Alastair Archibald - Dark Priory

"She's the rapist, not me."

Grimm collapsed again, as Drex redoubled the spell's intensity. He felt his mind, his very soul, compress to a tiny bubble under the spurious sensations of self-hatred, but he would not surrender to them.

"I… love you, Drex,” he gasped, his vision blurring. “That cow knows nothing but hatred and revenge. Will you feel the same about her when she compels me to make love to her?"

Colours turned to grey, then to black, but Grimm would not give up the struggle.

At last, the Geomantic assault ceased, and the mage saw the wet gleam in his beloved's eyes.

"Prioress Lizaveta would never do that!” she yelled, stamping her foot in a pale the petulant manner of the shabby, adolescent street urchin Grimm had first met in the town of Griven. “And my name's Weranda!"

The mage felt a hot, bright upsurge of hope; he was now the manipulator of emotions, not Drex.

"You liked Shakkar,” he said, sitting up, not tearing his eyes from hers. “You know you did. You liked General Quelgrum and Tordun, too!"

"They're all just oppressors and would-be rapists!” Drex cried, tears now rolling down her red cheeks.

"Do you remember how embarrassed Tordun was when Questor Xylox put him in the tent with you?” Grimm demanded. “Although you couldn't have resisted him for a moment, he never laid a finger on you, and you know it!

"Shakkar would walk through fire to protect you, as would Quelgrum: as would I. We gave you love, respect and protection; all Lizaveta has done is give you pain, and that's all she'll ever give you, until she's finished with you!"

"No!” Drex sobbed, almost bent double. Grimm knew he was winning the exchange by sheer force of will. “She's a good woman, a holy woman!"

Grimm snorted. “She's holy, sure enough: wholly corrupt! Fight her, Drex; you know I'm right!"

The girl's mouth opened and closed, but no words emerged as she drew a series of whooping, convulsive breaths.

"Sister Weranda!” Lizaveta's husky voice snapped from the doorway. “Straighten up and control yourself!"

As if she were a flesh marionette, Drex jerked into an upright position in an instant, tugged by unseen strings. At once, her expression became as blank as the stone blocks of the small cell. She wiped the moisture from her cheeks and bowed her head.

"I apologise, Reverend Mother. The prisoner attempted to impose his filthy will on mine. I was weak, and I will do Penance in atonement for my lapse."

"He is a Seventh Rank Questor, Sister,” the Prioress purred, stepping into the cell. “Willpower is the cornerstone of his power. You erred in seeking to engage him in conversation.

"During two hours’ Penance-a Second Level Penance should suffice-I wish you to meditate on your error. From now on, you will confine your interaction with the subject to his education; is that clear?"

"Quite clear, Reverend Mother,” Drex replied. Her face was as expressionless now as the cell's stone walls.

"Go now and do your Penance,” Lizaveta said. “I will take care of our pet Questor now."

Drex bobbed a faultless curtsey that would not have shamed a lady-in-waiting at a royal court, and she left the room. Grimm summoned his defiance once more, determined to fight the Prioress to the end, even if he could not use his magic on her. For the space of a few heartbeats, he had seen the woman he loved emerge from Lizaveta's imposed cage, and that gave him hope.

"So, we are alone at last, my love.” The harsh sibilants made the words sound anything but inviting.

Grimm forced himself again to his feet."I am not your love, hag."

"But you will be, Grimm; you will be."

"Never!"

Lizaveta shook her head, as if disappointed by a beloved child's tantrum. “There are many emotions you have not yet sampled, Grimm Afelnor,” she said, “and I know them all. I know you are familiar with anger, love, self-loathing and despair, but what do you know of the pangs of mind-numbing, strength-sapping terror?"

Before Grimm could speak, it seemed as if an apple had been rammed into his throat, and he felt his heart pound in his chest. His tongue seemed to turn to dry wood, and his limbs trembled as a clammy sweat broke out all over his body.

It's not real! he raged inside his mind.

"Kill me, witch!” he croaked. “I am not afraid of you. You will not-"

The dreadful sensations surged and multiplied again to an impossible intensity, and Grimm gasped, only remaining on his feet by a supreme effort of will.

"I think we'll try this with a touch of self-loathing this time.” The Prioress sounded as if she were a physician prescribing a course of medication. “Let's see how you like this!"

Every fibre of Grimm's being clamoured for attention, a screaming chorus of anguish.

I can't beat her! She's too strong…

No! I am stronger! I am a Questor! I won't surrender!

"No!” The single, hoarse word tore its way through his vocal chords.

"I expected no less from the grandson of Loras Afelnor,” Lizaveta said. “Your resistance and strength are refreshing. However, I am in my sphere of power, and I can call on as much energy as I need to defeat you. I do wish I could spar a little longer with you, Grimm, but time is pressing.

"Let us try this."

Grimm closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, expecting more pain, but his eyes flew open and his jaw slackened as the spell hit him. He gasped, and tears ran down his cheeks as he felt his bones turn to water.

Joy! Pure, unalloyed ecstasy flowed through the mage, threatening to unman him as he rolled over onto his side, drooling and groaning in sheer rapture.

Grimm could not stop this new sensation from flooding through his embattled soul, and he found himself accepting his domination, welcoming it. The lone, faint spark of defiance, his only link to what he was, who he had been, surged briefly, guttered and died.

The past was unimportant; all that mattered was now. He might be thrashing around like a pig in ordure, but he no longer cared. He let the feuding emotions run through him, accepting that he was a worthless, despicable person and enjoying the fact.

Nonetheless, compressed and embattled as it was, the tiny spark that constituted his inner being refused to be quenched. Trapped in a prison of raucous, warring emotions, it watched and waited.

****

A sea change: with a sudden shock of awareness, he was himself again, and his flailing limbs ceased their rebellion. As full awareness returned to him, he realised that he was lying in a noxious, malodorous pool of his own making. He tried to stand, filled with disgust, but his legs and arms felt as heavy and dead as stone pillars.

He looked up to see Prioress Lizaveta standing over him. Several locks of greasy, white hair had escaped from her starched wimple, and her face was ashen. To his eyes, she seemed almost dead on her feet. For the very briefest of moments, he felt a surge of black despair.

It's gone! Please, Reverend Mother, bring it back!

He crushed his momentary horror into a tiny mote, forcing his true personality to reassert its dominance over his being.

You'll never break me, hag!

The triumphant thought blazed into life, seeming to illuminate the darkened corners of his abused psyche. The knowledge that he had withstood her vicious emotional assault strengthened and succoured him. Only his brutal Questor training had given him the strength to resist.

Grimm smiled, finding sufficient strength in his arms to drag his body out of the disgusting mire of bodily humours. Rolling over onto his front, he managed to push himself up into a crouch, although his legs were too weak to support him fully.

He laughed; a hoarse, hacking sound. “I still hate you, Lizaveta,” he croaked through chapped, dry lips. “You've lost."