Alastair Archibald: A mage in the making

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.

"You'd think a few more people round here would appreciate my efforts on behalf of the House. Work, work, work; that's all I ever seem to do," he muttered in a peevish tone. Grumbling under his breath, he gathered his voluminous robes around him, belched and rushed to the main hall to discharge his ceremonial duty.

The small boy felt enormous relief and a sense of victory as he reached the huge portal. His brown, homespun robes were soaked and mud-spattered, clinging to his thin legs and body like some avaricious octopus unsure of where to begin devouring him. His long, dark hair hung in a dripping mess across his face. His legs were sore; indeed, his whole body ached after the long trek up the winding mountain pass, a journey that had appeared much less onerous at its outset than it had proved to be. The black fortress was far larger than he would have believed and, therefore, at a much greater distance than he had thought.

Two hours of being lashed by needle-like rain, being whipped by unseen barbed branches and being flayed by a frigid, howling wind had sapped much of his strength. By the time he reached the door of the monstrous edifice at last, he was fighting the temptation to turn tail and flee back to the warmth, security and comfortable familiarity of the forge that had been his home for all of his short life. As he craned his neck, taking in the vastness of the fortress, he gulped, realising that there could be no turning back now.

Although it seemed unlikely to him that anyone inside the fortress would hear any sound he might make, the boy raised his fist to pound on the black oak portal. He felt a shock of surprise as the door swung open before his hand made contact. His astonishment at this fortunate occurrence was exceeded only by his relief at the prospect of shelter from the vicious tempest. He staggered inside with gratitude, and the door swung smoothly back into place with a decisive thump, cutting off most of the clamour of the storm. Despite his exhaustion, the drenched and exhausted child gazed in wonder at his surroundings. Warm, orange light illuminated a vast entrance hall paved with hexagonal slabs of blue and gold. High above him, the boy could see a deep blue vaulted roof studded with star-like, silver points. Soft, almost inaudible music drifted through the hall and he could see a seven-foot high obsidian pyramid, exuding a gentle blue glow. Entranced by his opulent, fabulous surroundings, several minutes passed before the lad become aware of a tall, blue-robed man staring at him, at first sight the very image of a mighty wizard.

Remembering his manners, he managed a courteous, if awkward bow.

The tall man regarded the waterlogged apparition with curiosity. "Which mage opened the door for you, child?" he said, his voice tinged with mixed concern and puzzlement.

The waif, who looked to be about seven or eight years of age, wore a nervous and yet earnest expression, as if he might have been wrongly suspected of some prank. His chattering teeth all but robbed him of the power of speech, but Doorkeeper was impressed that the child persevered at delivering his answer; this was no lily-livered milksop.

"N-n-nobody, s-sir, I p-promise. I n-knocked at the d-door, but it opened all by its-s-self. Are you the Ch-ch-chief W-wizard?"

Doorkeeper shook his head, and studied the dripping, shivering child. Explanations could wait; it was plain the boy intended no mischief, and he was clearly in need of food and warmth.

The old man tried to adopt a grave, sorcerous tone. "I am the Mage Doorkeeper. You may call me Doorkeeper. Ordinarily, I would advise you to go back down the mountain and seek food and shelter in the town, but I wouldn't leave a dog out in a night like this, let alone a small child like you. A horrible night it is, dear me, yes, a horrible night."

Doorkeeper felt a pang of frustration, as he realised his babbling tongue had betrayed him again, robbing his speech of the grave solemnity he had been trying to project. At least the child did not seem to have noticed his lapse, and so the old mage continued.

"Come with me, lad, and I'll try to find you some food and a bed for the night. We can talk about how you came here in the morning."

"Sir… Doorkeeper, I'm here to learn how to be a wizard. I have a letter for the Chief Wizard from my Granfer, see." The boy held out a wet, sealed package, clutched in a grubby fist.

Doorkeeper felt a little annoyed that the boy, although polite, did not seem cowed in the least by the mage's mighty presence. However, the major-domo took the damp parcel, with some distaste at the slimy feel of its clammy, waxed surface. He was about to slide it into his pocket when he felt a lump in the parcel and a slight, distinctive tingle up his arm. He realised now how the boy had managed to open the door; inside the bundle must be a genuine House ring. He examined the package with more care, and noted the fluent, educated script on its surface:

'Lord Thorn Virias, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Iron-willed, Honoured Prelate and Acclaimed Master, Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges.'

The old mage knew that no mere Secular would be likely to know the Lord Prelate's full, official title, and he looked with new interest at the child. Despite the boy's wretched appearance, his dark, intense eyes seemed to burn with an inner strength that reminded Doorkeeper of someone he had known long ago.

"What's… what is your name, boy?"

"Grimm Afelnor, Doorkeeper."

The name of Afelnor was somehow familiar to Doorkeeper, echoing and resonating in his head, although he could not quite remember its significance.

The old man furrowed his brow. "Was your father a mage here, Grimm?"

"No, sir, he was a blacksmith, but I don't really remember him. He and my mamma died when I was little. Granfer Loras looks after me now. He's a smith, too."

Sudden realisation flooded into Doorkeeper's mind: Loras Afelnor, the Oath-breaker!

Once the brightest star in the House firmament, Loras had fallen from grace some forty years before, and he had been stripped of all magic before being banished from the Guild. Now, Doorkeeper knew how the child had come by the ring.

Whilst he harboured the gravest doubts that Lord Thorn would accept the grandson of the Traitor as a Student, Doorkeeper still felt some kinship for his disgraced former Guildbrother, and he remembered the dignity with which Loras had submitted to the humbling and agonising ordeal that marked his expulsion from the Guild.

"Grimm, I promise I will take your grandfather's message to Lord Thorn as soon as I can, tomorrow morning. Tonight, you must eat and rest; I will accept no more argument on the matter."

For once in his life, Doorkeeper sounded as grave and serious as he had so often yearned to be; if the lad had a tenth of the power of his grandfather, a long and arduous road might lie ahead of him, and the grizzled mage felt sorry for the bedraggled boy.

Loras had been a Mage Questor, the most powerful and valuable class of Specialist, and Doorkeeper knew the making of a Questor was a turbulent and torturous affair. If there was any chance that Grimm might be subjected to the Questor Ordeal, as his grandfather had been, this intelligent, earnest child might be turned into a neurotic paranoid or worse, and the old man felt a frisson of distress at that gruesome prospect. However, Doorkeeper regarded Lord Thorn with nothing less than absolute trust, and he accepted that, sometimes, difficult choices had to be made for the good of the House.