Grimm Afelnor, the youngest Mage Questor in Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Thaumaturges and Sorcerers, lay back on his divan and put down the book he had been reading for the last thirty minutes. He could not remember a word he had read: his mind was too full of fizzing frustration and boredom.

The young mage bore the resounding title, ‘Mage Questor of the First Rank’, but, until he had completed his first Quest, this was only a courtesy. Although he wore the ornate, blue-gold ring denoting a Guild Mage, the absence of a gold ring on his staff, Redeemer, marked him as a rank tyro: a mage who had not completed even a single Quest. For the six months following his triumphal Ceremony of Acclamation, Grimm had waited for the call to prove himself a worthy Questor: at first, with eagerness; then with impatience; then with desperation.

Just over a year before, he had been a callow Neophyte, making slow but steady progress towards an uncertain vocation. Then came what he thought of as the Nightmare Time: the brutal Ordeal which had driven him to the very edge of the abyss of irrevocable insanity. Although Grimm did not know it at the time, his relentless torment had been intended to force him to access the inner powers that his tutor, Magemaster Crohn, saw within him. Where most mages took many decades of diligent study to reach their potential, those with the strength of mind and spirit to withstand the brutal Questor Ordeal matured while still young. Very few Neophytes were chosen, and fewer still prevailed. Grimm knew now his friend, the gentle, would-be entertainer, Erek Garan, had faced the same Ordeal and failed.

Erek had destroyed Senior Magemaster Urel with an uncontrolled blast of energy and then hanged himself. The tormented Neophyte had stared into the same chasm of madness as Grimm, but he had taken the last crucial, fatal step forward.

The young Questor looked around his opulent cell in the West Wing and sighed.

I almost lost my mind, too, he thought. I demolished a classroom and nearly killed Magemaster Crohn. Instead of killing myself, I ended up with a Guild Ring and a comfortable cell.

Grimm raised an imaginary glass. Here’s to you, Erek Garan, he thought. Wherever you are, I hope you found peace.

 He had to admit that his current accommodation was a far cry from the dismal cell he had occupied as a Charity Student: the food was much better, too. Nonetheless, Grimm found little pleasure in his new, easy life. He had sworn on his soul to redeem his besmirched family name, and he could only begin that onerous process by proving his worth to the Guild. His beloved grandfather, Loras Afelnor had once been a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, a man at the peak of his calling: a man with Guild honours and great wealth gained from numerous glorious Quests. Then, he had thrown it all away by attempting to kill the sick, doddering Prelate of the House. Although Grimm felt sure his grandfather had acted out of compassion for a suffering man, Loras’ deed had resulted in his disgrace and his expulsion from the Guild, stripped of his powers. Now, the old man scraped out a basic living as a blacksmith in the village of Lower Frunstock.

Grimm’s world had been stricken to the core when he had first learned of Loras’ former life on his first day as a Student in the House, nearly ten years before. After his Acclamation, he had been given leave to visit Lower Frunstock, and he had given Loras his solemn oath: “I will make the name of Afelnor shine again in the Guild, Granfer. I swear it.”

The young Questor laughed, although there was no humour in the hacking sound. He thought of Loras, sweating and straining in the smithy, and of his own, almost sybaritic life. A true Mage Questor, an avatar of magical power, should be on the road, fighting tyrants and monsters, not lounging in a comfortable chamber!

Grimm’s felt ennui suffusing his bones like a canker, a sickness that seemed to grow worse with every wasted day. He groaned and lay back on his velvet divan, feeling like a traitor.

It can’t go on much longer, he thought. This waiting is almost worse than the Nightmare Time.

****

Grimm’s friend, Dalquist Rufior, felt almost as frustrated as his younger fellow Questor. A Mage of the Fifth Rank, Dalquist lived for the excitement and danger of the Quest. Dalquist’s service to his House and his Guild had brought him wealth and status, but his ultimate goal was the day when the seventh ring was placed onto his staff, Shakhmat.

The tall, dark-haired young man had not been sitting idle for the past year: far from it. Nonetheless, most of the assignments Prelate Thorn had sent his way had been mere ‘flag-waving exercises’, as Dalquist called them. Ordering a Mage Questor to accompany a wagon-train of gold to High Lodge, the centre of Guild operations, might be a prudent precaution to prevent molestation, but such humdrum expeditions could not be considered heroic sagas leading to lurid, glowing accounts in the Deeds of the Questors. This was no way to gain great wealth or advancement.   

After a handful of mundane, uninspiring Quests, the Lord Dominie, Horin, accorded Dalquist the fifth ring on his staff, but the young mage knew this was the highest status he would attain without either heroic deeds or years of dedicated service.

