Lord Thorn Virias, Prelate of Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, groaned as the scrying-crystal on his marble desk flashed a baleful, sickly shade of green. This could only mean that his mother, Lizaveta, sought discourse with him. He considered ignoring the insistent flashing of the glass, but he soon thought better of it; Lizaveta would know he was in his chamber, even without the mental link the crystal provided.

He placed his hands on the crystal with care, as if the bauble might explode at his very touch, and patterned his mind for the sleight of Telepathy.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Thorn, my dearest son,” hissed the familiar voice in his head.

The mental voice invoked the sensation of an army of slimy, slithering worms cascading into his skull; Thorn knew these words were born of anything but love, and he was on his guard in a moment.

“What do you want, Mother?”

“May a mother not contact her only child without suspicion of some ulterior motive?”

In your case, never, you hateful old witch. . .

It was all Thorn could do to suppress this dangerous thought, but he was a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, after all, possessing the willpower of any ten Seculars.

“I am sorry, Mother,” he replied, masking his true thoughts.

“Are you satisfied with your lot, Thorn? You sound peevish to me, and you know how I dislike that tone; I greatly prefer ambition to self-pity.”

The old witch is playing games with me again, he thought, again managing to screen his inner mind from her.

“Mother, I am the Prelate of a prestigious Guild House and a full member of the Guild Presidium. I have already achieved more than most mages ever do.

“With your inestimable aid,” he quickly added.

“So, you are content to be second-rate; is that it, Thorn?”

Thorn shut his eyes and grimaced. Lizaveta must have further plans in mind for him and he felt, in truth, satisfied with his current position. The political games of High Lodge did not appeal to him in the least. His mother’s actions might have obtained him his current lofty rank, but he had been more than happy as a Mage Questor, alongside his steadfast friend and ally, Loras Afelnor: the blood brother he had betrayed.

“May I not rest, Mother?” His telepathic voice emerged plaintive and pitiful, and Thorn reviled himself for grovelling when he had intended to be strong.

“Rest? You may rest when you are dead, Thorn, or when you are High Dominie. Not before.”

Thorn knew Lizaveta would never be content, even if he achieved the Guild’s ultimate rank. She would always be chiding him, goading him, driving him to some new goal. Lizaveta might leave him alone for a little while after he obtained the position of Dominie, doubtless after some additional, covert act of treachery. Then it would start again: the Guild needed more Houses and more dominions under its thrall: the Houses needed tighter control: the Guild needed more money. It would never end. The Prelate resolved to try once more to beat down his mother’s incessant, insensate demands; he knew browbeating and pleading would never work, so he attempted diplomacy.

“Mother, I beg you to reconsider. My position here is strong and influential. The House intake of paying Students is up for the second year in a row, and I am a prominent member of the Guild Presidium. However, five others in the ruling council are senior to me, and it would be regarded as suspicious in the extreme, to say the least, if they were all to die within a short space of time. You must understand this, Mother. I am working hard to raise my status in the Guild hierarchy, and this is the only feasible method of obtaining the post of Lord Dominie.”

A long silence ensued, and Thorn knew Lizaveta was either considering his arguments or preparing another biting rebuke for her hapless son.

“And if I were to employ my magic to persuade Horin to abdicate in your favour . . . ?”

At least she seemed to be treating his argument with some seriousness, and the mage suppressed a sigh of relief.

“That would be a flagrant breach of the Guild Articles, Mother. The post of Dominie is for life, and the post must then devolve to the most senior surviving member of the Presidium. You may be sure that the other Presidium mages would scan the very depths of his aura. This would be no casual examination, using Mage Sight, but a Great Spell of Revelation. The evidence of your potent magic would be plain to such a spell.”

“Your Conclave did not examine Loras Afelnor’s aura when he was tried,” she responded, but Thorn fancied he sensed a note of uncertainty in her mind, which he leapt to exploit.

“Of course not, Mother! He admitted to the crime, thanks to your powerful spells, and his motive seemed clear. Loras’ aura was, of course, inspected using the basic Mage Sight, and it revealed clear signs of guilt and contrition.

