meant it when I said I'd come to my senses. I've been so tied up in this Quest that I've forgotten what was really important to me.'
'I thought clearing your family name was the most important thing to you.'
'It is important to me, Drex; I won't lie to you. I hardly spent a day of my life as a Student and Neophyte without being reminded that my Granfer Loras was a traitor, a renegade and an oath-breaker. I've sworn to repay every slight, every insult, by redeeming the name of Afelnor, and I will. But it'll be a hollow victory if I ever manage to do that without you by my side. I love you, and I'll do whatever it takes to convince you of that fact.'
Drex sniffed. 'You'll have to do a lot to convince me.'
'I will,' Grimm vowed.
'Prove it. Make a start now.'
The kitchen seemed hardly an appropriate place to prove his love, but Grimm gave it his best effort.
Lord Prelate Thorn looked at Senior Magemaster Crohn Bowe, called the Mindstealer, across the expanse of his marble-topped work desk. He had not spoken to the man since Crohn and Questor Dalquist had burst into his room, protesting at the spell of Compulsion Thorn had placed on Questor Grimm. Perhaps Thorn owed the teacher a debt of gratitude for interrupting him, since a resonance in the spell, combined with Grimm's unconscious resistance to the magic, had posed a considerable threat to the Prelate's life.
Nonetheless, Thorn had not risen to his current station by being a forgiving man.
The two mages who had erupted into his private chamber on that night had committed a serious breach of protocol by doing so and, worse than that, had seen the senior mage in a less than dignified state. He would make them pay for his loss of face.
'So, Senior Magemaster Crohn, how fare your Students, Neophytes and Adepts?'
Lord Prelate Thorn allowed his words to flow like liquid silk, soft and smooth. He already knew much of what the Magemaster would say, but he bided his time. A reckoning was at hand for Crohn's earlier impudent defiance, and Thorn wished to savour the moment in full.
'Shimath Gundor shows promise as an Adept Shapeshifter,' Crohn said, spurning the comfortable embrace of his chair by maintaining a parade-ground stiffness. 'He is only thirty-five years old, Lord Prelate, and I expect great things of him within a few years. He has a most rare talent.'
Thorn was impressed, despite himself. Somehow, this Adept had escaped his notice, and Shapeshifters were among the most prestigious ranks of Guild Mages. The raising of a Mage Shapeshifter was no achievement to be mocked, especially one who showed signs of flowering at such a young age.
'A Shapeshifter, you say? That will be a feather in Arnor House's cap; well done, Crohn.'
Remembering his purpose, Thorn leaned back in his red-leather seat, crossing his hands behind his balding head. 'What of your Neophyte, Chag Jura? I understand we might make a Questor of him.' The Prelate took care to keep his tone neutral, unthreatening.
Crohn rubbed his beard, his eyes turned towards the ceiling. 'It is perhaps too early to tell, Lord Prelate. At this time, Chag's talents seem more to tend towards Herbalism or Healing; he possesses great empathy.'
'We need another Questor, Crohn.' Thorn spoke with soft urgency, congratulating himself on the perfect blend of concern and sad obligation to his Guild duties he managed to convey in this simple phrase.
He knew the Senior Magemaster was a slave to duty; despite Crohn's earlier opposition of his Prelate, aided by Questor Dalquist, he would not dare to oppose his Housemaster in this regard. The determination of House policy was the Prelate's prerogative alone.
Questor Dalquist could wait for now, but Thorn swore that Dalquist's turn would come.
'Surely you do not mean that, Lord Thorn!'
The Prelate suppressed a smile at Crohn's astonished, even horrified, expression.
'Arnor House's status within the Guild is as high as I can remember it,' the Senior Magemaster continued. 'We have three young, active Questors; more than most Houses will ever be able to boast. Why do we need another?'
Thorn felt an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh at Crohn's evident discomfiture, but he managed to master it.
'That is my decision, not yours, Senior Magemaster Crohn. I want you to consider Neophyte Chag for this Speciality. He is the right age for it, and he is a charity case, after all.'
Crohn's face was like stone. 'I urge you to reconsider, Lord Thorn. The boy is erratic in his moods, and I fear for his sanity if he is subjected to the Ordeal. Remember Neophyte Erek.'
Thorn was only too aware of the debacle of Erek's Questor Ordeal; the boy had committed suicide after blasting Senior Magemaster Urel into bloody fragments. He had been pushed too far, too soon.
'That is why I want you, Magemaster Crohn, to handle his Ordeal. You are the only living man in this House ever to have raised a full-blooded Questor.'
The Prelate saw a momentary expression of naked fear flitting across the Magemaster's face, and he felt an unalloyed sensation of satisfaction.
'Questor Grimm's Outbreak almost killed me, Lord Thorn!' the older mage protested. 'Another such eruption of power would surely finish the job.'
'You refuse my order?' Thorn forced his expression to remain neutral. Crohn was reacting just as he had hoped.
Crohn's face reddened. 'Yes, Lord Prelate, I refuse your order! It is unreasonable and unethical. I also wish to state formally that I consider Chag Jura a most unsuitable candidate for the Ordeal.'
'Perhaps Magemaster Faffel would be of a different mind, Crohn.'
'Faffel!' Crohn expostulated. 'He can be brutal with the Students at the best of times; he would turn an Ordeal into a bloody assassination. In my capacity as Senior Magemaster, I refuse to assign him to any Questor Ordeal, now or ever! That prerogative is mine, and mine alone, Lord Prelate.'
Thorn spread his hands, as if placating Crohn, maintaining his reasonable, avuncular tone as he spoke: 'I tried to be fair with you, Magemaster Crohn. Perhaps you are right; it may well be that the strain of Questor Grimm's Outbreak and the heavy responsibilities of your position have taken their toll on you. How old are you now, Senior Magemaster Crohn? Ninety years?'
'Ninety-three,' Crohn responded, his expression stern. 'Lord Prelate, I fail to see what bearing my age may have on this fruitless discussion. I am still healthy, fit, and in my right mind. I may reasonably expect to remain in this state for several decades more.'
'You say you are fit, Magemaster Crohn, but you declare yourself unable to resist an eruption of anger from a frustrated adolescent. Should you refuse me again, I shall have to conclude that Magemaster Faffel should replace you as Head of the Scholasticate.'
'You can't do that, you…'
Thorn raised an admonitory finger, pleased that the older mage was rattled enough to lapse into vernacular speech. This was perfect!
'Be careful what you say, Crohn Mindstealer. I will not tolerate outright insults, even from you.'
From the Magemaster's reaction, the Prelate knew he had mustered just the tone of concern and regret he had intended.
'I apologise for my outburst, Lord Prelate. Please forgive me,' Crohn said, his face a rigid mask of mortification at his momentary loss of self-control.
'Magemaster Crohn, I can tell you are under a severe emotional stress at this time.' Thorn suppressed the smirk that threatened to spoil his stony, impassive appearance. 'It would not be fair to expect an immediate answer from you, so I will give you a day of grace in which to consider the matter. Consider it well, and sleep on it. Take the rest of the day off, by all means. Kargan can deputise for you, and Questor Dalquist can cover your classes in Perception, Interpretation, and Visualisation. Think hard, old friend. We have known each other a long time, and I have no intention of seeing you disgraced or dismissed. Nonetheless, I have the priorities of Guild politics to consider.'
The ashen Crohn looked a pale shadow of the man who had walked through the door earlier. He displayed every sign of his advanced age as he rose to his feet to leave, leaning on his staff for support.
