Alastair Archibald: Dark Priory

The Prioress raised her head a little, and turned to face him, her eyes glazed and lifeless.

"I see my mistake now,” she muttered. “A direct emotional assault on a Questor in his prime of youth and power was foolish. Physical pain cannot defeat you, but it will weaken you to the point where you can no longer resist me. I haven't lost, Grimm; I have learned a little more about you."

"You'll never possess me, witch,” Grimm growled. “I won't give in to you, whatever you do to me. I won't betray Drex-the memory of the true Drex I know and love-or my Guild, so just kill me and be done with it."

"You will die when I give you permission and not before,” the Prioress intoned, but Grimm managed another lop-sided smile.

"I don't doubt it, Prioress,” he said. “But that's all you can do. You may have power over my mortal body, but my soul will remain my own."

Lizaveta grunted and staggered from the cell, and Grimm was alone again.

Now, the fierce joy of triumph ebbed, and he gasped as his body imposed its demands: his head now felt as if it were stuffed full of nails; his joints screamed with pain, and he feared he had torn several ligaments. He accepted the pain, welcoming it; at least he was alive and in his own mind.

I'll take whatever Lizaveta throws at me, he swore to himself. For a few brief moments, he had opened up a narrow fissure leading to Drexelica's true self, and he vowed to work to widen that breach whenever he had the opportunity.

All I need is to be able to endure, and to hope that Lizaveta trusts in her conditioning of Drex enough to leave her alone with me again.

I'm in no condition to fight now. I need to gather my strength if I'm to endure what Lizaveta has in store for me.

Grimm closed his eyes and began to meditate. As a Student, he had hated the hours spent sitting cross-legged, staring into space, but he now blessed the Magemasters he had cursed as a callow youth. Even though he had never seen the worth of his long, painful meditation lessons before, he saw it now; it just might give him the chance he needed to prevail.

He knew he had at least a slim chance, and that frail hope was all he needed to sustain him. The brief glimpse he had seen of Drexelica, as opposed to the angry Sister Weranda, had given him the hope the Prioress had tried to deny him. He knew he might have only a few moments of blessed solitude, and he would make the most of them.

I'll bring you back, Drex. You once swore you'd stay with me until you saved my life as I'd saved yours; it's time to save me now, my love. Together, we'll beat her.

Blessed peace and freedom from earthly cares reigned, as Grimm lapsed into a contemplative, restorative state. He was alive, and that was all that counted; all he needed.

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Kargan turned to Loras, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Questor Loras, if Thorn asks of my whereabouts, tell him I have fled the House, fearing his wrath,” he said, speaking quickly; time was of the essence.

"Why, Mentalist Kargan?"

"It's best you know as little as possible. Do you think you could hide a lie from Thorn?"

"I do not know,” Loras said. “He will surely scan my aura at the earliest opportunity-as I will his. He is likely to notice any deception on my part."

Kargan held out Seeker. “Take hold for a moment, Questor Loras,” he said, and the smith extended a gnarled hand to grasp the rod; a Mage Staff did no harm if its owner gave permission to touch it.

The Magemaster closed his eyes for a moment, accessing a spell hidden within Seeker and sending it into Loras.

"There,” he said. “Any signs of deception in your aura should be masked now."

"A useful sleight,” Loras said, raising his eyebrows in appreciation. “I have never heard of such a spell outside the realms of Geomancy."

"It's one I devised,” Kargan said. “Doorkeeper will return soon; I must go."

****

"Good hunting, Mentalist,” Loras muttered, as Kargan hurried off into the depths of the Hall. The Great Portal swung shut, leaving the smith outside. Loras had no intention of setting one foot inside Thorn's demesnes for the moment.

The evening breeze freshened, and the smith drew his red cloak closer around his body.

Long minutes passed. Loras heard the distant, shrill bark of a fox, and a terrified avian cacophony soon followed.

Good hunting for somebody, he thought with a faint smile. I trust my own delving will be as successful.

He knew he had always been a stronger Questor than Thorn, but he lacked practice in the arcane arts. Drima's warning came back to him:

"What makes you think you can beat Thorn?"

Loras had to acknowledge that her doubts might be justified. Righteous rage was a poor substitute for confident, practiced skills.

At last, the door swung open, spilling golden night into the dusk, and Loras beheld a man he had not seen for more than half a Secular lifetime. For a few moments, he did not recognise Thorn; time had not been kind to the Prelate. The flowing blond locks of youth had been replaced by a few, greasy, white tendrils plastered over a ruddy pate, and the once-wiry Questor now bore a distinct paunch and heavy jowls.

Nonetheless, the amber eyes and heavy brows were unmistakable. This was, indeed, Thorn Virias.

"Greetings, Loras,” the Prelate said, his mouth crinkling into a smile. “It is good to see you."

Loras bit back a vicious retort; he longed to launch a meaty fist into Thorn's flabby jaw, but he restrained himself.

"I wish I could say the same, Thorn,” Loras growled, “but I cannot. You betrayed not just me, but also our House and our Guild. I am here to demand that you resign your post and submit yourself to the High Dominie's scrutiny. I know all: how you placed the pillow in my hands and summoned Urel and Olaf; how you engineered my disgrace and the false shame under which I have laboured for the past decades. It is over, Thorn."

"I have waited for this moment, Loras,” Thorn whispered. “For as long as you have suffered, so have I. Waiting, fearing your return and your wrath. Now you are here, I feel only relief that this ordeal is over."

Loras defocused his eyes, accessing his Mage Sight to scan Thorn's aura. He saw the characteristic hues of sorrow, shame, resignation and trepidation, but no deception at all.

"It was entirely my mother's doing, Loras. She used me as much as you, for her own ends. I was a puppet in her hands until she forced me to cast a Compulsion on your grandson, Grimm; he is a remarkably potent Questor, and his resistance provoked a Resonance that nearly killed me. It was only by shaking off that Resonance that I managed also to break free of my mother's influence. Since that moment, I have been dedicated to her downfall."

Can it be true? Loras wondered. Thorn's aura says so.

Lizaveta was so beautiful and beguiling… she nearly ensnared me, and I only shook off her Geomantic blandishments with the greatest effort of will.

"I have been under her influence for the whole of my life, Loras,” Thorn said. “I was brought up under her domination and power. When I placed that pillow in your hands, I was as much a puppet as you.

"Do you not remember how I pleaded for your life at your trial?"

You did indeed, Thorn. The other members of the Conclave howled for my blood, and only you spoke out for me.

"If I accept your story, Thorn,” Loras said, still wary, “will you accompany me to High Lodge to put matters straight?"

"I can do no less, I suppose,” Thorn said. “What do you wish from me?"

"My reinstatement as a Guild Questor, the clearing of my family name and your resignation from the Guild,” Loras replied, fighting to keep his voice level as Thorn responded with a slow nod.