“Nonetheless, only my heartfelt plea to the Conclave, that Loras be spared some thread of dignity, prevented the deeper examination of his aura. Had this been done, your spell might well have been discovered, and I would not now be Prelate.

“I persuaded the Conclave that Loras had acted out of misguided mercy towards the ailing Prelate Geral, and they accepted this argument. In the case of a Dominie resigning his post in favour of a relatively junior member of the Presidium, you may be sure that some undue influence would be suspected. There is no doubt of this whatsoever, Mother.”

This time, the silence hung in the air even longer, and Thorn began to hope he might have persuaded Lizaveta of the impossibility of ousting Horin. His hopes were bolstered by her next words.

“I recognise that I may not have considered this idea in sufficient depth, Thorn. Your argument, for once, is both cogent and reasonable.”

The Prelate gaped in astonishment at his mother’s subdued tone. Even the faintest praise from her was a rare occurrence indeed. His rhetoric seemed to have succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

“I must consider this matter further, Thorn. I may need to work on the other members of the Presidium, so that all accept Horin’s resignation and your nomination as his successor.”

Lizaveta’s mind slithered free from the Prelate’s; as always, a most unpleasant experience. Thorn was, once more, alone in his chamber.

The Prelate leant back in his mahogany throne and looked around his comfortable, familiar workroom. It might be small, but Thorn liked it. To his left, a large, diamond-paned bay window afforded a view of verdant forestry and the busy village of Arnor, whose livelihood stemmed from providing the House with all its various needs. The House and the village held a symbiotic relationship. When the House prospered, so did the artisans and merchants of Arnor, and it was in the House’s best interests to ensure that the citizens of the village remained happy with their lot.

Thorn regarded the sumptuous, bucolic tapestries hanging on the chamber walls, a great comfort to him in times of stress. He kicked off his shoes and plunged his bare toes into the thick, red luxurious rug beneath the table, thinking of the Dominie’s huge, cold office in High Lodge. Horin was almost never alone; some urgent Guild matter always demanded his attention, and a profusion of advisors, hangers-on and sycophants seeking preferment besieged him at all times.

The Dominie was like a queen ant, incapable of independent thought or action, amidst a swarm of faceless, nameless, controlling workers; a nonentity with a fancy title. Here, safe in Arnor House, Thorn was the absolute ruler of his destiny. A whole community of thaumaturges waited for his command, depending on him for its needs, but they did not rule his life. If he wanted solitude, he was left in peace. He need not fear assassination or insurrection, here in his comfortable refuge. Thorn imagined that Horin must sleep fitfully at best, fearing treachery or murder from some ambitious individual under his nominal command. Thorn knew he never wanted to bear such a burden, and he also knew Lizaveta would never rest until he was.

The Prelate took a bottle of his favourite brandy from a commodious drawer in his desk, and poured a large quantity of the golden, fiery beverage into a silver goblet. Cupping the chalice in both hands, he raised it to his nostrils and drew the liquor’s potent, heavy vapours into his lungs, relishing the brandy’s invigorating, heady aroma. All he needed to do was to take a long draught of the warming, befuddling beverage, and he would be able to forget his troubles.

Here’s to you, Loras Afelnor. The thought popped unbidden into his head as he lifted the goblet to his waiting lips. Disturbed, he placed it on the table without sampling the inviting liquid.

Why do you still trouble me, Loras? he thought, screaming within the lonely depths of his mind. Leave me alone! Your trial ended long ago, but mine continues. I am as much a victim of my mother as you were, but my punishment never ends. Let me be!

Thorn sighed, knowing he could not blame poor, disgraced Loras for the guilt that plagued him so. Everything, every pang and twinge of guilt and self-accusation, was due to his mother’s insane, vicarious ambitions. She had ensured that he entered Arnor House as a pauper, condemning him to the Questor Ordeal when she could have ensured him a prosperous, comfortable lifestyle as a paying Student. Not once had he demurred at her insensate demands, and he had made only the weakest attempt to sway her from condemning his only friend to revilement and universal odium.

