and he made his way to the Refectory, his emotions varying between sorrow for having fallen out with his friend, and anger at Dalquist's rank ingratitude. Perhaps he would meet his old Scholasticate friends, Madar and Argand, at lunch: a little friendly discourse might improve his mood.
His two friends did not appear in the Refectory, and Grimm stared at his empty plate, not even remembering what he had eaten. A group of humble charity Students chatted and squabbled with customary gusto in their dingy corner of the room, and the Questor became more and more annoyed as he tried to marshal his thoughts over the incessant clamour.
'Show a little respect for your seniors, can't you?' he snapped. 'It's all I can do to hear myself think!'
The loud conversation stopped as if a branch had been lopped from a tree, and Grimm saw several mages were looking at him, their faces shocked and incredulous.
What's the matter with you idiots? What this House needs is a little more respect! The words rose in the Questor's gorge like acid bile, but he managed to stop them before they reached his mouth. In ill humour, he rose to his feet and swept from the Refectory.
'What am I? I'm a freak, a sport, a mutant!' That was what he had screamed at Magemaster Crohn during his violent Outbreak, the final, cataclysmic eruption marking his transition from humble Neophyte to powerful Questor. Words torn from a callow adolescent, filled with pain and confusion, before the sick-sweet realisation that he had prevailed against almost insuperable odds.
He rubbed his pained brow, grimacing. Had he not left all that debilitating angst behind him? Surely so, and yet he had subjected Numal to a vicious tongue-lashing that very morning, and now he feared he had lost a valued friend to an unaccustomed burst of vitriol. Where was that Questor self-control? Where was that iron command over his emotions, now?
He knew he must seek out Dalquist again and beg his forgiveness, but he, who had faced demons without fear, who had risen from the lowly status of a blacksmith's son to the rank of Baron, could not face such a confrontation.
'I'm sorry, Dalquist,' he whispered as he stomped off to his room. He could not wait to leave for High Lodge, and to be on his next Quest. For good or ill, that was his life now.
Lord Thorn lifted his hands from his crystal and helped himself to another brimming goblet of brandy, shivering as the liquor's warming, soothing flames licked through his body, easing the pains that racked his head.
'I've been sitting behind this bloody desk for too long,' he muttered. Nonetheless, he felt pleased that he had managed to cast a spell of Compulsion as powerful as any Seventh Level Mentalist could cast on a young, powerful Questor, without the least word or gesture. It had taken considerable effort to keep his expression neutral while casting, but he had remembered the advice given to him by his long-dead tutor: 'It is hard to change a man's mind, Adept Thorn. The least change is the best change. A small push in the right direction is all that is needed in most cases, and then he will be yours.'
To hell with High Lodge! he thought, gulping down another draught of the potent brew. A true Afelnor, who owed all loyalty and fealty to you, would be a potent weapon indeed. That was what Lizaveta had told him on the day that the boy had first appeared before him.
You were so right, Mother, he thought. Now you're going to find out just how right you were. Your problem is that he is mine, rather than what you really meant: ours. And this potent weapon is now pointed right at you.
Through his magical link with Afelnor, the Prelate had seen all that had passed between the two Questors in the Library, and, although pleased beyond measure with the boy's response, the arguments of his older friend gave Thorn some concern.
Questor Dalquist, I find your attitude unsatisfactory. I can be a good friend, but you'd better think twice before making an enemy of me. I could easily send you on a Quest from which you'd never come back.
It could wait. Dalquist was a useful mage, and Thorn did not truly want to waste him. Nonetheless, he would keep an eye on this potential renegade. The question of Dalquist's loyalty was only of secondary importance to the destruction of his hated mother.
Questor Grimm would be leaving for High Lodge on the morrow, and the Prelate expected positive developments in this regard.
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Chapter 8: Control
'It's a pleasant morning, don't you think, Grimm?' Numal said.
Grimm knew the Necromancer was just trying to make polite conversation as the Questor drove the small cart down the mountain path from Arnor House, but he had to force himself to reply in a fair facsimile of a cheerful voice.
'Yes, indeed, Numal. It's good to be out.'
In truth, Grimm felt seedy and ill-tempered. He was beginning to worry that the herbs, Trina and Virion, to which, inadvertently, he had once been addicted, might once more be exerting their insidious influence on him. Since the herbs had relinquished their tyrannical hold on him, it had been his habit to carry a pouch of the potent substances with him at all times, to remind him of the thrall in which they had once held him. He had left the pouch behind at General Quelgrum's desert lair, and he began to regret that he had never replenished them.
No! All that is behind you, Grimm. You're never going to touch those damned herbs again, ever!
Nonetheless, despite his id-voice's urgent chiding, he found it hard to think about anything else.
'Aren't we getting a little close to the edge, Brother Mage?'
Grimm snapped out of his reverie as he saw the cart's wheels spinning mere inches away from the edge of the track, and oblivion. He vowed to keep his mind on the job in hand, and not to stray into absent-minded introspection.
'Sorry, Numal, my mind was wandering,' he said, guiding the blinkered horses back into the centreline of the road. 'I spent a sleepless night, I'm afraid.'
'Yes, I thought you seemed a little dull at breakfast. Excited about the prospect of gaining the Sixth Rank?'
'Yes, that must be it,' Grimm lied. That's another bad habit you're getting into, Afelnor, chided his inner voice, which he tried to banish to the back of his mind.
'I hear you're reckoned a fair singer, Grimm,' the devotee of the dark arts called. 'How about a little sing-song to brighten the trip?'
'No, I don't really think so, Numal. Not right now, anyway. I need to keep my mind on driving the cart. We don't want another scare like we had back there.'
Grimm just wanted peace and quiet, although he resigned himself to the odd snippet of conversation lest he appear odd or ill. Nonetheless, the normally garrulous Necromancer managed to hold his tongue until the pair reached the foot of the mountain.
Once the trail widened and the gradient reduced to a gentle slope, however, the older mage began to speak again, and it cost Grimm a deal of self-control not to tell him to shut up.
'Er… Questor Grimm?'
'Yes, Necromancer Numal, what is it?' Although he was determined to be polite, Grimm's response was brusquer than he had intended.
He noted that the Necromancer's voice was hesitant and nervous, and it was all he could do not to snap 'Spit it out, man!' With great effort he managed a more civil reply.
'I'm sorry, Numal. What's up? Is something on your mind?'