To be sure, arduous, rewarding Quests did crop up from time to time, but Prelate Thorn tended to assign these to the senior active Questor, Xylox Ceras, called ‘The Mighty’. Xylox, a mage of the Seventh Rank, was respected and well-known in High Lodge, and he had amassed a huge fortune from his Quests.

So that leaves me with the dregs, thought Dalquist with a bitter grimace. He sipped a glass of wine without enthusiasm as he sat at the work-table in his cell, trying to find the enthusiasm to complete his report on his last Quest: an undistinguished spy-mission that for the most part involved skulking in the sewers beneath an earl’s castle, listening at drain openings for useful information from the rooms above.

  Dalquist heard a soft knock at his cell door. With more enthusiasm than he felt, he offered a cheery “Come in.”

The door opened to reveal the hunched, wizened major-domo of Arnor House, known to one and all as ‘Doorkeeper’.

  “Greetings, Questor Dalquist,” said the ancient mage, offering a clumsy bow. “I trust you are well after your last Quest.”

“Quite well, thank you, Doorkeeper,” replied Dalquist, trying to maintain a bright tone of voice. “Among my munificent rewards were a dismal cold and a rat-bite on my right leg, but I have recovered from both. What can I do for you on this glorious morning?”

“Beg – er, begging your p-pardon, Lord Mage,” stammered the wrinkled facotum, “but Lord Prelate Thorn wishes to see you at your earliest convenience on a matter of the greatest urgency.”

Dalquist sighed and smoothed his robes. “Doubtless there’s some rich dowager who needs escorting to some society function, and she thinks the presence of a Questor will impress her friends.”

 Sarcasm was wasted on Doorkeeper, whose eyes opened wide. “No, Questor, Dalquist, I don’t think the Lord Prelate said anything about any dowager, whatever that is. He said it was very, very important. What was it he called it?”

Doorkeeper frowned and scratched his white-sheathed pate, as if this might stimulate his powers of recall, but then his expression cleared.

“Ah, yes – ‘an undertaking of the gravest import for the security of the Guild’, Lord Thorn called it,” the old man said, beaming. “I’m to take you at once.”

Things may be looking up, thought the Questor, feeling his heart beat faster as he followed Doorkeeper out of his cell. This doesn’t sound like another sewer expedition.

****

The balding, red-faced Thorn Virias’ outward semblance gave the impression more of a harried clerk than the Prelate of a Guild House. Nonetheless, Dalquist gave a courteous, sincere bow on entering Thorn’s private chamber. The Prelate was a full Questor of the Seventh Rank, a veteran of dozens of Quests; a man to be respected.

The Prelate dismissed Doorkeeper with a nod and a wave of his hand, leaving Dalquist alone with his lord and master.

“Greetings, Questor Dalquist,” intoned Thorn, leaning back in his ornate throne, which stood behind a large desk festooned with an untidy profusion of scrolls and books. “I trust you are well rested after your recent Quest?”

The younger mage yearned to dispense with small talk and cut to the heart of the matter, but he knew the Prelate regarded protocol as essential to the harmonious running of the House. Too direct and blunt an approach might be taken as an insult.

“Quite well, thank you, Lord Prelate,” he replied, standing erect and rigid. “The task was not too arduous.”

Disgusting, yes, but not physically arduous, he added as a mental codicil to his statement.

“I must congratulate you on gaining the fifth ring to your staff, Brother Mage,” said Thorn. He smiled and opened a desk drawer, from which he withdrew a green bottle and two glasses. “May I interest you in a modicum of this brandy? It is an excellent vintage, I assure you.”

Dalquist had heard tales of the senior mage’s fondness for strong drink, and he took care to keep his response polite and neutral.

“Thank you, Lord Prelate, but I was brought up in the ways of the Molachian Church, which forbids the consumption of alcohol before sundown. Old habits die hard, as they say.”

In truth, Dalquist had abandoned his religious observances at the age of fourteen, after seven years in the House, but he deemed it impolitic to mention the earliness of the hour. 

 “A pity,” said Thorn. “I trust you will not object if I celebrate your promotion with a small glass?”

Dalquist felt the blood pounding in his veins, and he yearned for Thorn to tell him the details of the Quest. Nonetheless, he smiled.

“Of course not, Lord Prelate,” he said. “I appreciate the gesture.”

The Prelate poured a good two inches of the golden liquor into a glass and took a healthy draught, smacking his lips.

“You have no idea what you are missing, Questor Dalquist. Do sit down while I savour this excellent liquor: it is too good to hurry.”