Thorn Virias, you’re a coward and a weakling, a disgrace to your craft!

This was a shameful admission for a Seventh Level Questor and House Prelate to make, even to himself, but Thorn no longer cared. As long as Lizaveta plagued him, he would never be free. Because of her, he had driven one unsuitable Neophyte into the Questor Ordeal until the lad had lost his mind. The result was a dead Senior Magemaster and a scandal to be suppressed.

Loras Afelnor’s grandson, Grimm, might have prevailed, but Thorn feared the strenuous, intensified torment of Grimm’s Ordeal had made the youth altogether too independent and obstinate.

Thorn took up Questor Xylox’s report on his junior mage and skimmed through the document: ‘. .  .a reasonably powerful and confident magic-user.’; ‘In time, Questor Grimm may  prove a useful asset to our House and Guild, but . . . ’; ‘. . . insubordinate and headstrong. . . '

The report concluded, ‘It is recommended that Questor Grimm Afelnor not be considered for promotion at this time, despite his useful contribution to the successful conclusion of this important Quest.’

The Prelate knew Xylox was not one to mince words. The report implied that the older Questor respected the abilities of the young mage, if not his attitude. Xylox considered the youth a powerful mage, but likely to go off half-cocked if not checked and controlled, and the Prelate considered that this could be a considerable advantage.

Grimm Afelnor might be an ideal weapon to aid Thorn in the elimination of his main problem, Lizaveta. All that was needed was the necessary trigger, and the Prelate already knew what that must be: the betrayal of his grandfather at her instigation.

The more Thorn considered the matter, the better things looked. He raised his neglected goblet to his mouth, savouring the liquor’s slow burn as it slipped down his throat, relishing the familiar, warm glow spreading through his body.

The political phrase was ‘plausible deniability’; the ability to disavow all involvement if a plan misfired. He might plant subtle seeds of revenge in the boy’s mind, so that the youth might be moved to seek out Lizaveta and destroy her, but he needed to ensure that Questor Grimm never discovered the old witch’s identity as Thorn’s mother.

It was also necessary that the young mage never discovered information’s ultimate source; these factors might be difficult to arrange. Only Thorn had benefited from Loras’ disgrace and expulsion from the Guild, and Grimm would surely realise that. Also, the boy might seek to understand the reasons for the betrayal. He might stay his hand, giving Lizaveta the time to mention her relationship with the Prelate, and this would be a most unsatisfactory state of affairs.

However, if Afelnor accomplished the deed, it did not matter if he were discovered in the act or not; he was the Traitor’s grandson, after all. For all his protestations, nobody in the Guild would take his word over that of his Prelate.

On the other hand, if Afelnor succeeded in destroying Lizaveta without arousing any suspicion, his future as an Arnor Questor was assured; Thorn would not raise a murmur, even if the boy were ever elected as Dominie.

I have some time in hand, thought the Prelate. Even Mother isn’t powerful enough to ensorcel all the mages in the Presidium at one sitting, and she’ll need to work long and hard to achieve her aim. That’s just as well; I’ll need to take my time over this. The boy swore an Oath to defend the interests of the House and the Guild, but that may not be enough. I need to make him trust me, so he’ll do anything to defend me. For a start, I can recommend him for promotion. Questor Xylox won’t like it, but I can make it plain that I recognise the boy’s very real worth to the Guild by giving him the sixth ring; the Presidium won’t complain, and I can let Afelnor know that I promoted him  despite Xylox’s negative recommendation.

I’m sorry, Xylox, but you’ll have to look like the villain here. Perhaps if I recommend you for a healthy stipend and an extended entry in the ‘Deeds of the Questors’, you’ll feel better.

The mere thought Lizaveta’s removal from his life cheered Thorn, and he drained his goblet at a gulp.

So you wouldn’t mind meeting our young Afelnor up close, eh, Mother? Perhaps you’ll get your wish, after all, but they do say you ought to be careful what you wish for. I don’t envy the boy this particular Quest, but he’s probably the best chance I have of being rid of you.

Thorn refilled his goblet, raising it high. Here’s to you, dear Mother; long may you rot.

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