Alastair Archibald: A mage in the making

Your devoted servant and former Brother Mage,

Loras Afelnor

Thorn's hands trembled as if palsied, and the letter fell to the desk. Deeply troubled, he climbed to his feet and for a few minutes paced the room like a caged animal, brow furrowed in thought and heavy breaths shivering his body. Indecision racked him, but he knew that he had only one course of action. He sat down again. He took a green velvet bag from a desk drawer and extracted from it a glass orb, which he placed in the centre of his desk. He took a deep breath and put his hands gingerly on the globe, which began to emit an eerie, bile-green glow in response.

Mother, are you there?

After a few minutes' pause, Thorn felt the familiar mental tendrils of his mother, Lizaveta, winding their way into his sensorium like maggots squirming through a decaying cadaver.

What do you want, Thorn? I am busy training the latest group of novices in the ways of the Order. They are lazy and obdurate; they require constant attention and chastisement. Do you not remember the rule? I contact you; you do not contact me.

Mother, I thought that you ought to know that Loras Afelnor is not dead, as I had formerly assumed. He has sent his grandson to me, requesting that he be taken into the House as a charity Student. The Lord Dominie might find it strange, were I to refuse such a request from a former Guild Mage, even from a convicted renegade such as Loras. The chances of such a boy possessing significant levels of Thaumaturgic power would be far higher than for the son of a Secular.

I could plead a lack of places at the Scholasticate, but High Lodge well knows that I am campaigning vigorously in an attempt to attract more charity Students.

Thorn could have sworn that a disdainful snort sounded in his brain.

What is the problem, Thorn? Why do you need to bother me with your wheedling? It is your Guild House, not mine.

The Prelate sighed. This might be harder than he had thought. What if the child knows the truth about what was done to Loras, Mother?

Ha! Even the mighty Loras Afelnor has no idea of what motivated him to attempt to throttle that senile old fool, Geral. My spell was subtle, as well as powerful; Loras believes he acted as he did on his own volition. Do you truly believe he would send his brat to you for education if he had even the merest suspicion of the spell I cast on him?

The child will never find out the truth unless you are foolish enough to tell him; do you understand?

I understand, Mother, but it still makes me nervous, admitted Thorn.

So the mighty Thorn Virias, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank is scared of an infant! came back Lizaveta's hissing stream of mental words. If you feel incompetent to deal with him, send him to me. No man has ever been able to withstand my will, not even Loras. He was ten times the man or the mage that you will ever be. I think that I could have really enjoyed Loras as my own pet in those days. Muscular, intelligent, powerful, possessed of great willpower… yet even he succumbed to my power.

I like strong men; I like it when they try to stand against me. I like to see the look on their faces at the moment that they finally realise their mistake, just before they drop to their knees, begging for mercy. I trust you are not pretending you are a 'strong man', my dear son…

There was a lengthy pause, inviting further challenge from Thorn, but he remained silent. He knew Lizaveta would be wearing a thin smile, her most dangerous expression, and he knew how his mother liked to control and dominate him or, indeed, any other man.

As usual, the mighty Prelate was thoroughly cowed by this wizened prune of a witch. At times, he hated his mother with a burning passion, yet he could never win free of her, could never win true independence. Without her, he was nothing.

Accept the child, Thorn, hissed Lizaveta's words in his head. Even if he proves no mage, it could be fun to have your own Afelnor as a scullery brat. If he should grow to resemble his grandfather, I may even pay him a friendly visit. If Loras' blood runs true and the lad should become a Questor one-tenth as powerful as his grandfather, he will be a useful token to put in play, as you move towards your destiny as Lord Dominie of High Guild. A Questor even half as powerful as Loras, who owed all loyalty and fealty to you, would be a potent weapon indeed.

If I ever become Dominie, Mother, it will be because I will it, not you! Thorn snapped mentally, a trace of rebellion flickering briefly within him.

You aren't trying to be strong, are you, my darling son? Remember what I said about men who try to oppose me. I will not stand that from any man, least of all my ingrate oaf of a son, and I do not think that you would prove much of a challenge. After all I have done for you, I expect humility and gratitude, not whining and braggadocio.

You will work to become Dominie in order to gratify me, to show me that all my work on your behalf has not been for nothing. You will accept Afelnor's grandson into the House because it amuses me, and because it may eventually advance this goal. If you do not see the truth in my words, I have more than enough power to make you see. Is that clear?

Thorn gulped; what his mother had said was all too true. She could snap his will like a dry twig underfoot, and she would do so without a second thought. Thorn knew the folly of displeasing her only too well, so he assumed a more complaisant tone.

Yes, Mother, it is clear. I meant no disrespect. If the Afelnor boy has true power, I will accept him as a Student. However, it would be at least a decade before he could become a Questor; twenty years if he would be better suited as a Reader, and far longer if his vocation is as another kind of mage. As you must know, a Student's antecedents cannot guarantee his calling.

In order to advance my case further with High Lodge, I need to take in far more Students, because I need more mages; I am working on that. The quickest solution would be to take on more charity Students, so that I may put a few more Neophytes through the Questor Ordeal. Even that is uncertain and time consuming.

You are soft, Thorn, spat back Lizaveta. All those years spent sitting in comfortable armchairs and drinking yourself stupid have dulled your resolve. If your recalcitrant Neophytes do not respond well to this Ordeal you speak of, it is because it is not sufficiently rigorous. A more severe lesson is a shorter lesson, is it not?

It is not that simple, Mother, complained Thorn, trying to make the old woman see sense. Some Neophyte Questors risk becoming unhinged by the Ordeal as it is.

Then they are weaklings who are not worthy to carry the Staff, she snarled. I am sure even you are more than wily enough to cover up the odd accident. You do not need milksops, but powerful mages under your full control. Remember that, and act accordingly.

I will tolerate no further excuses from you, Thorn. You must resolve such problems on your own from now on.

With an unpleasant mental slither, the slimy form of his mother's will withdrew from Thorn's mind, leaving the Prelate alone in his chamber, with only a parcel of vague fears and worries for company.

The Prelate felt many misgivings, but he would see this boy on the morrow; he preferred an easy life, and it was far simpler to go along with his mother than to try to oppose her. Thorn put away the scrying-crystal and wandered over to a wrought-iron washstand by the window, washing his face and hands in the porcelain bowl, as if this could wash away the taint of his mother's influence over him.

He went back to sit in reverie at his worktable. His thoughts were of earlier, happier times with another young Afelnor, a youth with whom he had played and exchanged jokes and tricks.

Acclaimed on the very same day, each had warmly toasted the other's success.