still a powerful mage.
At first, the rhythmic, fluent runic chant seemed to have no effect, but the young mage noticed a subtle coruscation of blue motes playing around Horin's brow. He felt tendrils of force boring into his head from all directions, but, after an initial few moments of discomfort, he began to find the experience soothing and calming. He relaxed in his chair, sensing his cares and worries drifting away from him. It was so peaceful here…
He heard Horin's voice as if it was inside his own head; the words were crystal clear. 'What is your name?'
'Grimm Afelnor.' The name spilled from him before his mind had even formulated the intention to speak.
'What are your goals in life?'
Again, the dreamy words emerged from his mouth of their own volition. 'I wish to exonerate the name of my grandfather Loras, and I wish to be recognised within the Guild for my worth and my achievements. I wish… I wish…'
He began to writhe in his seat, and the Dominie's face turned pasty and sweaty.
'Please don't fight me, Questor Grimm. It will only make things harder.'
Yes, of course: Lord Horin already knows about Drex. There is no need to fight.
'I wish to live with Drexelica forever. I love her.'
'What are your feelings towards Prelate Thorn?'
'He is my friend. He is stern and forbidding, but he has treated me well. His word is my law.' The question appeared almost ludicrous, but Grimm found it easier to answer than not.
'What of your attitude towards me, and any orders given by me?'
'My Oath is to the Guild first, and my House second. Your orders supersede those even of Lord Thorn.'
'If I were to give you strict orders to conceal evidence from Lord Thorn, would you do so?'
'I would not wish to do so, but I would have no choice but to comply.'
Grimm was aware of a dim discomfort, but it was almost as if it were being visited on somebody else. Once more, it was simpler just to answer the question put to him than to resist.
'Have you any secret plans concerning your dealings with me?'
That was an easy question to answer. 'No.'
The older mage put several other searching questions to Grimm, concerning his loyalty to the Guild and his innermost desires, and the Questor answered all of them in a clear, unemotional voice. At last, with a rasping sigh, Horin turned away from the young Questor, who felt the magical tendrils withdrawing from his brain; his mind was once more his own.
'You are a powerful one indeed, Questor Grimm.'
Horin was ashen and his voice, in contrast to the clear mental tones that he had heard during the Divination, was hoarse and mumbling. 'I should have asked Mentalist Gowell to administer the spell. He was the mage who taught me the sleight when I first became Dominie. I thought myself well practiced in its use after all these years.'
'I'm sorry, Lord Dominie,' Grimm felt unsure of how he might have done wrong. 'I wasn't trying to resist you.'
An urgent, panicked expression flitted across the older mage's face. 'Excuse me, please, Questor-'
Cutting himself short, Horin vaulted from his chair and ran pell-mell across the room, upending two small tables in the process. Grimm, perplexed, saw him yank open a door in the corner of the chamber and launch himself into a small room. Within a few seconds, he heard the unmistakable sounds of wracking, violent retching and vomiting from within. These persisted for some time, and the young mage could hear Horin gasping and spitting. Then he heard the distinct sound of splashing water, and a soft, agonised groan.
At last, the Dominie emerged from the small room, his face pale, a bloodstained handkerchief held against his nose with his right hand.
The Questor leapt to his feet. 'Are you all right, Lord Dominie? Shall I summon help?'
Horin waved his free hand, and shook his head, although he did appear to be in some distress. 'I'll be all right, thank you, Questor Grimm,' he said, indistinctly through his handkerchief. 'It's no worse than a bad miscasting.'
Grimm felt a momentary frisson of guilt that he felt no ill-effects from the meeting of the two mages' minds, but he said nothing as Horin lowered himself into his seat, and Grimm did the same.
The older man inspected the red-stained cloth and stuffed it into a pocket in his robe. A delicate tracery of brown stains remained around his top lip, but Grimm considered it might be impolitic to mention it.
'Thank you, Questor Grimm, for submitting to my questions,' Horin said in a nasal tone. 'I will now tell you what I have in mind.'
Grimm leaned forward, eager to hear Horin's plans for him. 'Thank you, Lord Dominie.' It was all he could say, under the circumstances.
The Guildmaster looked around for a few heartbeats, his eyes looking to Grimm like animated currants set in a mass of pale, damp dough. He appeared almost feverish, but intelligence and strength of purpose burned in those eyes; this was no paranoid madman. Grimm could see that this was a man with a mission: a man fighting incipient exhaustion, despite the early hour.
Summoning some inner reserve of energy, Horin mustered a clear, strong voice, as he spoke almost in the manner of Magemaster Crohn delivering one of his sonorous, interminable lectures.
'This Guild has prevailed for more than a millennium, young Afelnor. It has survived insurrection, mutiny, treachery, opposition, war, famine and plague for more than thirty generations for one reason, and one reason only: the complete dedication of its members.'
Do I speak? Do I keep my mouth shut? Grimm wondered. It seemed easier to nod and say nothing.
'This is my very life,' the Dominie declared, 'and yours, too, if you could but realise it, young Afelnor.
'Are you pleased at your rapid elevation, Questor Grimm?'
Grimm blinked: Horin's question appeared nuncupatory.
'Yes, Lord Dominie; I feel very pleased.'
'Some of my fellow Presidium members consider me little more than a superannuated clerk, obsessed with trivia and minutiae, without strategic vision or imagination,' the Guildmaster said. 'You think you reached the Fifth Rank only due to my inattention and incompetence, don't you?'
Grimm stammered, 'I… I know you're a busy man, Lord-'
'Of course you do!' Horin cried, his eyes bright, feverish. 'Poor old Horin, struggling with his silly papers, doesn't notice he is promoting a ringless First Rank novice well beyond the level merited by a single, if meritorious, Quest.'
Grimm felt his head spinning. What was the Guildmaster saying?
'I have had my eye on you for some time, Afelnor. I could not have promoted you to the Sixth or Seventh Rank without my judgement being brought into serious question, or I would have done so. Your accession to the Fifth Rank was no fortuitous mistake, Questor Grimm. Have you ever heard Questors referred to as 'Weapons of the Guild'?'
'Of course, Lord Horin.' Grimm felt as if he were a leaf being swept along in a strong current, unable to change its course.
'The Guild is my world, my universe, young Questor. I would do anything to protect or save it. I wanted a true, loyal weapon of my own to aid in the fight, and I selected you. Recent events have proved I was right.'
'Fight, Lord Dominie?' Grimm spluttered. 'What fight, and why me? I'm hardly blooded as a Questor yet, and there are surely many of my kind, more experienced and resourceful mages who would prove more suitable.'
Horin laughed. 'Not that many, Afelnor,' he said. 'Your power and resourcefulness are remarkable in one so young. Older Questors may have guile and cunning gained through a dozen Quests, but only a scant handful could match you in naked power, if any.
'That is gratifying, but it is not the only reason I chose Grimm Afelnor to be my weapon. The other Questors are good men. Loyal men; powerful men; but they are bedazzled by wealth, status and privilege. They think being a Guild man is nothing more than formality and protocol; knowing the correct cutlery to use at a court banquet. Many of them leave the Guild as soon as they are able, rich mages who have paid off their debts. Other, more loyal mages perform their roles well enough, but they are nonetheless obsessed with games of precedence with their peers, as you already know well.'
