"We leave tonight,” Grimm declared, resplendent in new blue-and-yellow silk robes. “The Quest goes on."
"My, aren't we the cool one?” Guy said, with more than a trace of the expected sneer. “Still think you can handle it without blubbing your eyes out?"
Grimm knew he should feel angry at the older Questor's habitual disdain for him, but he did not.
"I apologise to all of you for my earlier, juvenile outburst,” he said, his voice loud and clear. “My attitude was unbecoming of a Guild Mage, and I assure you now that it will not recur. My duty comes first, and I will not forget that. Are you all with me?"
All signalled their enthusiastic assent except for Guy, who rolled his eyes.
"So our little Dragonbluster is getting all tough now, is he? Isn't that nice? Perhaps we can-"
"My cognomen is Dragonblaster, Questor Guy; a title now earned in deed. Do not forget it again!"
He locked his eyes on Guy's, compressing his mouth into a tight slit. Long moments passed as each mage stared at the other. Grimm felt his own, dark eyes watering as he poured his inner strength into the stare.
A bead of sweat ran down the Guy's right cheek, and the younger mage thought he saw a trace of a quiver in Guy's lips. Still, he did not look away.
At last, Guy averted his eyes. “All right, youngster; if it means that much to you, I won't forget it,” he muttered.
Grimm was not about to give up now."What is my title, Great Flame? Say it!"
"Your name is ‘Dragonblaster'.” The word was a whisper.
Still, Guy did not meet Grimm's burning eyes, looking everywhere but at his rival's face.
"All right: you are Grimm Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Dragonblaster!
"Have we finished with these games now, Questor Grimm?"
"We have, Questor Guy. Will you, at last, accept my leadership of this Quest?"
The Great Flame shrugged. “I suppose so, Dragonblaster. If it makes you happy, yes, you're in charge."
Grimm decided to let the matter slide. He had faced down the contumacious mage and asserted his dominance. That would do for now.
"The wagon's provisioned and waiting, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said. “Awaiting your orders, Sir!"
The others looked at him-Grimm Afelnor, the blacksmith's boy-and he felt a trace of pride leaking through his new-found composure.
"Let's ride, General. Nothing can stop us now."
"Famous last words,” Guy muttered, as the group strode to the shattered remains of the rotunda's main doorway, but Grimm chose to ignore him.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 26: Talking Treason
Uttering a deep sigh, Dalquist rubbed his sore eyes and leant back in his chair. He had discharged his Scholasticate duties for the day and, despite the late hour and an abominable headache, he did not feel tired. Since his discovery of Prelate Thorn's part in Questor Loras’ downfall, he had slept little, wondering how he might produce real, concrete evidence of the Prelate's treachery that would influence the Conclave and the Presidium.
Lord Thorn's a House Prelate and a full member of the Presidium, he thought, not for the first time. Any proof I can find will have to be very, very convincing.
Dalquist drummed his fingers on his desk, cudgelling his brain for the least iota of information that might aid him in his covert Quest. Some change in Loras’ personality immediately before his disgrace, perhaps?
Doorkeeper knew Loras well, he mused, but getting a coherent story out of him is like trying to catch a greased rabbit while wearing lead boots…
He had once before attempted to elicit firm memories from the old man concerning the affair, but he knew that Doorkeeper's vague rambling would never suffice as a watertight case.
Rising to his feet, he summoned Shakhmat and made his way down the stairs to the East Wing; perhaps the well-stocked Scholasticate library would hold some clue he could use. He held out little hope; he had spent many hours scanning through numerous documents, but Loras’ name had been expunged from all of them. Dalquist knew he was acting like a man who, having searched high and low for a valuable lost item, begins to search again in locations he has already covered.
At this late hour, the Library was deserted, but the ever-glowing globes of Mage Light ensured it was still well-lit. He found the silence eerie, almost oppressive, and he could not understand why Grimm had spent so long in this dingy refuge.
Having carried out many abortive searches before, he knew the House copies of the Deeds of the Questors would be of little use; every mention of Loras Afelnor had been ruthlessly eliminated from the pages.
Journals by former Prelates and members of the Conclave lay on these dusty shelves, but Dalquist had scoured them, too, with no greater success.
Nonetheless, something continued to draw him back to the Library.
As he stood before the high racks of books, searching for inspiration, Dalquist heard the click of the Library door and spun around, feeling as if guilt were etched on his back in large, luminous letters, although he had committed no crime as yet.
Standing in the doorway was the unmistakable figure of Magemaster Crohn. Dalquist trusted the venerable tutor, and he had intended to try to draw the old man into his and Kargan's shared intrigue; however, there never seemed to be an opportune time or place in which to do so.
"Good evening, Questor Dalquist,” the Magemaster said, his diction crisp and impeccable, as usual. “What, may I ask, brings you here? I did not think you were such a bibliophile."
"I couldn't sleep, Magemaster,” the Questor replied, speaking the truth.
"Nor I."
Dalquist suppressed a gasp as the tutor stepped into the light; although the Senior Magemaster's clothes were as immaculate and proper as ever, his face was grey and haggard. The old man's slumped shoulders and shambling gait lay at odds with his normal, confident, proud posture.
"What's the matter, Magemaster Crohn?” Dalquist inquired, worried for the tutor. “Are you sick? Shall I call a Healer?"
Crohn shook his head. “I am not sick, Brother Mage; except, perhaps, of my duty and my calling; and of my weakness."
Dalquist felt as if an icy spider were crawling along his spine; he had come to know Crohn well during the long months in which the two mages had schooled Grimm Afelnor as an Adept Questor. Never once had the Senior Magemaster wavered in his vocation; not even in the immediate aftermath of Grimm's tumultuous Outbreak, in which Crohn had suffered serious injury.
Dalquist helped Crohn into a chair and sat opposite him. “It's not like you to talk this way, Magemaster Crohn."
"I am putting another Neophyte through the Questor Ordeal,” the Magemaster said, in a dull voice, “for my sins."
"So I heard, Senior Magemaster.” In fact, the Questor had only caught wind of this during his journey aboard Kargan's potent memory spell, but this casual mention seemed harmless.
"After our meeting with Lord Thorn, I thought he had acknowledged the risks inherent in the Questor Ordeal,” Crohn said, his eyes blank. “This boy's name is Chag Jura, and he tries so hard to please me-just like Afelnor did. I would have refused the assignment at once, but, if I refuse to undertake the boy's training, the Prelate says he will reassign Neophyte Chag to Magemaster Faffel."
"Is the boy strong?"
Crohn shrugged. “He has exceptional power, but I fear for his sanity. He is less highly-strung than Erek was, but the Prelate is pushing me even harder than he did over Questor Grimm's Ordeal. I am trying to go easy on the boy, but Lord Thorn grows impatient."
"Surely he listens to your concerns, after what happened to Erek and Urel? We confronted him over the very same matter, only a few months ago. If this Chag boy were to lose his mind as Erek did, with such power, the results could be catastrophic."
"The problem, Questor Dalquist, is that Lord Thorn does listen, or, at least, he appears to do so. In order to reduce the strain on me, or so he says, he has even taken over part of the boy's tutelage. Three times a week, Jura undergoes a two-hour session in the Prelate's office."