   Dalquist felt his teeth clenching in frustration as he lowered himself into a brown leather chair in front of Thorn’s desk, while the senior mage tipped the remainder of the glass’s contents down his throat by degrees.

At last, the Prelate put down his empty glass and said, “The House wishes to call upon your services again, Questor Dalquist, as you may have guessed.”

Dalquist leaned forward, his blood quickening.

 “Have you ever met Prelate Zhar of Brelor House?” asked Thorn.

Dalquist shook his head, tension tightening his throat.

“Lord Zhar states that he wished to give Lord Dominie Horin a special gift to mark his accession to the apex of the Guild. He ordered the construction of a charm he dubbed the ‘Eye of Myrrn’, after the seventh-age seer. This gem was supposedly intended to allow Lord Horin oversight of all of the Guild Houses at all times. It permits the user to focus on any location or individual of whom he has knowledge.”

Dalquist suppressed a smile at the stressed words, ‘states’ and ‘supposedly’; Lord Thorn, it seemed, did not believe his fellow Prelate’s stated intentions.

“Brelor House recently played host to a deputation from the city of Crar,” continued Thorn, “headed by one Baron Starmor. Zhar is unclear about what happened, but the Eye was found to be missing after the visit. It now transpires that this Starmor is a powerful magic-user who is not allied to our Guild.”     

  Dalquist gaped. “I take it this gem would allow Baron Starmor to spy on the Guild itself, Lord Prelate?”

“Exactly, Questor Dalquist!” replied Thorn, banging his fist on the desk in emphasis. “The consequences of this theft could be incalculable. We need the Eye of Myrrn returned to High Lodge without delay. Lord Horin demands the gem be retrieved or, at least, destroyed without delay. He gave me his personal order to see that his orders are carried out. I feel sure I do not need to tell you how privileged we are that Lord Horin selected our House for the honour of undertaking this vital Quest.”

Dalquist nodded. “Indeed, Lord Prelate,” he said, smiling. “I thank you for giving me the honour of leading it.”

Thorn shrugged. “I must admit, Questor Dalquist, I would have preferred Xylox the Mighty to take on such a responsibility. However, he is indisposed after his previous Quest and must rest.”

Well, that’s candid enough, thought Dalquist, but his joy at being given a chance to show his mettle eclipsed any indignation he might otherwise have felt.

“I should like to take several House Mages with me, Lord Prelate,” he said, “and also some local men-at-arms. If –”

   “Impossible, I am afraid,” interrupted Thorn with a shake of his head. “We have no idea what defences Baron Starmor may command. Crar is a walled city with battlements and turrets. A large force would surely be spotted far from Crar. Lord Horin believes a covert operation by the smallest number would be best. You have shown yourself adept at such operations in the past.”

Dalquist gaped. “You said Baron Starmor is a powerful magic-user, Lord Prelate,” he expostulated. “Am I expected to enter his demesnes alone?”

The Prelate snorted. “A sorcerer he is, Questor Dalquist, but Starmor is not a Guild Mage. Are you so afraid of such a man?”

Dalquist felt his face redden, but he kept his tone civil. “I am only anxious for the success of the Quest, Lord Prelate,” he said. “In an unknown city with unknown defences I might be taken by surprise. I cannot countenance entering Crar without some magical assistance and without armed support. A thief might also be of use, to spot non-magical traps and to pick locks.”

“Very well, Questor Dalquist,” Thorn said after a long pause. “You may select one other mage of this House to accompany you, and one or two Seculars. The responsibility for selecting the Seculars will be up to you and no House funds will be disbursed for their payment. You will need to settle their accounts from your own money or from the monetary proceeds of the Quest. You are not, under any circumstances to discuss the purpose of this expedition with anyone inside or outside the House, except for your chosen companions. You are to swear them to the strictest secrecy, using magic to compel compliance if necessary.”

Dalquist suppressed a groan. He had expected that such an important expedition would offer proportionate rewards. He had garnered little wealth from most of his Quests, since the chance to acquire booty had been small, and the Guild had taken most of what little he had managed to obtain.

Thorn twisted his mouth a little in what the Questor took to be a smile. “Lord Horin is not gratitude, Questor Dalquist. Although he wants this embarrassing loss kept secret, the Dominie has granted Arnor House a loan of one thousand gold pieces. The official purpose of this loan is to allow the refurbishment of the House Refectory, but a regrettable accounting error has resulted in its misplacement.”

The Prelate placed a bulging money-bag on the table with a weighty thump, and Dalquist smiled in relief. As he reached out his right hand to take it, Thorn raised an admonitory finger, and the Questor stopped in mid-grab.

