Alastair Archibald: A mage in the making

The old mage was humbled as ever by this evidence of the Prelate's magical power, not realising that the carillon of creaking joints and incomprehensible muttering that always accompanied his progress was signal enough to announce his approach. The aged major-domo opened the door and bowed courteously. The chamber was small but well-appointed, with sumptuous tapestries hanging from every wall. In the centre of the room was a tall, beautifully carved mahogany throne with a marble table before it, bearing scrolls, books and potions in untidy abandon and a green scrying-crystal mounted on a chased silver base.

On the throne sat a portly man with thin wisps of white hair plastered across a high, shining pate. The dark eyes that fixed Doorkeeper's gaze were a little dull, and more than a little bloodshot, but there was no denying the power in the Prelate's visage. Evidently, Lord Thorn had over-extended himself in his previous night's revelries, but this was not surprising to Doorkeeper in view of the onerous demands of the responsibilities that must surely pertain to the post of Prelate and House Lord. The man was a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank and a formidable magic-user, but a man nonetheless, sacrilegious as the fact might seem to the major-domo.

Thorn regarded the nervous man before him with some irritation. The two had known each other for most of Thorn's eighty years, ever since the future Prelate had entered the ranks of the House as a humble Student. Ever since his accession to the title of Prelate, the ancient Doorkeeper had regarded him with awe and trepidation. Thorn's hangover had been kept at bay by the use of some minor magic, and so his mood was somewhat better than it might have been had he been a Secular. Nonetheless, he was none too pleased at being disturbed at this early hour: even a Mage of the Seventh Rank needed to sleep sometimes.

"What is it, Doorkeeper?" he growled. When tired, hungry or overworked, Thorn had an easily roused temper, one which had often caused him trouble with the Magemasters in his youth, although he never let it affect his magic. There would be no measured words and tones here, such as those Thorn would have used to address the Presidium. Brief conversation was best when the Prelate was in a bad mood, but Thorn knew this was not Doorkeeper's forte.

"Lord Thorn, there's a boy in the scullery. I hope you don't mind, but I gave him a bed and some food. It was horribly cold and wet out there last night, you know, and I just thought-"

Thorn raised a hand to stop the flow of prattle from Doorkeeper. He sighed and, with difficulty, mustered a patient manner; angry words tended to cow the timid old man and to prolong exchanges. The Prelate's tone was nonetheless cool in the extreme, belying his placatory words.

"That's all right, Doorkeeper; I am sure that you will look after him well. What I would like to know is why you thought it necessary to disturb me over the arrival of some bedraggled indigent, especially at such an early hour. Such matters are scarcely my concern."

Doorkeeper wrung his hands in discomfort. "Ah, he, er, he wants to become a Mage, Lord Thorn. He's very keen to talk to you."

Thorn sighed. "The more proper channel for such an application is through the Magemaster on night duty in the Scholasticate, as you well know. What is so urgent that you must disturb me at this hour?"

"Lord Thorn, he gave me a package with a Guild ring in it. I was half ready for bed myself when he came, but, of course, I ran to the hall as soon as the portal opened. I have to, you see…"

Thorn raised a dismissive hand again, and sighed even more theatrically than before. "Go on, then."

Doorkeeper hesitated and then held out the waxed package in a timid manner, with an expression like that on the face of a stranded seal pup, an expression which had never failed to irritate Thorn. How the quivering old fool before him had ever managed to become a mage was quite beyond the Prelate's comprehension, and he was far from alone in this view. As Thorn took the package, he sensed the unmistakable presence of a Guild Ring.

The old fool had spoken the truth, but, then again, even that senile dullard wore a similar ring, so that meant little. The boy's father might be some superannuated Reader, or even a Doorkeeper from another House; scarcely a cause for such great excitement. Thorn thought of saying so, but he summoned the self-control expected of a Mage of the Seventh Rank, drew a sharp breath and forced himself to be calm. Sarcasm might have an even more negative effect than ire on the hapless major-domo.

With some effort, Thorn managed a passable simulacrum of a seraphic smile and said in a falsely honeyed voice, "Thank you, Doorkeeper, that will be all for now. Well done. You may go."

As the door closed behind Doorkeeper, Thorn looked the package over carefully. The aura surrounding it seemed familiar to him and yet he could not place it. Satisfied that the packet contained no threat, he opened it and found inside a letter and a Guild Ring, which somehow seemed to resonate with mastery. Intrigued, the Prelate opened the letter within, and was surprised to see not an illiterate scrawl but elegant, educated handwriting which spoke of its originator's erudition.

The Smithy,

Lower Frunstock,

Addleton

My beloved former brother mage and fellow Questor, I offer my deepest respect and most heartfelt salutations!

It is only after deep meditation that I send my grandson Grimm Afelnor to you, with the desire that you confer upon him the honour of taking him in as a Student. I understand well the deep misgivings you must hold at the prospect of taking to the Guild's bosom the seed of a traitor and renegade such as I.

The child knows nothing of my past, and I beg that you preserve this blissful ignorance whether you accept him or no. It is not just that a boy's life be blighted by the sins of his forebears, heinous though they may be.

It is as hard for me to write this letter as I am sure it will be for you to read it. I am currently employed as a smith in the hamlet of Lower Frunstock; but my health is no longer so rude as once it was, and it is becoming ever harder for my wife, Drima, and me to look after our orphaned grandson, Grimm.

He is a remarkably perceptive boy, with more than a trace of the power that once I bore, and he knows much beyond his seven years. He sees auras and can perform dowsing and other minor charms without having received a whit of training in these disciplines from me. He is gifted in languages, arithmetic and music, and his grandmother and I have taught him what we can of the secular arts.

He is a solemn, studious boy, ill-suited to the harsh, physical life of a smith. With the little sleight left to me, I sense the growing power within him. He is fluent in most of the tongues of this region, and he writes a fair hand in all of these. I know well that he has the beginnings of the Mage Sight, and I am confident that, should you do him the great honour of accepting the child as a Student, he will repay you and, indeed, the Guild many times over.

It is not for my own sake that I ask this, for I know only too well how little charity I deserve from you. I ask it for the good of a blameless child and for the enrichment and honour of the Guild that once I loved and swore to serve.

I do feel that in sending this intelligent and diligent boy to you in the hope that he may one day become a mage might go some small way towards expiating some of the heavy guilt that burdens my soul so. I enclose the ring I once wore with such fierce pride, in the fervent hope that it may some day be placed on the finger of my grandson, trusting that he will expunge a measure of the infamy and shame that I placed upon it.

Whatever you decide, I know that your choice will be fairly and justly made.