Questor. Who could be a better choice than a man who's actually faced the Ordeal and won?'
The senior mage shuddered. 'No thanks, Grimm! I'd rather eat broken glass. Two years of chiding, nagging, and shouting at some hapless kid doesn't appeal to me. You had it much easier, getting through in seven months. I guess you were lucky there, too.'
'Lucky?' Grimm exploded, unable to believe his friend's insouciance. 'Are you serious?'
Dalquist laughed. 'Well, of course I know how tough it is, Grimm. I often found myself wanting to kill Magemaster Urel. I broke out when he whacked me with his staff for dropping a plate in the Refectory, and you know the result of that. I really lost it, but that impromptu display of amateur demolition did make a Questor of me, after all.'
The young Questor gaped in sheer astonishment. Dalquist must be some superman to have withstood two whole years of the daily torment Grimm had faced.
'I think another day of what I faced would have seen me mad or dead,' he declared, shivering a little. 'I guess you're made of stronger stuff than me, and I respect you even more for it. I scarcely knew my name by the time Magemaster Crohn had finished with me. How did you stand it for two whole years?'
Dalquist frowned. 'I know you're no weakling, Grimm. You're more powerful than I was at your age, and your willpower and drive are second to none. The Questor Ordeal's designed to drive a man, or boy, to his limits. I reached mine after two years, and you're at least as strong as me in that regard; perhaps stronger. Power like yours doesn't come from nothing.' He leaned back, his brow still furrowed. 'Could you give me an account of a typical day you spent as a Neophyte Questor? Assume you're telling someone who knows nothing of it.'
Mercifully, Grimm now found memories of much of his Ordeal to be little more than a blur, but he applied himself to his friend's request, rubbing his bearded chin as if it could stimulate recall.
'Well, if I'd displeased Crohn the night before, I might have to do without breakfast. We'd start the morning with three hours' repetition of a long runic spell, often one I didn't know. If my repetition rate was too slow, Crohn slapped me; or worse if he was in a bad mood. He could scream at me for as much as twenty minutes because I'd made even a small mistake on one of the repetitions, and then we'd start over. That'd lead to another three hours' practice, with a slap or a kick for each mistake. More screaming by Crohn, and, of course, a proper beating if I hadn't already had one. If I hadn't made a mistake, he'd beat me for my tone of voice or my facial expression, or the condition of my shoes, or because his arm ached from beating me the last time… any little thing he could think of, you know. That might mean bread and water for lunch, or perhaps no lunch, and then we'd start again in the afternoon.
'The evening session could go on into early morning until I could hardly speak. I'd be given exercises to complete for the next session, but I'd be so hungry and tired I could never finish them in time. Sometimes you just have to eat and sleep. If I did manage to finish them, get some scraps to eat and grab a couple of hours' sleep, it was a good day, but it became almost impossible by the end. You could have closed your thumb and forefinger around my bicep, and my clothes just seemed to hang off me-so I often got beaten for looking untidy, even if my clothes were clean and in good repair.
'Sometimes, on very rare occasions, Crohn seemed to take pity on me-he'd pretend he was too busy to attend to me the next day, and he'd forget to give me any exercises. I'd spend half the day in bed and the rest in the refectory, but I couldn't keep food down. I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone or go to the Library, of course, so all I had was myself.'
Grimm swallowed, trying to keep his voice level. 'Of course, those little days off were just designed to make it even harder to start again. The next day, Crohn often told me how nobody would miss me if I died, and sometimes I really, really thought about… you know…'
The mage's voice faded almost to a whisper as emotion stuffed an iron ball into his throat. 'You know the way it goes, Dalquist. Seven months of that nearly finished me; I'd never have lasted two years!'
The senior Questor whistled. 'Grimm, I can assure you Urel wasn't anywhere near that hard with me, and I thought he was a tyrant. Sure, he slapped me on occasion, and I had privileges revoked. I was restricted to bread and water from time to time, yes, and I was barred from seeing my friends. Still, I always had the sense that Magemaster Urel was testing me, and he usually stopped short of outright assault. I now realise he was seeing how far he could take me, and then backing off. Things got worse as time went on, but at a measured rate, stretching me, pushing me to the limit. Towards the end, the last month or so, I'd start to have the odd day where he'd treat me like you describe, but I couldn't have stood a solid month of that, let alone seven. I saw the way you looked after your Outbreak, and it puzzled me that you were as shattered as you were. Now I understand. Crohn must be a complete sadist.'
