Alastair Archibald: A mage in the making

Hidden in a remote nunnery, a single witch watched and waited; plotting the downfall of her hated male rivals and the resurgence of the Geomantic cause. With the strange, awful new power she had discovered, she had influenced Guild politics more than once, and she sought the final, irrevocable push that would topple the Lords of the Guild from their lofty pedestals.

In a small, run-down smithy in a drab hamlet, an old man, burdened with years of guilt and self-loathing, put down his quill and placed a folded letter into a waxed pouch. The grizzled smith reached into his shirt pocket and extracted an ornate blue and gold ring, staring at it for a few moments. Then, he kissed the ring and dropped it into the pouch, sighing as he sealed the package.

"You will understand when you are older, Grimm," he muttered under his breath. "May the Names bless you and… forgive me."

With a grateful sigh, Doorkeeper lowered himself into his comfortable, battered leather armchair. He asked little of life, and he preferred tranquil solitude to vigorous debate or studious book-learning. The cheerful fire, whispering and crackling in the grate, and the sonorous tick of the pendulum clock opposite him, soothed the old man's jangled nerves.

The distant, muffled sounds of atrocious weather, kept at bay by the mighty walls of the ancient fortress of Arnor House, served to increase his feeling of well-being, and the old man poured himself a glass of wine from a bottle on the small table beside him. Doorkeeper held up his glass and admired the ruby liquid, seemingly brought to life by the flickering of the fire's flames. He drew in a mouthful of the beverage, rolling it around his palate and savouring the wine before swallowing. He put the glass back on the table and contemplated.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

Doorkeeper was at peace, comforted by the knowledge that the House was safe within its thick stone walls and sustained by its immutable, ages-old rituals and customs. The effects of a heavy meal and the comfortable, familiar surroundings dulled the old man's senses, and he settled back in his chair with another sigh of deep contentment.

Tomorrow night would not be so tranquil, Doorkeeper reflected, since he would be required to act as Master of Ceremonies at a gathering of mages, representatives of High Lodge among them. Such meetings were always well attended and often noisy. The old man knew there would be demonstrations of magic, sometimes destructive, once the wine had started to flow, as the various mages bragged of their powers, each trying to outdo his peers and prove himself the most powerful mage.

Doorkeeper disliked these drunken revels, since they interrupted his precious routine; as Master of Ceremonies, it was his duty to keep the guests cheerful and well-supplied with food and drink, and he frowned upon the disruption of proper pomp and protocol by what he considered foolish tricks. The aged major-domo liked to tell himself that such childish pranks were beneath him; the truth was that even the very simplest of these 'foolish tricks' was beyond his meagre magical capabilities.

His proper title was Mage Doorkeeper, although, to his endless disappointment, nobody ever seemed to remember the honorific. Despite the fact that he wore a Guild ring and carried a mage staff, he was not a potent master of the arcane arts. For this reason, the old mage tended to dislike talented Specialists from other, richer Houses: men with fine silk robes and bulging purses, who boasted of travels to exotic lands Doorkeeper would never see. He revered the senior mages of his own House, but he tended to disparage the skills of those whom he considered as mere 'Outsiders.' Nonetheless, he was always careful to keep a respectful distance from them.

Doorkeeper had essayed a number of Specialities such as Reader, Healer, Scholar, and Seer, proving quite unsuited to all of them. At the age of fifty, as the oldest Neophyte in the House, he had despaired of ever finding a true magical vocation. It was with great relief that he had accepted lifetime tenure as Mage Doorkeeper of Arnor House, overjoyed to have found an accepted Speciality at last. This also pleased the authorities of the House, since there had been no permanent incumbent in the post for many years. Although the post of Mage Doorkeeper was a symbolic position with few real responsibilities or privileges, any House that could afford to employ one seemed to enjoy a certain cachet within the Guild.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

The old man had been addressed as 'Doorkeeper' for so long now that he could barely remember the name he had borne before being granted the title. He dressed in fading midnight blue robes decorated with embroidered silver runes, and he bore a handsome head of curly white hair and a long white beard. Image was important to Doorkeeper, and he tried hard to cultivate the air of a master of the arcane arts, but his bulbous, red nose and round, ruddy face ruined the impression he sought to create.

Despite his yearning to be recognised as a venerable magic-user, he knew he gave the impression of a genial, bumbling and slightly senile grandfather, and he announced his presence wherever he went by a chorus of creaking, popping joints. Doorkeeper's habits included rubbing his nose, sudden fits of furious scratching under his robes and muttering to himself, all of which detracted severely from the stern, sorcerous image he tried to display to his peers. However, although the old man was dimly aware of these little tics and foibles, he found himself quite unable to suppress them.

There was a common saying within the Guild, power and presence complete the mage, and the old man knew he had little of either, to his continual chagrin. One of the outward signs of a Guild magic-user's 'presence', apart from his staff and his Guild ring, was 'Mage Speech'. This was a formal, rigid manner of delivery, without contractions and heavy on polysyllabic verbiage, intended to raise an invisible barrier around the speaking mage, so as to maintain an air of aloofness that demanded respect. From an early age, the Magemasters in the Scholasticate hammered into each House Student the need to adopt this mode of speech when on official House business and when dealing with Seculars such as tradesmen, but Doorkeeper never seemed to have found the knack. Despite his best efforts, he always ended up repeating himself, stammering, or lapsing into vernacular speech.

The ancient mage had few formal duties, but he regarded each of his obligations as essential for the smooth running of the House. Among these was the responsibility to be on hand to welcome any mage returning home after leave of absence, and Doorkeeper regarded this responsibility as paramount.

The heavy, black oak door that led to the Great Hall had neither handle nor lock, but it swung open at the merest touch of anyone bearing a Guild ring. Whenever a member of the House approached the portal, a soft chime sounded in Doorkeeper's chamber, enabling him always to be ready to greet a returning member of what he regarded as his true family.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

Doorkeeper felt his eyelids growing heavy. He gave a deep yawn and stretched luxuriantly, to the almost musical accompaniment of protesting joints.

Nobody's going to be travelling tonight in this weather, thought the major-domo. Best I have an early night, so I can be ready for tomorrow.

Opening his mouth in another cavernous yawn, he forced himself to his feet, stretched again, picked up his glass and downed the remainder of its contents at a gulp. As he walked over to damp down the fire, he heard the gentle musical tones signalling the arrival of a House mage.

Who in the world can that be? he wondered. Oh, well, duty calls, I suppose.