Alastair Archibald - Truth and Deception

"What's wrong with the kitchen, Lord Baron? Isn't that where a serving maid belongs?"

"I don't think of you as a serving maid, Drex. I love you!" Grimm longed to take her in his arms, but he felt too awkward and confused to do so.

"At least you remember my name," she said, her eyes glistening. "That's something I can be grateful for, I suppose."

The Questor realised that in the fortnight since his arrival back at Crar, his main topics of conversation with Drexelica had gone little further than requests for meals. They had slept together, but he had always been too tired to exchange more than desultory titbits of information. The forthcoming Quest had so consumed his mind that he had spared no thought for the woman he loved.

Leaning closer towards her, he felt the catch in his own voice as he said, "Drex, I've been a fool these last two weeks, and I want to make it up to you in any way I can."

Grimm felt helpless in the face of the torrent of tears which she no longer held back.

"Please don't cry," was all he could say. "It'll be all right now. I've come to my senses, I promise."

The girl rose to her feet, flinging her book to the floor. "It'll never be all right!" she sobbed. "I want to tell everybody that we're together, but I can't! I want us to be a normal couple, but the bloody Guild always gets in the way! As soon as this Quest's over, there'll be another, and another, and another! I owe you my life for what you did for me in Griven, and I'll never forget that, but I had such… high hopes for us. When we first came here, I thought we could be happy together, but now I know it's never going to happen. Never!"

Grimm felt his mouth move, willing words of comfort and wisdom to come forth, but his tongue and throat seemed paralysed. Despite his love for Drexelica, a part of him longed to be somewhere else, battling demons, dragons or ogres; somewhere he knew the rules. Here in the kitchen, facing a sobbing girl, he felt powerless and pathetic.

He watched as Drex screwed her face up and shivered, taking several deep breaths. When she opened her eyes again, he saw that they were red, but tearless.

"I'm sorry, Grimm, I shouldn't take it out on you. I guess I couldn't expect much more from a life with a Guild Questor. Don't worry; I'll still be here for you when you need me, I promise. I'll be your cook, your maid, your bed-mate for as long as you want me. I just wish I could be your wife, instead."

That last calm, wistful statement hurt him more than her tears.

"I know, Drex, and I wish it, too," a voice that sounded almost like his own said. "But I can't just resign; if I did, it'd be me who became the slave, in the scullery at Arnor House. I have a debt to pay before I can be free, a debt of servitude as a Questor. Once I'm free of that, I promise I'll marry you."

"And how long will that be?"

With a start, Grimm realised he had no idea of the extent of his debt to the House for his nine years of intensive tutelage; he had never thought to ask. How many years or decades of dedicated service? One advantage accruing from accession to the rank of Guild Mage seemed to be longevity; was that gift a factor in his indebtedness?

"I don't know," he confessed, awash in a sea of unaccustomed ignorance. "But if you'll wait for me to be free, I'll be yours, I promise. I also swear that, when I'm in Crar, I'll never neglect you again, the way I did this time. I meant it when I said I'd come to my senses. I've been so tied up in this Quest that I've forgotten what was really important to me."

"I thought clearing your family name was the most important thing to you."

"It is important to me, Drex; I won't lie to you. I hardly spent a day of my life as a Student and Neophyte without being reminded that my Granfer Loras was a traitor, a renegade and an oath-breaker. I've sworn to repay every slight, every insult, by redeeming the name of Afelnor, and I will. But it'll be a hollow victory if I ever manage to do that without you by my side. I love you, and I'll do whatever it takes to convince you of that fact."

Drex sniffed. "You'll have to do a lot to convince me."

"I will," Grimm vowed.

"Prove it. Make a start now."

The kitchen seemed hardly an appropriate place to prove his love, but Grimm gave it his best effort.

****

Lord Prelate Thorn looked at Senior Magemaster Crohn Bowe, called the Mindstealer, across the expanse of his marble-topped work desk. He had not spoken to the man since Crohn and Questor Dalquist had burst into his room, protesting at the spell of Compulsion Thorn had placed on Questor Grimm. Perhaps Thorn owed the teacher a debt of gratitude for interrupting him, since a resonance in the spell, combined with Grimm's unconscious resistance to the magic, had posed a considerable threat to the Prelate's life.

Nonetheless, Thorn had not risen to his current station by being a forgiving man.

The two mages who had erupted into his private chamber on that night had committed a serious breach of protocol by doing so and, worse than that, had seen the senior mage in a less than dignified state. He would make them pay for his loss of face.

"So, Senior Magemaster Crohn, how fare your Students, Neophytes and Adepts?"

Lord Prelate Thorn allowed his words to flow like liquid silk, soft and smooth. He already knew much of what the Magemaster would say, but he bided his time. A reckoning was at hand for Crohn's earlier impudent defiance, and Thorn wished to savour the moment in full.

"Shimath Gundor shows promise as an Adept Shapeshifter," Crohn said, spurning the comfortable embrace of his chair by maintaining a parade-ground stiffness. "He is only thirty-five years old, Lord Prelate, and I expect great things of him within a few years. He has a most rare talent."

Thorn was impressed, despite himself. Somehow, this Adept had escaped his notice, and Shapeshifters were among the most prestigious ranks of Guild Mages. The raising of a Mage Shapeshifter was no achievement to be mocked, especially one who showed signs of flowering at such a young age.

"A Shapeshifter, you say? That will be a feather in Arnor House's cap; well done, Crohn."

Remembering his purpose, Thorn leaned back in his red-leather seat, crossing his hands behind his balding head. "What of your Neophyte, Chag Jura? I understand we might make a Questor of him." The Prelate took care to keep his tone neutral, unthreatening.

Crohn rubbed his beard, his eyes turned towards the ceiling. "It is perhaps too early to tell, Lord Prelate. At this time, Chag's talents seem more to tend towards Herbalism or Healing; he possesses great empathy."

"We need another Questor, Crohn." Thorn spoke with soft urgency, congratulating himself on the perfect blend of concern and sad obligation to his Guild duties he managed to convey in this simple phrase.

He knew the Senior Magemaster was a slave to duty; despite Crohn's earlier opposition of his Prelate, aided by Questor Dalquist, he would not dare to oppose his Housemaster in this regard. The determination of House policy was the Prelate's prerogative alone.

Questor Dalquist could wait for now, but Thorn swore that Dalquist's turn would come.

"Surely you do not mean that, Lord Thorn!"

The Prelate suppressed a smile at Crohn's astonished, even horrified, expression.

"Arnor House's status within the Guild is as high as I can remember it," the Senior Magemaster continued. "We have three young, active Questors; more than most Houses will ever be able to boast. Why do we need another?"

Thorn felt an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh at Crohn's evident discomfiture, but he managed to master it.

"That is my decision, not yours, Senior Magemaster Crohn. I want you to consider Neophyte Chag for this Speciality. He is the right age for it, and he is a charity case, after all."