Alastair Archibald - A mage in the making

Two who did not acknowledge him were Shumal, wearing a bandage around his head and sporting a broken nose and black eyes, and Ruvin, with a splint on one arm and numerous contusions on his face. Grimm considered apologising to these two boys, but he found this beyond the charity he had shown to the others. They had revelled in their bullying, and Grimm could not find it within himself to forgive them. He hoped dearly that they had learnt a severe lesson and would think twice before picking on another unfortunate.

Dalquist joined them as Grimm was wolfing down a large piece of ham. Grimm worked manfully to swallow, so he could acknowledge his friend, but Dalquist waved a hand at him, encouraging him not to rush his much-needed meal.

"Good morning, Magemaster Crohn," Dalquist said respectfully, "how goes our new Questor?

"He finally managed his first casting since his Outbreak today," Crohn said, between mouthfuls. He has done well."

"How much damage is there?" Dalquist asked with a knowing smile.

Crohn rolled his eyes. "There is a new hole in the chamber ceiling, and it will be a week before all this plaster and these stone splinters are gone from my robes, but the general intent was there. You Questors may be useful for Guild policy, but you are a menace to clothes and buildings, Questor Dalquist."

"But a friend to tailors and plasterers, eh, Magemaster Crohn?" Dalquist observed.

The Magemaster looked affronted, perhaps at Dalquist's use of vernacular speech, but he said nothing.

"Is it always like this, Dalquist?" Grimm asked before starting on the next slice of ham.

"It's usually a little slower and a little less violent, Grimm, but often messy. It was four months after my breakout before I managed to summon the pattern. Magemaster Urel bade me set fire to a stick for the thirtieth time in a row."

Dalquist chuckled. "He really got annoyed when I cheated and used the Minor Magic chant for Fire, and I snapped back at him. When I succeeded in forming the words, he put me off by laughing at my thought-language; it came out "Shuckle-a-guckle-luckle-duck," which he found rather amusing. As a result, I only charred the stick.

"On the next time I attempted the spell, I vaporised the stick, and it was almost instantly consumed. It cost Urel his eyebrows, and he said he would never again laugh at even a fledgling Questor.

"I was eighteen years old at the time, and I was reckoned a prodigy. You must be-what, nearly fifteen?"

Grimm nodded. "Nearly."

"I predict great things for you, Grimm Afelnor. I wouldn't be surprised if you were Acclaimed Questor next week."

"Well, let us not rush things, Questor Dalquist," Crohn replied. "Nonetheless, I would say that Afelnor has made encouraging progress. I confidently expect to be alive when he is Acclaimed, as he surely will be. My first Magemaster had been dead for thirty years before my Staff rebounded from the Stone. I must say that it irks me a little." His mouth twisted in a wry smile. "I spent decades of earnest study in pursuit of mastery, only to have some callow adolescent come along to eclipse me. You Questors! I hope you never try to emulate the Weatherworkers; the House could be destroyed by a flood or a tornado."

"Don't worry, Magemaster Crohn," Dalquist drawled, making show of inspecting his immaculate fingernails. "I've never been any good at weather; I lack the touch. It's sad to say, I suppose, but most of a Questor's best spells are destructive. I could destroy a ship with a tempest, but it would require a true Weatherworker to bring a steady breeze to drive one along a channel. If a farmer asked me to summon a gentle rain to water his fields, I would likely swamp his lands.

"I can Heal well enough, but I lack the true intuition of an Acclaimed Healer; cuts, bruises and broken bones are about my limit. We Questors lack finesse in many of these skills, even though we can turn a hand to all of them.

"I've worked for five years to master the summoning of fire so I can safely light a taper one day and blast an ogre into oblivion the next, as required. Of course, unlike most Readers, I learnt the latter case first. Questors need to keep the other Specialists around for the easy, gentle spells."

Grimm had been listening to this exchange with interest. It seemed that a Questor was a man to be reckoned with! He vowed to himself to be the greatest Questor he could be in order to vindicate his vilified grandfather's hopes.

With a start, he realised that he had barely thought of Loras since his accession to the rank of Neophyte. In a panic, he wondered if the memory of his grandparents' faces had faded from his memory and quickly called them up in his mind's eye. The faces were there but somehow blurred, although he still recalled the gentle strength and forbearance of his grandfather. How could such a man have been the foul traitor so despised by the House and by the Guild?

He cleared his throat and spoke hesitantly: "Magemaster Crohn, did you ever know my grandfather? I find it hard to believe that the man I remember could have turned traitor."

Crohn looked a little uncomfortable, but he answered. "Yes. Yes, I did know him, quite well. He was a fine Questor… before his fall. I remain convinced that Loras' acts were prompted by pity for the old Prelate, since I cannot imagine for a single moment that he had senseless, pitiless murder in him. But, as the sage said, 'only by our deeds are we truly known.'"

Grimm nodded. "But you still believe in the truth of his accusation." His voice was level, but he had to fight to keep it so.

"As sad as it is for me to say it," Crohn said, with a sigh, "let any doubts of your grandfather's guilt be gone, Adept Grimm. He fully confessed to his deeds in front of the whole House, and it was Lord Thorn himself, his beloved Brother Mage, who discovered him in the act, with a pillow pressed over the Prelate's face. Lord Thorn was truly sorrowful, almost in tears, and he admitted to astonishment at what his greatest friend had so nearly done, but even he acknowledged Loras' guilt in the end, as did Loras himself."

"His Ordeal… did you take part in it?" Grimm asked, in a soft voice, wondering if some lingering vestige of the Questor's Ordeal had temporarily unhinged his grandfather's mind.

"Yes, I did, Adept Grimm," Crohn admitted. "I was one of those placed under a Geas to taunt him. I did not take part in his despoilment when his powers were stripped from him, but that is of no credit to me, I regret to say. I was only a Neophyte then, and only Acclaimed Mages took part in that Great Spell.

"You even look a little like him, Afelnor; he was seventeen when he was Acclaimed as a Questor, and you have the same deep, dark eyes and those high cheekbones. It is good to think that there will be somebody to redeem the Afelnor name so it may shine again on the Guild rolls. I am sure that both you and he will feel the same."

"Could I yet fail?" Faced with this onerous new burden, Grimm was conscious of his grandmother Drima's last words to him.

"It is possible," Crohn said, "but Questors rarely, if ever, fail once they have broken out."

"Although some who are chosen fail before," Dalquist added, his voice a little blunt. "You know what happened to young Erek and Senior Magemaster Urel. Erek; gentle, artistic Erek, became a deadly, uncontrollable weapon in an instant, blasting Urel into bloody fragments and then hanging himself in shame. On my travels, I have heard that some Neophyte Questors have broken out and have had to be killed to curtail an uncontrollable, destructive rage from which they cannot recover."

Crohn sighed. "I am no admirer of the Ordeal," he said, "but I accept the word of my Prelate that it is a necessary evil. The system is indeed cruel, Questor Dalquist, and the Questor's Ordeal is not lightly imposed. Those boys who fail are looked after by the Guild for as long as they live, whether they recover fully or not. It is a necessary process for the good of the House and of the Guild, however.