Chapter 15: Worried Minds
'Please relax, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said, lighting several aromatic candles with a taper and busying himself with rearranging the furniture.
Dalquist, lying on a green, leather-bound couch in the Magemaster's chambers, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. However, he could not ease the nervous fluttering in his stomach; if someone had been tampering with his mind, he wanted to know it.
'Will this take long, Magemaster Kargan?” the Questor asked, as much to fill the silence as to gain information.
'Hmm?'
'I asked if this would take long.'
'How long is a piece of string? Depends how deep the information is buried, Questor Dalquist.'
'I meant your preparations, Magemaster.” Dalquist did his best to keep his tone neutral and impassive. “I'm keen to get on with it.'
'Most of these things are for my benefit; I need to be in the right frame of mind.” Kargan took a small glass phial from his pocket and broke it under his nose. He inhaled deeply, and his eyes widened.
'Don't worry: this is just a stimulant,” he explained. “I need to stay sharp. The least miscast could ruin the day for both of us.
'Right, I think that's about that. Are you relaxed?'
'About as relaxed as I'm ever likely to get, Magemaster. Can we please start?'
Kargan nodded and perched himself on a tall, wooden stool. From a shelf at his side, he took down a heavy volume and began to riffle through it.
The Mentalist rubbed his nose and nodded. “Ah, let's see what Guladin Dream-stealer can do for us. It's been a while since I cast this one, so bear with me while I just run through it in my head. It'll soon come back to me.'
As Kargan began to mutter short, runic phrases, Dalquist looked around the bizarre chamber. He saw drapes and tapestries hanging in a confused riot of colours, and shelves piled high with gewgaws, knick-knacks and figurines. In contrast to this manic disorder were five bookshelves. The books appeared to be arranged in precise order of size, and grouped by author or compiler.
Not for the first time the gulf between ‘normal’ mages and Questors struck Dalquist. The former must learn each spell by rote or recite it from a scroll or spell-book without the least flaw or hesitation. Using his own, unique spell-language, a Questor could cast any spell he could envisage, as long as he had a clear conception of the incantation's mechanism and sufficient power to cast it.
Dalquist had never needed to rehearse one spell in ten active years as a Mage Questor; not all of his enchantments had succeeded, but at least he need not worry about the agonies that the least mistake in casting might cost an ordinary, runic magic-user.
'Right!” Kargan carolled, rubbing his hands together. “I'm pretty sure I have it straight now. Close your eyes and think pleasant thoughts.'
Dalquist did as the Magemaster bade him, trying to imagine sunny summer fields and cheerful birdsong as Kargan began to chant or, rather, sing. It was an intricate sequence of runes, woven together into a cohesive whole by complex trills and passing-notes. It would have tied a tyro's tongue in knots, and Dalquist admired the skilful way Kargan negotiated the treacherous labyrinth of sounds. The man was a master, and his voice was a clear, strong, flawless baritone, flowing easily from one passage to another as his eyes scanned the page.
So where's the pay-off? Dalquist wondered. I don't feel the least bit different yet. I can open my eyes any time I want to. So much for the skills of a Seventh Level Mentalist! I guess a Questor's mind is too hard to crack…
In a moment, we're… I'm… we're…
Kargan sang the last syllable with the deep satisfaction engendered by the knowledge that he had cast a complex and difficult spell without the least error. His mind was enmeshed with Dalquist's, yet he retained the upper hand, the dominant presence.
He put the book back on the shelf, making his movements as gentle and economical as possible, as if he might otherwise sever the gossamer tendrils linking the two mages.
'We are together, Questor Dalquist, and nothing can harm you here. You are safe, and you will remember without fear. How do you feel, my son?” he said, in a soft voice.
Dalquist's tone was distant and dreamy as he replied, “Strange… good.'
'Are you afraid?'
'Not any more. I feel calm and happy.'
'Excellent. Tell me what troubles you.'
Almost as a child reciting a nursery rhyme, the Questor answered him. “Shakkar told me my friend, Questor Grimm, might be in trouble, and I ignored him. When he mentioned Prioress Lizaveta, it was as if a shutter closed over my mind.'
Kargan leaned closer to the Questor. “Tell me all you know about Prioress Lizaveta. Remember, Dalquist, nothing can harm you here.'
A dreamy smile wafted across the ensorcelled mage's face. “Nothing can harm me here,” he parroted. “I was with Questor Grimm at High Lodge. Prioress Lizaveta was there. She controls the Order of Divine Serenity. I had just been granted the seventh ring. Grimm became very fond of one of the Prioress’ young nuns.'
Kargan started.
'What?'
The single word ripped from his lips, unbidden. Such liaisons were strictly forbidden to Guild Mages, since they could lead to the loss of a sorcerer's power.
'She was called Madeleine, and she was very pretty, but I thought she had cast some kind of witch spell on Grimm. I was angry, and I went to see Prioress Lizaveta in her chamber…'
Dalquist's mouth shut with an audible snap, and Kargan began to feel some resistance from the young Questor.
'It is safe to remember, Questor Dalquist. You are safe here.'
Dalquist remained immobile and speechless.
'What happened in Prioress Lizaveta's chamber?” Kargan raised his voice a little but remained calm. “You can tell me.'
'I-she told me everything was all right.” The Questor seemed to struggle to get the words out. “Everything was all right… it was just a harmless friendship. I am a nasty, narrow-minded, suspicious little man.'
This isn't a memory, it's a bloody recitation, the Mentalist thought, and his head began to throb as the younger mage's resistance grew.
'Describe the room,” he demanded in a sterner tone. “Describe Prioress Lizaveta.'
'It's a very nice room,” Dalquist said. “She's a very nice lady… oh! My head aches.” The last words were spoken in a plaintive whine.
The ache in Kargan's own head rose to an agonising tumult. If he did not get results soon, he would have to cut the connection. He took a sip of water from a glass on the table at his right side and continued.
'You are safe here,” he repeated, his voice beginning to rasp. “You will tell me what I want to know. You cannot resist me, and you don't want to.'
'No more… no more!'
'Tell me!'
'Get your filthy, prying, male magic out of my head!” Dalquist spat, in a harsh, crackling voice, quite unlike his usual tone. “Get OUT!
The invisible tendrils, stretched to their limit, broke, and Kargan fell back in his chair.
