Alastair Archibald: A mage in the making

"Thank you, Doorkeeper." Grimm felt as if his heart were almost bursting from gratitude and fellow-feeling. "I don't know what I'd do without you! That's good advice, and I'll follow it whenever things get too bad. If you'll excuse me, I'll see if I can find Magemaster Crohn."

Crohn, whose duties seemed endless, was checking the soap and towel allocations in the paying Student block when Grimm found him making check marks on a sheet of paper.

"Good morning, Questor Grimm," Crohn said, looking up from his work. "May I help you?"

"Good morning, Magemaster Crohn. Mage Doorkeeper has asked me to accompany him on a journey outside the House. I know I am still, technically, your responsibility, and so I thought it only proper to seek your approval."

"You are no longer confined to the Scholasticate, and you do not, therefore, need such approval," the Senior Magemaster replied, his face blank. "I am sure I explained that to you."

"You did, Magemaster Crohn, but I thought it a prudent exercise, nonetheless, since my intention is to visit my grandparents. I have received but a single letter from them during my time here. I would guess that my grandfather Loras would come under the strictures concerning 'Association with persons inimical to the aims and precepts of the House.' That is rule of the House, not merely of the Scholasticate." Grimm's tone was cool and formal, but his troublesome, agoraphobic inner demon wished desperately that the Magemaster might refuse his request. At the same time, Grimm was berating himself for harbouring such a craven attitude. He did yearn to see his family; it was only the prospect of the journey that troubled him so.

Crohn pressed his forehead hard enough to show livid finger marks, outlined in red, when he removed his hand. He took a deep breath and said, "It is your family, Afelnor. Of course you must go, and with my blessing. That rule was not formulated with this particular circumstance in mind, and it is my privilege as Senior Magemaster to override such a rule. I therefore rescind the rule with regard to your grandparents. Go, and forget the House for a little while. I regret that, as a Questor who has not yet Quested, you will have to return to the House by nightfall. Lord Prelate Thorn would be displeased if you chose never to return, for you still owe a great debt to the House for your education here. Worry not; I will ensure that Lord Thorn knows of my decision."

Grimm gave a deep, fluent and courteous bow; Magemaster Faffel's lessons in Courtly Graces had not been a complete waste. "Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Senior Magemaster Crohn. I greatly appreciate your forbearance and your understanding."

Crohn nodded. "Now, if you would be so kind as to leave me to these tedious logistics? Between the two of us, this is not my favourite activity, for I have little talent for numbers."

Grimm almost started at the revelation that the formidable Magemaster had admitted to a weakness, but he managed to maintain a neutral expression, as Crohn returned to his check sheet.

"You did what, Crohn?" the Prelate exploded. "Loras Afelnor is a traitor to the Guild; you know that!"

"He is also Afelnor's grandfather, Lord Prelate," Crohn said, a hint of censure in his firm, unwavering voice. "Having dared to send the boy to this House for education, it seems improbable in the extreme that Loras would try to plant seditious thoughts in the new Questor's head. I have told Afelnor he must return here before nightfall. I trust that you realise it would be highly prejudicial to my authority, were you to rescind my permission. Under such circumstances, I would have little choice but to resign my post."

Crohn held Thorn's gaze, unblinking; he seemed unshakably sincere in his words. Thorn felt deep misgivings, but he knew it would not sit well with High Lodge were he to accept the resignation of his Senior Magemaster: the very man who had raised the House's first Mage Questor in a decade.

The Lord Dominie himself, the head of the entire Guild, had expressed a desire to send some of his new Students to Arnor House, with the specific hope that they might be tutored by such a man. Thorn remembered his mother's frequent admonishments that Loras knew nothing of the treachery that had been visited on him, but he knew also that Grimm was now a potent Questor: a mage who could exert powers beyond the realms of ordinary magic. Then again, if even Loras, a Questor of the Seventh Rank, had been unable to divine the truth, what chance did a callow youth have of doing so?

"Very well, Crohn," he said, nodding. "I accept your decision. Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention."

Crohn nodded, doubtless satisfied that his authority had prevailed. "By your leave, Lord Prelate?" he said. "There is much to do, if we are to be ready for the new intake of Students. The numbers this year are greater than we have seen for some time."

Thorn smiled. Crohn was correct; eight charity Students, each one a potential Questor, and thirty-five fat fees from doting parents seeking the best education for their darling, pampered progeny. Arnor House was becoming fashionable once more. Thorn thought of seeking the advice of his mother, Lizaveta, but he dismissed the idea. He was Prelate of Arnor House and a Seventh Level Questor, and he would make his own decisions.

"Thank you, Senior Magemaster Crohn," he said, glancing again at his encouraging account sheets. "Please return to your duties. A busy year lies ahead of you in the Scholasticate."

Doorkeeper reined in the horses. "Here we are: Lower Frunstock, Grimm. I will meet you at this crossroad in four hours. Enjoy yourself."

Grimm stepped from the cart on which he had been riding for three hours and stretched luxuriantly. Waving a friendly goodbye to Doorkeeper, he took stock of his surroundings. A single street led into the small village where he had been born, but a myriad of paths and lanes ran from it. The village green, where maypoles and swings were erected during the summer pageant; that much he remembered. Granfer's smithy is the third turning on the left… or is it the second turning on the right? he wondered.

With a firm step, Grimm selected the former option and began to take his bearings. The village was so much smaller than he had remembered it! He recognised the shop of Huret, the baker, no different than he recalled, with its ever-faded sign and dusty windows. He ran through distant, dim memories of playing hopscotch with other boys in the baker's flagstone yard in his carefree youth. Squeezing nascent tears into oblivion, he strode into the village.

He saw people busying themselves with their daily trades, most of them responding with respectful bows to the sight of a tall, cowled figure with a mage's distinctive, brass-shod staff.

Margen's Grocery now seemed to be a chandler's establishment, and the Black Boar Inn Grimm had known in his childhood had been renamed the Bold Archer; nonetheless, the village was much the same as Grimm had remembered it. He heard hammering, the crisp sound of steel on steel, and he stepped into a narrow alleyway.

The tears would not be stemmed; it took a mighty effort of will to regain a Questor's composure. 'Power and presence, power and presence!' he chided himself, brushing the moisture from his eyes.

The smithy was there; smoke pouring from the chimney, the old, tiled roof with the dip in the middle that he remembered. Chickens pecked and cackled in the yard. He was finally home.

What could he say? How should he introduce himself? These questions were made moot by the exhortations of a gruff voice that stirred his sleeping memories:

"Is that you, Joran? If you have neglected to bring that damned bar stock again, there will be trouble between us-oh, please accept my apologies, Lord Mage. We see so few of your kind here, these days." A broad-shouldered, grey-haired bear of a man stood, bowed, before Grimm Afelnor.