Dragonblaster

'Bledel's enchantment accesses the true, unfettered memories of your subconscious,” Kargan replied. “Trust me; what you see here is what really happened.'

'My word, this is a sorry state of affairs; a witch within my own Order! I will have her expelled immediately,” the image of Lizaveta said.

'That is not all, Reverend Mother,” dream-Dalquist replied with a shake of the head. “The girl Madeleine does not appear to be casting the magic. It would appear to be coming from outside her.'

At these words, Dalquist saw the Prioress’ face assume a vicious snarl, and the old woman flung a spell that made his former self stagger backward. Blue motes filled the air as dream-Dalquist countered the ensorcelment with Questor magic.

'So, now the truth is out,” he gasped, “Know that you are dealing with a Mage Questor, witch. I am also not some besotted adolescent, unaware and unprepared.'

'That was rather good, Questor Dalquist.” Kargan seemed to be enjoying himself, “a nice turn of phrase, and excellent presence.'

'This isn't some Scholasticate lesson, Magemaster,” Dalquist snapped, as a fierce exchange of magic turned the air into a blue, soupy fog. “This is part of my bloody life!'

'She is a strong one,” Kargan observed. Lizaveta's defiant snarl remained undiminished as spell after spell crashed into her. “You wouldn't think it to look at her. Ah, there we go! You're beginning to get the upper hand now.'

Lizaveta sank to her knees, her eyes becoming glazed and unfocused, and Dalquist felt rather proud of his commanding presence. This was a conflict of which he had been unaware, and it was a revelation to see himself in action.

The Questor heard the door creak, and he turned to see a small, violet-clad figure entering the room. It was Sister Madeleine, the sweet, cheerful young nun whose innocent dalliance with Grimm had prompted the meeting.

However, this girl's expression was far from innocent as she saw the altercation. Her face a mask of hatred, her mouth compressed into a tight slit, she raised her hands as the two combatants battled on, seemingly oblivious to her presence.

Dalquist shot out a hand as Madeleine strode forward, trying to stop her. His arm swept straight through the nun, as if she were no more substantial than mist. Madeleine squeezed her eyes shut, her flawless, gritted teeth exposed in a feral grimace as dream-Dalquist toppled to the floor. The magical fight was over.

He felt stunned, drained and astonished. His memory was invalid, a fantasy.

'Say something, Questor Dalquist,” Kargan said.

Dalquist shook his head in confusion. “This whole meeting seems strange to me now, Magemaster. I remember meeting Lizaveta well enough, but in a quite different sense; a purely social one. As I now realise, I only began to recall any contact with the Prioress when Shakkar mentioned her name. What seemed so sure a few hours ago now seems hazy and indistinct.'

'That is the nature of recall,” the Mentalist declared. “In memory, context is everything.'

After a brief exchange between Lizaveta and Madeleine, the younger nun left the room, walking right through Dalquist as she did so.

Now, dream-Dalquist lay rigid, staring up at his nemesis, his face wearing a stony, blank expression.

'When you leave here,” Lizaveta was saying, “you will not remember that you have met me, but you will remember what I have said as if the conclusion is your own.'

'But I do remember-almost. Or, rather, I thought I did,” Dalquist said, his mind reeling with confusion.

'Rationalisation,” Kargan said. “You could not have justified defending Lizaveta to yourself, if you had no memory ever of meeting her. Nonetheless, this is the truth of the matter. You were ensorcelled by a powerful witch, and her spell has been controlling your thoughts and emotions, to some extent, ever since this time.'

'Ah, yes, thank you, Reverend Mother,” the empty-faced figure said. “I just wanted to be certain that my friend would not get into any trouble with you. I am relieved that he will not. He and Sister Madeleine will make such a nice couple.'

Dream-Dalquist rose to his feet and left the chamber, now wearing a seraphic, mindless smile.

'Wait!” Kargan cried, as Dalquist turned to follow his former self. “There may be more interesting revelations here.” The Mentalist's warning hand on his shoulder felt as solid as any mortal's, and Dalquist turned to watch the Prioress.

Lizaveta shook down her crumpled, white dress and arranged her dishevelled hair, checking her reflection in a full-length mirror. After a deep breath, she strode over to a leather-topped desk, sat down and drew a glass globe towards her.

The Prioress’ hands looked like avaricious, pink spiders as they scuttled over the surface of the crystal sphere, which began to emit a pale green glow at her touch.

After many minutes of glass-fondling, she snorted and jerked in the chair, as if suffering a brief fit.

'Worthless ingrate!” she snapped. “Were you intending to leave me waiting all night, you poor excuse for a mage?'

'It seems you are not the only mage victim of her magic,” Kargan said.

'So you say,” Lizaveta snarled, in response to some unheard reply. “I am so sorry to disturb the rest of such a busy, important man! I trust now you are ready to attend to your mother, after your slothful reverie?'

This situation grows stranger by the minute, Dalquist thought. The mage son of a witch mother!

'Yes, yes, yes-I know all that!” the nun growled. “However, the truth is that you have been drinking again, is it not?

'What? Do not dare to take that tone with me!'

It seemed strange to Dalquist to hear a conversation from one side, but he felt fascinated by the unilateral discourse.

'I am so sorry to hear that! However, it might interest you to hear that your poor mother has been engaged in mortal conflict with one Questor Dalquist… yes, I thought that might wake you up!'

Who is she talking to? the Questor wondered. If I could only hear the other side of the conversation…

'No, he is not damaged, he has just… changed his mind, shall we say?” Lizaveta chuckled, a sound like worms wriggling through a pile of dead leaves.

Who in Perdition is she talking to?

'So the poor, beleaguered, worshipful Lord Prelate Thorn is worried about his little chickens, is he? Well, then, he'd better start working a little harder, had he not? You will never become Dominie by lying on your back in a drunken stupor all day!

'Perhaps not; but I will it, oaf! Take better control of your underlings, or you and I will fall out. Is that quite understood?

'Good. See that you remember that, Thorn.'

The words hit Dalquist with the force of a gale. He might not like Thorn, but he had never suspected that the Prelate might be the puppet of some Geomantic megalomaniac.

He looked at Kargan; the Magemaster's face was ashen, his eyes wide.

'I had no idea!” the older mage gasped.

'Nor I,” Dalquist said. “Thorn must-'

The Prioress’ brows lowered. “Do not try, ever to play the mighty sorcerer with me, Thorn!” she said, snorting. “Loras Afelnor was twice the mage you are, and you know what I did to him! I made a mistake by not taking him as my consort, but I will not make the same mistake twice. Just remember that Grimm Afelnor might be your vassal, but he will belong to me! I trust you understand me well.

'Horin is expendable; remember that. You will be his replacement.

'Yes, I thought you might say that. However, that is the end of the matter. That is all, Thorn, dear son.'

The nun snatched her hands from the globe like a conductor bringing some orchestral crescendo to a staccato close. The green glow ended, and the bauble became, once more, a plain glass sphere.

Dalquist's mind whirled. He had felt sorrow for the extra burden Grimm had borne as both a charity Student and the grandson of the Betrayer, and he had understood the young Questor's reservations in this regard. However, it now seemed that Grimm's suspicions were more than amply confirmed. Loras had been, somehow, ensorcelled by this woman, and his grandson was, even now, marching into her demesnes.