'Bless you, my dear.'
'Bless you, Reverend Mother.” Weranda got to her feet, and the Prioress felt a glow of pleasure at the Novice's beatific smile and modestly-lowered eyes.
As the girl glided towards the door, Lizaveta replaced her hands on the now-cool globe. Gazing into the glass sphere, she saw a scene of utter devastation.
However, at the base of a massive crater, she could just make out a tiny, blackened figure. Fighting the growing ache in her head, she looked closer, to see the unmistakable figure of the young Questor. His clothes were tattered and his face was blackened, and she saw a pair of figures racing towards him: the demon and the Technological warrior.
As she watched, the pain in her temples increased, and she saw Afelnor stirring; his face was confused and contorted, but he still lived. The hissing in her ears precluded hearing, and her vision began to blur as consciousness began to fill the young man. She felt a cold thrill as those dark eyes stared up into the void, meeting hers for a few, brief moments.
She had learnt the art of scrying many decades ago under the strict but impersonal rod of Prioress Acaresta, and she had soon proved herself her teacher's superior in this skill… and also in the use of other, more sinister magic. She allowed herself a small, tight smile at the memory of the old lady's horrified expression as Lizaveta had torn her soul from her body to become the next ruler of the Order.
Never had she felt such power pushing back at her from the sphere-except in that triumphant moment, long ago, when she knew, at last, that her Great Spell had succeeded in suppressing Loras Afelnor's formidable Questor will. She had had dreams of controlling his thoughts, desires and talents for her own ends, but her nerve had failed at the last moment, and she had chosen her idiot son, Thorn, over Loras.
For three decades, she had regretted that moment; it would have been so much better to have that potent will as her own, instead of wasting it. She had been so much younger then, and she had not then realised that her inner strength was so much greater than that of any man ever born, be he Mage or Secular. She wanted to control not only her own little empire, but also the hateful patriarchy of the Guild.
Still, those ebon eyes spoke of such sheer force; perhaps even greater than Loras'. This time, she would not make the same mistake. She felt sure that the boy, Grimm, under careful guidance, could rise to the rank of Dominie, giving her complete control over the hated Guild that had suppressed and minimised her kind.
Thorn was pathetic and worthless, with little more willpower than a jellyfish, and the Prioress already suspected that he had sent Grimm Afelnor to destroy her. Thorn's illegitimate son, Guy, had seemed more promising at first, but he was capricious and egotistical, interested only in his own wealth and appearance. Possessed of great power he might be, but Lizaveta could not see how he might ever become a useful playing piece in High Lodge's political game.
She had courted three mages in her life: Questor Loras, who had thrown her amorous pretence back in her face; Dominie Horin, who had been saved only by the actions of Grimm Afelnor; and the long-dead Questor Shemmanier, who died on a difficult Quest shortly after she had beguiled him into impregnating her with Thorn.
This irked the Prioress, who had patiently undergone the pregnancy and the birth only in the hope of using her illegitimate son as a lever to bring to bear upon the potent Questor, a rising star in the Guild firmament.
Grimm looked to be at least as powerful as his grandfather. However, she had first met the older Afelnor when he was thirty-five years of age, in full control of his powers and senses. She had flattered and cozened him for a while, and Loras had seemed more than interested, even if he had drawn back from a physical relationship. She, playing the coquette, had pushed further, and Loras had rebuffed her.
Lizaveta now knew that she had been foolish to react in such a manner to Afelnor's peremptory rejection. She knew she had never been beguiling and desirable, even in her youth, and she had been a fool to imagine she had been. However, she had not only her own, considerable power, but that of her whole Order upon which to call.
Not to mention the power of the young Afelnor's paramour, who, even now, must be lying spread-eagled on the cold chapel floor, proclaiming her everlasting devotion to her beloved Prioress.
Lizaveta stared into the green globe, transfixed, as the young Questor shot to his feet, and she looked into his stony face for a few seconds before the sphere shattered into tiny, hot shards.
The Prioress welcomed the pain of the sharp fragments on her hands and the scalp of her quickly-lowered head; she knew the young man was ready, and she relished the warm sensation of the streams of blood running down her face. The cold thrill of adolescent power flooded through Lizaveta, rejuvenating her. Now, in this self- accusing realisation of loss, Grimm was hers, whether he knew it or not.
The callow, unpredictable, juvenile Questor was dead at last; in his place stood a lethal Weapon of the Guild. This was what she had wanted all along. Lizaveta considered giving the good news to Novice Drex-Weranda-, but she reasoned that it could wait until after Devotions.
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Chapter 25: Back On The Road
The once-pristine city of Brianston now looked as if it had been hit by a tornado, after the brief battle. Gruon had toppled several small buildings, and Grimm saw many scorched bodies and piles of ash, mute testament to the power of the dream-creature's awful flame weapon.
Even the huge, solid stone roundhouse in which the Breeders and Sacrifices had been confined bore many scars and blackened areas on its thick, metal-reinforced walls.
'It looks like it'll take a fair amount of reconstruction, Lord Baron” Quelgrum observed, walking just behind Grimm's right shoulder. “I could send a team of engineers from Crar.'
Grimm could not have cared less if the whole place crumbled to the ground.'We have a Quest to fulfil, General,” he said. “Or had you forgotten?'
'I do not forget my duty, my Lord.'
The officer's voice was low and calm, but Grimm realised he must have stung the old soldier with this unnecessary, rhetorical barb. A little diplomacy might be advisable.
'Of course not, General,” he said, trying to inject a conciliatory note into his voice. “You are a devoted and trustworthy officer, and I beg forgiveness for any implication to the contrary. That was unfair of me.'
'There's no need to apologise, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum replied. “We're all under a lot of stress right now, I guess. Let's get this over with, and we can get back on the road.
'That must be Murar's vigil, Lord Baron,” he said, as a huddled crowd of Brianstonians came into view in front of the shattered ruins of Gruon's temple, weeping, moaning and screaming.
I could have guessed that, idiot!
Grimm bit back the harsh words before they reached his lips, restricting himself to a simple nod.
As the three companions approached the devotees, several citizens looked up at them. A few hurled insults and imprecations, but they did not attempt to attack. Nonetheless, neither did they move aside, blocking the passage of Grimm and his two companions.
'Please stand aside, friends,” Quelgrum said, moving ahead of the Questor. “We mean you no harm. We just want to see Revenant Murar.'
The Brianstonians made no move to comply with the soldier's request, but Shakkar's low, threatening growl had the desired effect, and several Dreamsters scuttled aside, some remaining on their hands and knees as they did so. A clear path opened up, and Grimm saw a bright scarlet flash in the centre of the crowd, easily visible amidst the grey and brown robes of the ordinary citizens.
The Questor felt his teeth grinding as he looked at the old man; a picture of devotion, he might be, but he had brought up countless human beings as mindless cattle, expected to go to their deaths with a song on their lips. He felt nothing but hatred for the Revenant, and he felt the power building in his pounding head.
'May I handle this, Lord Baron? Please?'
The General's tone was deferent, but Grimm recognised the urgency contained within it. He had to acknowledge that his skills of negotiation were not good at the best of times, and this was not one of them. As if in
