Garropode seemed to have paid the ultimate price for his arrogance: he had surrendered his independence for the continuance of his own creation. For a brief moment, Grimm felt a pang of pity for the trapped mage, but this was soon subsumed by contempt for the proud man's conceit.
'Because of your ‘interesting little experiment', Garropode, you have given rise to a race of beings whose only hope of survival is human sacrifice,” he said, trembling with anger. “Because of your irresponsible meddling, living men and women are kept as slaves, as mere baby-producing machines, providing nutrient for your precious creation.
'I despise you and your egotistical pride. Because of you, men and women are drained of blood so that these dream-beings may continue to exist! I spit on you and your arrogance! What on earth possessed you to give Gruon an appetite for human blood, you maniac?'
The Manipulant, or, more properly, his spirit form, shrugged. “When Gruon first came to be, he was a small, mute being with no more self-awareness than a rock. Along with my thoughts, I provided him with my own blood, so that he might grow and prosper. Once consciousness came to him, I realised I had made a serious mistake; I was already too deep inside Gruon, and I no longer knew where I ended and he began. We fused, merged, blended.'
'You seem sure enough of yourself, Garropode,” Grimm snarled. “I see no sign of such fusion at this time. Can't you command the dragon to wake, and to take no more blood?'
Garropode laughed, long and loud, until tears began to run from his avatar's dark eyes. “That's the joke!” he gasped, trembling with mirth. “When Gruon wakes, any trace of Garropode the Creator will cease to exist, along with his dream-city. In his place will be Gruon the Dragon, the rampaging anthropophage, whose only desire is sustenance. Only when sated with human blood will he sleep and release me once more from my bondage.'
'And if I were to kill him?'
'You cannot, mortal! Your body is confined in a structure immune to even Questor magic. You cannot reach Gruon, and I doubt that even a Seventh Level Questor could last against such a mighty creature, in any case. ‘Grimm Afelnor, called the Dragonblaster'-how ironic!
'In any case, think of all the beings you would destroy along with my dragon-humans with dreams, hopes and desires little different to your own. My dual life may lack richness and variety, but it is my own, and I, at least, have accepted my lot. I suggest you accept yours with good grace-the citizens of Brianston will treat you well while you live.
'Goodbye, Grimm Afelnor. This audience is at an end.'
Grimm felt his spiritual body fading away like mist under the morning sun, and he began to fly backwards with ever-increasing velocity, through the dreamscape, back out of Gruon's mind, through the walls of the stone mausoleum…
'Say something, Questor Grimm!” The voice was urgent, concerned, and the mage realised he was back in his own body.
Nothing but an incoherent gargle came from his throat at first, but the words came at last: “All… right.'
He opened his eyes and saw Numal, Quelgrum and Guy bending over him, their faces lined in concern.
'What did you learn, Grimm?” Guy demanded. “Can you get us out of here? Did you wake Gruon? What's happening?'
Grimm began to shiver, as the cold shock of the knowledge of absolute failure roared through his being in an icy torrent. Bitter, metallic and turbid it was-the taste of blood, mingled with ashes.
'I failed, Guy!” he snapped. “Is that all right? Do you need to know any more? I failed, just as you thought I would-we don't have a chance! Now, just leave me alone, all of you!'
Conscious of the critical, concerned stares of his colleagues, Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Dragonblaster, broke down in a flood of hot, self-pitying, adolescent tears.
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Chapter 17: A Journey into Memory
Kargan took a series of shuddering, deep breaths, wiping a shock of matted hair from his sweaty forehead. He straightened his blue-tinted spectacles, and it seemed as if each hour of his seventy-six years bore down on him like a lead weight. As a Guild Mage, he might be considered in the prime of his life, but he felt like a decrepit, shambling geriatric.
Dalquist, forty years his junior, had not escaped unscathed, either. The Questor's face was drawn and ashen, with dark rings around his eyes.
'So, is that it, Magemaster Kargan?” The younger man's tone was dull and resigned.
Kargan shook his head. Even that tiny effort strained at his overtaxed muscles.
'Not quite, Questor Dalquist,” he said. “I have one more spell to try: Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct. However, I'm in no condition to try that at this time. We'd probably better leave it for a couple of days or so, until I've brought my strength back up to its optimum level. It's not even worth trying in my current state.'
Dalquist sat up. “Bledel; you've mentioned him before, Kargan. How come I have heard of him but never read anything of his magical innovations?'
'It's a Schedule Nine spell in the Engagement class, external, caster and subject bonded,” Kargan said. “It's not officially on the Register, if you understand me.'
The Mentalist tapped the side of his nose, signifying that he did not want knowledge of this to go outside the walls of his chamber.
'Er… Magemaster Kargan, I'm not a Seventh Level Mentalist and a Magemaster with decades of service to the House,” Dalquist said, his expression blank. “What in the name of Magedom is a Schedule Nine spell, and what is this Register you mentioned?'
Kargan blinked. Of course, he chided himself: a Questor had little need to consult ancient librams for research or inspiration.
'I'm sorry, Questor Dalquist,” he said. “I don't meet a lot of Questors, as you can imagine; you lot are about as common as elephant wings.'
Kargan stood, drew his robes around himself and unconsciously adopted the lecturing stance he used in class.
'As you are no doubt aware, Questor Dalquist, most runic spells are found in librams like these,” he declared, pointing at one of his bookshelves. “Nice, safe, reliable spells which have been tried and tested over a period of generations.'
'Yes, Magemaster Kargan, I know that, of course. But what of the efforts of our Scholars? There are always new spells coming out.'
Kargan adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. “That is correct, Dalquist. However, for every spell released into general usage, there are fifty others that never see the light of day during the lifetime of their originators.
'New spells are not approved by the Scholar's House, but by High Lodge itself. There is a considerable backlog, as you may imagine. Every approved spell is included on the ‘Register of Incantations', which is made freely available to the Prelate of each House. Spells are graded from Schedule One, the lowest, to Schedule Seven, with the spell's schedule indicating the lowest rank at which the casting mage may attempt the spell.'
'I've never heard of it,” Dalquist admitted.
Kargan was beginning to enjoy himself. In the complicated hierarchy of mage ascendancy, Questors, given their phenomenal versatility and rarity, were the undisputed jewels in the Guild's crown. However, here was he, a relatively humble Mentalist, enlightening a Seventh Level Questor.
'What I have to tell you is not for general distribution, Questor Dalquist. Do I have your solemn word that what I tell you will remain between the two of us? Neither of us is supposed to know this.'
Dalquist clapped a hand over his heart. “I swear on my family name, my Guild Ring and my staff, Shakhmat,
