Alastair Archibald - A mage in the making

"All men are boys at heart, Questor Grimm. Many of those here have little longer to live, not excluding myself, so please forgive us these petty indulgences. You are allowed to have fun sometimes, you know. I told you that your Ordeal was over, and so it is. This will go some way to assuaging those lingering scars, so I expect you to express yourself freely for once. The banqueting gallery is well protected by magic, so we do not expect any major damage… just take care that whatever you say to another does not come back to haunt you when sanity returns to you tomorrow morning. A little jesting with even the most senior mage is acceptable, but outright insults or challenges will not be forgotten. Remember; in with the wine, out with the wit."

"Don't worry, Magemaster Crohn, I will be prudent." In fact, Grimm did not intend to drink more than the minimum amount required to satisfy protocol.

The hubbub of conversation from the gathered mages softened as Thorn raised a hand and called for silence.

"Brother Mages, if I may have your attention, we shall now prepare to the gallery hall to celebrate our new brother's Acclamation."

As Grimm ascended the staircase to the upper floor, the acerbic Magemaster Faffel clutched Grimm's shoulder. "Be careful what you drink, Afelnor. You are not used to it, and it may ill affect you. Your deportment is not ideal at the best of times."

Grimm bit back an acid comment. Since his triumph at the Breaking Stone, the only talk had seemed to be concerned with the excess consumption of alcohol! He managed a civil reply.

The table was large and circular, and it easily seated the assembled group. Seating was largely egalitarian and by personal choice, except that Thorn was seated on an ornate throne. The Prelate instructed Grimm to sit on his right and Crohn, the tutor of the new Questor, on his left. Dalquist sat to the left of Grimm, and Kargan to the left of Dalquist.

When all were seated, servants placed goblets in front of each mage. Thorn stood and banged his staff on the floor.

"A toast to the new mage: Grimm Afelnor!"

"Grimm Afelnor," chorused the other mages, and all drank deeply. Grimm initially sipped at his wine with caution, but he found the taste pleasant. He drank a little more: a warmness grew within him, but he quickly assayed his senses and found them still his own.

So much for the terrible demon lurking within drink! Grimm thought, and he drained his goblet with some pleasure. It was instantly refilled.

Dalquist nudged Grimm. "You must make a speech, Grimm. Keep it short."

With only a trace of nervousness, Grimm stood and addressed the conclave. "Brother Mages, I thank you all for attending my Acclamation." His mouth was dry, so he took another healthy swig of wine.

"I am heartily thankful for the opportunities I have been given, and the c-confidence placed in me by our G-guild. I look forward to a long and profitable service in the ways of our… our Craft and our Guild. I would like to raise a toast to the Craft of Thaumaturgy."

"The Craft!" Grimm drank once more, this time draining his goblet. His head still seemed clear, although there was a slight ringing in his ears. He thought to use the magic in his staff but decided that he was well enough. A little unsteadily, he sat down.

Crohn took up the baton. "I have never coached a more diligent or powerful scholar than Grimm Afelnor. In nine brief years, he has passed from my lowly Student to my Brother Mage. His Acclamation is the pinnacle of my years in the Scholasticate, and I feel sure that our brother, Grimm Afelnor, will bring great credit to our Guild, and to our illustrious Prelate: I raise a toast to our Lord Prelate, Thorn Virias!"

"Lord Prelate Thorn!" More drink. Grimm saw that his goblet was empty again, and it was swiftly refilled.

Then Kargan stood. "My erstwhile pupil in Runes and Chanting, Grimm Afelnor, will join me in singing the old duet 'The Coronation of Meliar'; your best attention, please."

Grimm stood, although he now felt an unaccountable lassitude in his legs. Perhaps the last few strenuous days had taken their toll on him, after all. He drained another goblet of wine and shook his head as if to dash away the spots that suddenly filled his vision. This was a mistake, since the room appeared to lag a little behind his gaze as his head moved; a brief spasm of nausea clenched Grimm's entrails, but it soon passed.

Kargan began the baritone part of the familiar song, and Grimm joined in at the appropriate time with a confident tenor. He was aware that his voice slurred just a little on some of the more difficult syllables, but not enough to notice, he thought.

When the duet was finished, there was an uproarious burst of enthusiastic applause, and Grimm and Kargan bowed. Grimm's head spun, and the new Questor made to sit back down. However, he managed to miss his seat entirely, and he sprawled on the floor. There was tumultuous laughter, in which Grimm joined immoderately, hoisting himself back into the seat.

Another drink…

Feeling giddy, but confident and carefree, he stood again, clumsily, and said, "Watch this!"

He spread his arms and chanted: "Skeyhak'te shaha'ghe n'yet!"

A thousand glittering bubbles appeared in the air and drifted through the room to bounce off the walls and then break, each emitting a musical note.

He laughed, pleased by the success of his impromptu spell. With an unsteady hand, he lifted his goblet from the table and made to raise it to his lips again. However, it fell from his nerveless fingers, the table rose up towards his face, and blackness came.

When pained consciousness returned to Grimm, fewer people sat at the table, and the sun was low in the sky. Discarded scraps of food littered the table, and black marks and misty outlines on the draperies and wood panelling showed that some ill-controlled magic had been at work.

Lord Thorn had left, and Faffel, who had warned Grimm against immoderation, sat with his head back and snored raucously, a toppled goblet before him.

Several other mages showed no more sign of life than the Magemaster, although some were still engaged in hearty drinking, with no apparent ill effects.

"More drink, Brother Questor?" Dalquist asked, grinning, who seemed to be among the ranks of the unafflicted.

"Don' feel well." Grimm forced the words out with some difficulty; he wanted to say more, but the effort was too great. Dalquist just had time to push a bowl under Grimm's chin before the new mage vomited copious amounts of red-brown liquid into it.

"Skuguchne!" Dalquist muttered: the noisome contents of the bowl vanished. "Feel better now, Questor Grimm?"

"Bit," slurred Grimm, his tongue feeling like a dry lump of wood. "Do' wanna drink wine again-ever." Grimm had never felt worse in his life. "Please… jus' lemme die, Da'quisst."

Kargan leaned across the table. "Remember your staff, Questor Grimm." Grimm leaned forward to pick up Redeemer, and then wished he had not, as the room seemed to give an alarming lurch backwards.

"Staff, c'm 'ere," he slurred, and the staff flew to his hand like a trained falcon. As soon as Grimm clutched it, the room stopped spinning and his aching head cleared. A rising hammering and ringing ran through his head, reaching an almost unbearable crescendo before it dissipated. He gave a shuddering sigh.

"That's better." Grimm sighed. "I'm sorry about that, brothers."

His mouth tasted vile, so he took a deep draught from a carafe of water at his side, without waiting to decant the contents into a glass or goblet. Realising that this was a breach of decorum, he shot a quick glance at Magemaster Faffel, but the acid-tongued tutor still seemed nestled in the comforting arms of Morpheus.

"A good lesson, eh, Brother Mage?" said the ever-cheerful Kargan. "A good friend but an awful enemy is drink; a giver of confidence, but a thief of capability. Sometimes it's handy to be a mage, though. There are those in the wide world who would give their eye-teeth to be able to dismiss a hangover as easily as that.