Alastair Archibald: A mage in the making

"As you know, only a Questor is young and strong enough to pursue the Guild's interest throughout the world. A Reader might die before he could select the correct scroll to save himself from some immediate threat. No Reader can hope to master the range of magic that a Questor has at his command. Are you saying that you regret being Acclaimed as a Mage Questor?"

Dalquist vehemently shook his head. "I don't regret it at all, Magemaster; it makes the suffering I endured worthwhile. However, I wish with all my heart that another, more humane method could be found to bring out a Questor's skills."

Crohn nodded earnestly. "I know now, at first hand, the cruelty that has to be applied to turn a young boy into a lethal weapon," he said, with a catch in his voice. "However, in the five hundred years since the Guild was founded, no other method has been found, my friends. Many Scholars have tried, but to no avail. In the resurgence of Technology two hundred years ago, the Guild even employed so-called Scientists to research the phenomenon. But these followers of Technology betrayed the Guild's trust. They sought to use the power for their own ends and sought to turn our own against us, that none might oppose them."

Crohn's eyes gleamed with evangelical zeal. "For this," he said, his voice trembling, "and for the destruction they wrought in the Final War, we revile them. We visit suffering on a few boys every decade so we may remain watchful for the resurgence of that vile art, and for the risk of that woe and anguish being visited on the world. Questors are the strong right arm of the Guild."

"Does the Ordeal leave heavy scars on a Questor's mind, Magemaster Crohn?" Grimm asked, worried by the Magemaster's vehemence. "Wounds deep enough to warp a man's mind to murder? I would hate to think that I might be possessed to kill."

"Of course, scars are left. But, believe me, you would not now be undergoing further training if the Healer had not pronounced you healthy in body, mind and spirit. Nor would your grandfather Loras have been trained after his Outbreak, had he not been assessed as fully recovered.

"As for killing, there will be times as a Questor when you will have to destroy men, sometimes without a moment's thought."

Dalquist nodded gravely. "I have some… personal experience of this, Grimm. If you kill, and you will, you must always do so with a clear conscience, or you will destroy yourself with remorse and self-doubt. This is part of the training you will receive; how to act without deliberation, how to identify the solution to a problem without thinking."

Dalquist's mouth twisted a little. "I have no more love for murder than you do, Grimm. But, on a few occasions, I have had to kill men. Even though they would have killed me without a moment's thought, I do often think of this. Nevertheless, had I hesitated for an instant, I know in my heart that I would not be here now, leaving evildoers free to spread their filth around the land and to despoil it as they chose. Only the training I received as a Guild Questor allowed me to see the true path and to act as necessary for the good of the House and the Guild."

Grimm shivered at the though of killing in cold blood.

"There, I'm disturbing you," Dalquist said, a lop-sided smile on his face. "Don't brood on this, just do what you know to be right; do as you are taught and you will prevail. Take pride that you will be a Questor and that you will make the right decisions. The Guild has placed its trust in you that you will do this, and so have I. You have a good heart, and I know enough of you to know that you would never kill for cruel or evil purposes."

"I will try with all my heart never to betray the trust placed in me by the Guild and by you, Brother Mages," Grimm declared with fervent intensity. He had faced mindless, murderous rage during his Outbreak, and he had sworn never again to let it take control of him. "I do want to be a true Questor, and I'll face the more difficult decisions as best I can."

"That is all that anyone can ask of you, Adept Grimm. Come, now, your meal is getting cold. Eat up, and we will go back to work. There is a lot of work to do before you even need to think of difficult decisions. We must go back to concentrate on your control, and allow you to develop your thought-language further."

After his morning session with Crohn, the Magemaster informed Grimm that a room was being prepared for him in the West Wing, the traditional haunt of Adepts and mages-in residence.

"Afelnor, although you are still technically a ward of the Scholasticate," he said, "it is not deemed proper for an Adept to remain in a Student's accommodation. I think you will appreciate the difference in your circumstances. Please follow me."

Grimm had passed the West Wing corridor at least twice a day for nine years, but he had never dreamed of entering it. It seemed strange to be turning right to go into the West Wing instead of going straight on to the Refectory, left to the Library, or to his own cell.

The walls of the corridor were tastefully panelled in dark, polished wood, and Grimm noted portraits of former Prelates of the House and prominent former mages. The entry corridor opened up into a wide, brightly lit area, tiled in alternating black and white marble in an echo of the Great Hall.

Crohn led him to an oak-panelled door. "This is your new domicile, Afelnor." The Magemaster opened the door and motioned the Adept inside.

Grimm gaped at the opulence of the room in comparison to the dingy, sparse cell that had been his home for most of his life. The bed was twice the size of that to which he had been accustomed, with a thick mattress, two generously proportioned pillows and a gold-tasselled crimson bedspread. On one side of the room was a large dressing-table with a large mirror. In one corner was a hipbath, and in the other stood a large bookshelf, already well-stocked with various works.

Grimm examined the titles: Advanced Meditation; The Questor Phenomenon; Power Control and Application for Adepts were but a few of the titles. Grimm raised an eyebrow in question.

"I remembered that you enjoy reading, Afelnor," Crohn said, "so I took the liberty of including a few titles that might be relevant to the work you will be doing. Do not worry; there are a few more recreational titles as well. You may also bring any single book from the Library to your room, provided that you replace it before removing another."

Luxury, thought Grimm. Something to read in my own bed at night, other than the damned Rules!

"I do not imagine that you will have much to bring from your old cell," the Magemaster said with a smile. "But you may wish to spend a little time looking at it and bidding it a not-so-fond farewell. If you would like to go now, I will wait for you at the end of the charity corridor. I hope you will understand that a new Adept Questor who has not yet mastered his power needs constant supervision."

Remembering the destruction of the classroom, Grimm acknowledged the wisdom of constant, close scrutiny. "Thank you, Magemaster Crohn," he said. "It will take a little time to become used to this, but I believe I will be able to do so."

The bed on which he had lain every night for almost a decade seemed impossibly small now. Grimm's eyes took in its impeccably-folded bedroll resting in its assigned space at the head; the misted mirror with its crazed pitcher and washbasin, both spotless and neatly laid out; the rickety bookshelf, which had exceeded his expectations by remaining attached to the wall for nine years, and its single occupant. His eyes misted, and he realised that the cramped room had been his whole world for as long as he could remember. Almost everything he owned was in his pockets, and there was nothing appealing about this place, but it had been his home for most of his life.