table, thinking of the Dominie's huge, cold office in High Lodge. Horin was almost never alone; some urgent Guild matter always demanded his attention, and a profusion of advisors, hangers-on and sycophants seeking preferment besieged him at all times.
The Dominie was like a queen ant, incapable of independent thought or action, amidst a swarm of faceless, nameless, controlling workers; a nonentity with a fancy title. Here, safe in Arnor House, Thorn was the absolute ruler of his destiny. A whole community of thaumaturges waited for his least command, depending on him for its needs, but they did not rule his life. If he wanted solitude, he was left in peace. He need not fear assassination or insurrection, here in his comfortable refuge. Thorn imagined that Horin must sleep fitfully at best, fearing treachery or murder from some ambitious individual under his nominal command. Thorn knew he never wanted to bear such a burden, and he also knew Lizaveta would never rest until he was.
The Prelate took a bottle of his favourite brandy from a commodious drawer in his desk, and poured a large quantity of the golden, fiery beverage into a silver goblet. Cupping the chalice in both hands, he raised it to his nostrils and drew the liquor's potent vapours into his lungs, relishing the brandy's, heady aroma. All he needed to do was to take a long draught of the warming, befuddling beverage, and he would be able to forget his troubles.
Here's to you, Loras Afelnor. The thought popped unbidden into his head as he lifted the goblet to his waiting lips. Disturbed, he placed it on the table without sampling the inviting liquid.
Why do you still trouble me, Loras? Leave me alone! Your trial ended long ago, while mine continues. I am as much a victim of my mother as you were, but my punishment never ends. Let me be!
Thorn sighed, knowing he could not blame poor, disgraced Loras for the guilt that plagued him so. Everything, every pang and twinge of guilt and self-accusation, was due to his mother's insane, vicarious ambitions. She had ensured that he entered Arnor House as a pauper, condemning him to the brutal Questor Ordeal, when she could have granted him a prosperous, comfortable lifestyle as a paying Student. Not once had he demurred at her insensate demands, and he had made no more than a token attempt to sway her from condemning his only friend to revilement and universal odium.
Thorn Virias, you're nothing but a coward and a weakling, a disgrace to your craft!
This was a shameful admission for a Seventh Level Questor and House Prelate to make, even to himself, but Thorn no longer cared. As long as Lizaveta plagued him, he would never be free. Because of her, he had subjected an unsuitable Neophyte, Erek Garan, to an intensified Questor Ordeal until the lad had lost his mind. The result was a dead Senior Magemaster to bury and a scandal to be suppressed. The experiment had been a ghastly disaster.
Lizaveta, of course, accepted no blame for the debacle, pointing out how Loras Afelnor's grandson, Grimm, had prevailed in similar circumstances. This might be true, but Thorn feared the lad's survival of his intensified Ordeal had made him altogether too independent and obstinate.
The report from Questor Xylox concerning his and Questor Grimm's recent Quest certainly made damning reading in this regard.
Thorn skimmed through the document: '… a reasonably powerful and confident magic-user.'; 'In time, Questor Grimm may prove a useful asset to our House and Guild, but…'; '…insubordinate, wayward and headstrong… '
The report concluded, 'It is recommended that Questor Grimm Afelnor not be considered for promotion at this time, despite a few useful contributions to the successful conclusion of this most important Quest.'
The Prelate knew Xylox was not one to mince words. The report implied that the older Questor respected the abilities of the young mage, if not his attitude. Xylox evidently acknowledged the youth as a powerful mage, but also as a reckless hothead likely to act on his own initiative if unchecked by his seniors.
Thorn, however, considered that this very hotheadedness might be of considerable advantage to his cause. The wayward Grimm Afelnor might prove to be the ideal weapon to aid the Prelate in the elimination of his main problem, Lizaveta. All that was necessary was a few hints to provide the trigger, and the Prelate knew he already had at hand the best possible trigger: the betrayal of Loras Afelnor, at her instigation.
The more Thorn considered the matter, the better things looked. He raised his neglected goblet to his mouth, savouring the liquor's slow burn as it slipped down his throat, relishing the familiar, warm glow spreading through his body.
The political phrase was 'plausible deniability', the ability to disavow all involvement if a plan misfired. Thorn might plant subtle seeds of revenge in the boy's mind, so that the youth might be moved to seek out Lizaveta and destroy her, but he must also ensure that Questor Grimm never discovered her relationship to his Prelate. It was also necessary that the young mage never discovered the information's ultimate source.
These factors might be difficult to arrange. Only Thorn had benefited directly from Loras' disgrace and expulsion from the Guild, and Grimm would surely realise that if the clues were too overt. The boy might also demand to hear Lizaveta's reasons for the betrayal; he might stay his hand long enough for her to mention that she was Thorn's mother, and that she had acted to advance his status.
This would be a most unsatisfactory state of affairs.
However, if Afelnor accomplished the deed, it did not matter if he was discovered in the act or not; he was the Traitor's grandson, after all. For all the youth's protestations, nobody in the whole Guild would take the word of a young mage over that of a Prelate who had treated him well.
On the other hand, if Afelnor succeeded in destroying Lizaveta without arousing any suspicion, his future as an Arnor House Questor was assured; Thorn would not raise a murmur, even if the boy were ever elected as Dominie at some far-distant time.
I have some time in hand, the Prelate thought. Even Mother isn't powerful enough to ensorcel all the mages in the Presidium at one sitting, or anything like it. That's just as well, because I'll need to take my time over this little stratagem.
Thorn scratched his hairless pate and frowned, considering the deeper ramifications of his plan.
The boy might have sworn a solemn oath to defend the interests of the House and the Guild, but it may not be enough. I need to make him trust me, so he'll do anything I ask.
For a start, I can recommend him for promotion. Xylox won't like it, but I can make it plain that I recognise the boy's very real worth to the Guild by adding the sixth ring to his staff; the Presidium won't complain, and I can let Afelnor know that I promoted him despite his senior Questor's strongest recommendations to the contrary.
The Prelate smiled. This plan seemed flawless.
I'm sorry, Xylox, but you'll have to look like the villain here. Perhaps if I recommend you for a healthy stipend and an extended entry in the 'Deeds of the Questors', you'll feel better.
The realistic prospect of Lizaveta's removal from his life cheered Thorn no end, and he drained his goblet at a gulp. The fact that his mother seemed to have taken a shine to the boy could only add a satisfying tinge of irony to the enterprise.
So you wouldn't mind meeting our young Afelnor up close, eh, Mother? Perhaps you'll get your wish: but, after all, they do say you ought to be careful what you wish for, don't they?
While I don't envy the boy this particular Quest, he's probably the best chance I have of being rid of you for good.
Thorn refilled his goblet, raised it high and laughed out loud for the first time since his youth.
Here's to you, dear Mother; long may you rot.
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Chapter 2: The Uncertain Future
Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Fifth Rank and Baron of Crar, sat at ease in a red leather divan in his well-lit day-room. With his beloved Drexelica at his side, he felt at peace. The early morning sun cast warm, golden rays that made the room's mahogany panelling glow with rich hues, and the costly rug upon the floor shone in all its colourful grandeur. This was Grimm's last day in Crar before he must return to Arnor House, and he felt determined to savour every moment of it. Could anything be better than this?
Grimm took Drexelica in his arms and kissed her. She returned the embrace with warm passion, and he lost
