drawing power from the earth. Our iron fetters are not proof against such energies, so we let the party go. In any case, to ensnare too many sacrifices would arouse wide suspicion; most Realsters are allowed to pass through here without molestation. Your party will suffice for many more years.'
Grimm stared into space, trying hard to shake the old man's insane confidence in his crazed beliefs. As he gazed through the barred window, he saw a mighty, golden turret disappear in the wink of an eye, to be replaced with an evanescent, silver, onion-shaped structure. This shimmered and warped for a few moments, until it coalesced into solid form.
The mage's jaw dropped. Worse than the prospect of a town of madmen was the possibility that the old man's crazy beliefs might be true. Worse still was the chance that this madness might be infectious.
'Ah, Uncle grows restless; the Dream begins to waver,” Murar declared, still facing away from the window. “A sacrifice will be in order very shortly. If you would not mind waiting for a few moments, I must help to arrange the first ceremony at once. Do not worry; your turn will not come for many years yet. We need to put a little more meat onto your bones, so that Uncle may enjoy his meal to the full. Fear not: we shall not waste your lives in a capricious manner. Each of you shall nourish Gruon many times before he dies.'
As the old man moved to the door, Grimm all but surrendered to the insidious, cold fingers of terror. “Wait!” he cried, “I won't thrive chained up like this! I need to eat, sleep and carry out my bodily functions if I'm to flourish!'
Murar turned back from the door. “Naturally, I understand that, Blessed One: I am no dotard. We would not be such poor hosts as to leave you fettered in this way. We are preparing a place in a comfortable compound for you. You will be well fed, and you may ask for anything you require-within reason, of course.'
The old man winked. “Of course, the compound must be well-constructed, to withstand your mighty sorcery. However, over the years, we have learned well how to deal with man-magic. Excuse me: I have a job to do.'
With a friendly wave, Murar left.
As the door shut, Grimm felt more alone and helpless than he had ever felt in his life. The silver onion shivered and disappeared. In its place stood a stone arch that reminded the mage of nothing more than a gravestone. Bereft of his magic and his staff, the powerful mage was just a slender youth, and the leaden despair began to weigh heavily on him as the gravity of his situation became apparent.
His only hope was that Thribble might find some solution to their predicament. However, he could not see how even the resourceful little demon might succeed this time.
'Drex!” he moaned, imagining his worried love, waiting for him back in Crar. He swore to himself that he would not surrender, for her sake. As long as the slenderest chance remained to him, he would grasp it with both hands-however long that might take. And there was the matter of Prioress Lizaveta…
The woman who made my grandfather an outcast and a pariah, he thought.
'Somehow, you raddled bitch; somehow, I'll find a way out of this. I will!” he screamed. Nonetheless, he had not the least idea of how he might fulfil this vow.
Lizaveta removed her pale, spidery hands from her scrying-glass. No sound emerged from the green globe, but she had read the intent on young Afelnor's face well, and she had been able to discern most of the words from those twisted, snarling lips. She regretted that she had only an indirect and occasional link with Brianston, so that she could not monitor Grimm's situation on a continuous basis.
She laughed until tears ran from her eyes, accepting her handmaiden's proffered handkerchief with a nod.
'Thank you, Sister Weranda,” she said, with perfunctory gratitude.
I never imagined Loras’ grandson would be so easily taken, she thought, amazed. I'd have thought he'd have seen through Brianston in an instant. Oh, well; I suppose that's just the folly of youth! Still; he's young and strong, and I'm sure he'll find his way out.
'I hope you do, young Questor, I really do,” she said aloud. “I'd relish meeting you again. If you ever do escape, we'll be ready for you. Won't we, my dear?'
The faithful young handmaiden touched her head to the hem of Lizaveta's robe, as required by the Order's strict protocol.
'Yes, Reverend Mother; we'll be ready.'
'I wonder if we should give the boy a little help, Weranda. It'd be a pity to waste all this effort.'
'He's dangerous, Reverend Mother,” the girl replied. “May I speak freely?'
The Prioress waved her hand: “Of course, dear Sister.'
'Begging your pardon, dear Mother, I think it better if that rat-spawn does die in that place, Brianston. You've done so well to prepare the Priory for his attack, but this mage is powerful. Even a Wiccan as strong as you might be far better off letting the dream-people kill him, rather than facing him.'
Lizaveta regarded the girl with a condescending smile. “I will forgive your presumption on this occasion, Sister, having granted you permission to speak freely. However, I will remind you for the last time that I am stronger than any man ever born, including Loras’ jejune spawn.'
'I apologise for my most grievous fault, Reverend Mother,” Weranda said, her eyes lowered. “I am yours to chastise as you will.'
'Blessed Sister,” the Prioress replied, tapping the handmaiden on her right shoulder. “We must keep you whole and unblemished for now, mustn't we? Just in case…'
Lizaveta laughed, and Weranda joined in.
'Just in case, Reverend Mother,” the girl said, tears of unalloyed mirth running from her eyes. “But, whatever happens, he's dead or enslaved, believe me.'
'I do, good Sister.'
The Prioress dismissed the young Novice, pleased with Weranda's progress. The girl already seemed to have forgotten her birth-name: Drexelica.
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Chapter 14: Imprisonment
Grimm saw no deliverance from his current straits. He cudgelled his brain for over three hours to no effect before Murar returned.
'Uncle sleeps peacefully once more.” The old man beamed, as if the young mage should feel elation at the news. “The Dream continues, and we thank you for your noble sacrifice.'
'What sacrifice?” Grimm demanded, burning with frustrated rage. “Which of my friends did you destroy for the perverted purposes of your foul, barbaric rituals?'
'Fear not, Blessed One,” the old man said, shaking his head. “All of your companions are well. However, we obtained a goodly meal for Uncle from your large, pale friend. Gruon willing, he will provide further sustenance on many future occasions. Your friend sleeps at the moment, but he will be well fed and watered to return his strength before the next feeding ceremony.'
Grimm opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again without uttering a sound; foolish vituperation and puerile insults would be of little help.
'Your compound is almost ready, Blessed One; all the citizens of Brianston have been working on it. It is crude and rough at the moment, but it will be secure enough for the protection of all our beloved Realsters. We shall not rest until it is a structure of sufficient grandeur for our guests. It is based on the stone building we use to protect our precious Breeders, but, of course, plain stone would not provide one such as you with sufficient protection.'
Protection? He means a shield against Questor magic,” Grimm thought. How by the Names does a dream being know about Questors? Still, it's probably better to go along with him at the moment. With any luck, Thribble will find some loophole or chink in their armour.
'I'm glad to hear it, Murar,” he said, aloud. “These chains are becoming pretty uncomfortable.'