“You are to account for every penny of this money,” intoned the senior mage. “I suppose we can allow perhaps three hundred to go astray for your trouble, but it will all need to be returned eventually. However, the Dominie has stipulated that the Guild will place no levy on any booty you gain from the Quest. That includes any magical items you may acquire on your way, with the exception of the Eye of Myrrn. I have agreed to do the same”

Dalquist stared, his hand still stretched out over the table. Magical items were expensive and coveted by all mages. In addition to a monetary tithe, High Lodge demanded the right to retain any unusual or powerful magical weapons, scrolls or charms found by its representatives abroad. A mage’s House Prelate often took a further levy when High Lodge had taken their fill, and Lord Thorn was no different.

“I trust you understand that these terms are indeed generous and unlikely to be repeated,” intoned Thorn.

Dalquist stammered his appreciation. Although he might gain little wealth from the Quest, what little he did manage to garner would be his. Although thievery from ordinary citizens and other mages was proscribed by Guild Law and subject to summary execution, a man such as Baron Starmor was regarded as an enemy of the Guild. To steal from such a man was condoned and even encouraged.

“Which mage will you take with you, Questor Dalquist? I should prefer if you leave the ranks of the Magemasters undisturbed.”

Dalquist did not stop to think for a moment. “I should like to invite Grimm Afelnor to accompany me,” he said. “I know how eager he is to prove his worth, and this will be a good first test for him.”

Thorn nodded. “An excellent idea, Questor Dalquist. If Questor Grimm performs well, he will be entitled to place the first ring on his staff. He will then be a Questor of the First Rank in fact as well as title. Let us get him blooded.

“Now; when can you be ready to leave? Time is of the essence.”

Dalquist replied, “I will need to spend some time in the Library researching the lie of the land, Lord Prelate. However, I expect to be ready to leave at first light tomorrow. I intend to spend a little time in the town of Drute to select the Seculars I require. I have Quested in that region before, and I have at least one particular man in mind.

With your permission, Lord Thorn, I will leave now to acquaint Questor Grimm with the details of the Quest. I will then embark on my research.”

“God speed, Questor Dalquist, and good hunting.”

****

Prelate Thorn stared at the scrying-crystal before him, his hands like pink crabs crawling over its glowing green surface.

Mother, are you there?

The unpleasant, dry crackle of the voice of Thorn’s mother, Lizaveta, flickered in his head.

Of course I am here, Thorn. Where else would I be, idiot?

Thorn hated his mother’s interference in his life, and he hoped his news would mollify her insensate demands for a while. She was determined that her despised son should become the next Dominie of the Guild, whether he wanted to or not, and a successful Quest of such importance would go a long way towards raising his profile. That pompous old fool, Horin, would not last forever, and, if Thorn could only get close enough, he might even be able to assist him in his passage to eternal glory. If that did not satisfy Lizaveta, he did not know what would. The Prelate had no conception of why his mother took such interest in the affairs of a son whom she professed to despise, but, despite the indomitable will of a Seventh Rank Questor, he felt unable to ignore or disobey her.

Mother, I have good news, he began, using the green gem to transmit his thoughts to Lizaveta’s sensorium as words. That fat upstart, Prelate Zhar has made a mistake at last, and his currency with the Guild is at a low ebb. He manufactured –

I know all about the Eye, you fool! spat back the mental voice of his distant mother.  I have magic at my disposal you Guild Mages cannot imagine. Who do you think advised Starmor how to acquire the gem? I knew you would be able to jump into the breach at a moment’s notice. This is all of my planning. Of course, I ensured you would be given the authority for the Quest. I have some little influence over your revered Dominie, Horin, and he listens to me.

Thorn felt deflated. He had wanted to impress Lizaveta with his resourcefulness at taking advantage of Zhar’s loss. As it was, he had, once again, been manipulated by her for her own purposes.

I am sending Dalquist Rufior and Grimm Afelnor. It will be a good asset to the House to have another full-blooded Questor at its disposal. Thorn thought he might as well continue as if he was unsurprised.

It will indeed be a good test for the Afelnor boy. Even I respect Starmor’s powers. This will be a good test; a gamble, yes, for you could well lose a pair of Questors, but the rewards for success should include consideration for your accession to the Guild Presidium.

I could lose a pair of Questors? exploded Thorn. Surely this Starmor cannot be that potent? He has no Questor magic, I am sure. My spies would have told me.

He is indeed no Questor, hissed the Prioress, but his magic is nothing in your ken. I hope Afelnor is as strong as his grandfather, or I might lose the opportunity of meeting him. I told you how I might pay a call upon Grimm Afelnor when he was older. I am sure I shall be interested in him more than a little if he survives this Quest.

Thorn was not sure if his mother was joking or not.

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