Grimm waved his hands, as if to expunge Dalquist's last words. 'But he's not, Dalquist. Almost the first words I remember when I awoke after my Outbreak were 'I'm sorry, Grimm, so sorry. I had no choice.''
Dalquist entwined his hands, the index fingers forming a steeple that touched the middle of his forehead, just over the bridge of his nose. Long moments passed before he spoke again.
'There was a Neophyte a couple of years above me, with Crohn as his personal tutor. What was his name…
'Mitar: that was it. I'm pretty sure he was being tried out as a Questor, too. He liked books and music, just like you and, of course, Crohn took those privileges away from him. After a few months, Mitar started to act strange. He'd sit in the Refectory, rocking back and forth and muttering to himself. I was still a Student in those days, and we all used to laugh at him. You know how cruel boys can be.'
Grimm nodded. He remembered only too well the sly trips and pushes, and the venomous hisses of 'Traitor's by-blow' from the shadows. Yes, boys could be unimaginably cruel at times.
'After a few days of this,' Dalquist said, enunciating his words with great care, 'Crohn came into the Refectory and sat with him. We all thought it was odd, a Magemaster sitting in the paupers' area. I couldn't hear much, but I caught the words, 'terrible mistake', and Magemaster Crohn led him away by the hand, as if he were a toddler. We didn't see him for a few days, but he was much better when he came back. He said he was being tried out as a Healer instead. I believe he's an Adept now.'
'There you are,' Grimm replied, 'Crohn's not a total sadist after all.'
Dalquist shook his head. 'Perhaps not, but I think things must have changed over the years. Look at what happened to your friend, Erek. He never should have been put through the Ordeal. Too sensitive, too highly-strung, but they pushed him and pushed him anyway, and he killed Senior Magemaster Urel and hanged himself. Something's changed in Arnor House, and I don't like it.'
Grimm sighed. 'Lord Thorn must have found out what happened. Don't you think he would have told Crohn to take it easy after what happened to Erek and Urel, once he discovered the truth?'
Dalquist's looked into Grimm's eyes, his expression stern. 'Grimm Afelnor, you have a brain in your head, a good one, too. Use it! Of course Lord Thorn would have done that once he realised what had been going on… unless he was the one who ordered it.'
Grimm opened his mouth to expostulate, but the words did not seem to come. The fatherly Urel was no sadist, either, and yet he had pushed Erek beyond his limits of tolerance. Crohn was a dedicated, kindly educator, and he had taken Grimm to the very edge of that same precipice.
Surely… no, it couldn't be!
'I'm sorry, Dalquist, but I can't believe that. Lord Thorn's done all right by me, and you, too. I don't think he'd tolerate a regime of concentrated brutality like that. I think we both owe him a debt of gratitude, not innuendo and slander.'
Dalquist snorted. 'Well, it looks like it worked on you, then. Grateful Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor, Weapon of the Guild, thankful to his betters for being beaten and starved every day. Just open your eyes, will you?'
Grimm stood, his face burning. 'I'm sorry, Dalquist, but I really don't want to talk about this. Perhaps when I come back you'll be in a more reasonable state of mind.
'No, I don't want to hear any more, thank you!' He turned on his heel, and strode towards the door.
'Grimm, just listen to yourself!' Dalquist shouted.
Without turning round, his hand on the handle of the door, Grimm snapped back, 'No, you listen, Dalquist. I think it's high time you realised who your real friends are. You owe Lord Thorn everything, as I do! I think a little appreciation would be in order, don't you?'
Not waiting for his friend's reply, he opened the door, stepped through and slammed it behind him, nearly tripping over Redeemer. The unpleasant, dissonant lunch bell began to rang, reminding him of his empty stomach,
