to smash the baton into ineffectual splinters against the preternaturally sharp Breaking Stone, in a parody of his proud Acclamation a scant twelvemonth before.
He groaned at the thought of being forced to work in the kitchen or the scullery, open to derision and contempt from the lowliest Student. This could become as bad as his Questor Ordeal, but it might last for years, without any prospect of an end until his eventual, ignominious dismissal from the Guild.
The day was fine, with warm sunlight streaming down from a cloudless sky but, to Grimm, the sun in all its majesty seemed to be mocking him. Nothing could bring light to the dark gloom in his soul.
'I can make you feel better,' Drex whispered. 'My mother taught me a few spells-'
'I don't want any witch magic!' Grimm said, his voice harsher than he intended. 'My mood may not be bright, but at least it is mine, not some bloody fantasy. I won't have anyone tampering with my emotions again.'
He yearned to gorge himself on the bitter, acrid, soothing smoke of Trina and Virion, but he knew he could not do so and still claim his mind as his own. This made his temper even worse.
'Oh, suit yourself then, you stupid boy!' the girl snapped, turning away from him. That's all you are, a stupid boy moping as if his favourite toy's been taken away. You look like a dying duck in a thunderstorm!'
Drexelica's irate words struck home: Grimm knew she had spoken the truth. This knowledge did little to assuage his misery.
The last few, straggling houses of Griven gave way to a wide, open plain, and the trail stretched far away towards the imposing Shest Mountains. The young mage began to indulge his maudlin introspection more and more.
If I die here, who would mourn my passing? Grimm wondered. Nobody, it seems…
Crest reined in and came alongside Grimm's horse. 'What's the matter, Questor Grimm? It's a lovely day. You might as well enjoy it while you can. It'll be cold and cloudy in the mountains, and we'll be there soon enough.'
'Don't you start, Crest!' Grimm snarled. 'I'm alright.'
'Fair enough, Questor,' Crest said with a shrug. 'After all, I'm only the hired help, aren't I? You sure that horse is high enough for you?'
Grimm did not respond. Crest's tone was cold, but the elf's opinion of him seemed immaterial.
'You can stew in your own juice for as long as you want, as far as I'm concerned. When you do decide to rejoin the human race, be sure to let me know, won't you?'
Clicking to his horse, the half-elven whipmaster returned to his place at the left wing of the party without a backward glance.
After five hours' ride, the trail petered out into a rocky, scree-covered slope that led into the foothills of the mountains. Grimm urged his horse alongside Xylox's. He did not want to talk to the unpleasant mage, but he was determined to play the role of Questor to the last.
Xylox did not deign to face his younger colleague. 'Yes, Questor Grimm, what is it?' His voice was neutral; perhaps it would not be good for discipline to demonstrate his low opinion of Grimm to 'the hired help', Crest and Tordun.
