A Mage in the Making Read online

  Two hours of being lashed by needle-like rain, being whipped by unseen barbed branches and being flayed by a frigid, howling wind had sapped much of his strength. By the time he reached the door of the monstrous edifice at last, he was fighting the temptation to turn tail and flee back to the warmth, security and comfortable familiarity of the forge that had been his home for all of his short life. As he craned his neck, taking in the vastness of the fortress, he gulped, realising that there could be no turning back now.

  Although it seemed unlikely to him that anyone inside the fortress would hear any sound he might make, the boy raised his fist to pound on the black oak portal. He felt a shock of surprise as the door swung open before his hand made contact. His astonishment at this fortunate occurrence was exceeded only by his relief at the prospect of shelter from the vicious tempest. He staggered inside with gratitude, and the door swung smoothly back into place with a decisive thump, cutting off most of the clamour of the storm. Despite his exhaustion, the drenched and exhausted child gazed in wonder at his surroundings. Warm, orange light illuminated a vast entrance hall paved with hexagonal slabs of blue and gold. High above him, the boy could see a deep blue vaulted roof studded with star-like, silver points. Soft, almost inaudible music drifted through the hall and he could see a seven-foot high obsidian pyramid, exuding a gentle blue glow. Entranced by his opulent, fabulous surroundings, several minutes passed before the lad become aware of a tall, blue-robed man staring at him, at first sight the very image of a mighty wizard.

  Remembering his manners, he managed a courteous, if awkward bow.

  * * * *

  The tall man regarded the waterlogged apparition with curiosity. “Which mage opened the door for you, child?” he said, his voice tinged with mixed concern and puzzlement.

  The waif, who looked to be about seven or eight years of age, wore a nervous and yet earnest expression, as if he might have been wrongly suspected of some prank. His chattering teeth all but robbed him of the power of speech, but Doorkeeper was impressed that the child persevered at delivering his answer; this was no lily-livered milksop.

  "N-n-nobody, s-sir, I p-promise. I n-knocked at the d-door, but it opened all by its-s-self. Are you the Ch-ch-chief W-wizard?"

  Doorkeeper shook his head, and studied the dripping, shivering child. Explanations could wait; it was plain the boy intended no mischief, and he was clearly in need of food and warmth.

  The old man tried to adopt a grave, sorcerous tone. “I am the Mage Doorkeeper. You may call me Doorkeeper. Ordinarily, I would advise you to go back down the mountain and seek food and shelter in the town, but I wouldn't leave a dog out in a night like this, let alone a small child like you. A horrible night it is, dear me, yes, a horrible night."

  Doorkeeper felt a pang of frustration, as he realised his babbling tongue had betrayed him again, robbing his speech of the grave solemnity he had been trying to project. At least the child did not seem to have noticed his lapse, and so the old mage continued.

  "Come with me, lad, and I'll try to find you some food and a bed for the night. We can talk about how you came here in the morning."

  "Sir ... Doorkeeper, I'm here to learn how to be a wizard. I have a letter for the Chief Wizard from my Granfer, see.” The boy held out a wet, sealed package, clutched in a grubby fist.

  Doorkeeper felt a little annoyed that the boy, although polite, did not seem cowed in the least by the mage's mighty presence. However, the major-domo took the damp parcel, with some distaste at the slimy feel of its clammy, waxed surface. He was about to slide it into his pocket when he felt a lump in the parcel and a slight, distinctive tingle up his arm. He realised now how the boy had managed to open the door; inside the bundle must be a genuine House ring. He examined the package with more care, and noted the fluent, educated script on its surface:

  'Lord Thorn Virias, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Iron-willed, Honoured Prelate and Acclaimed Master, Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges.'

  The old mage knew that no mere Secular would be likely to know the Lord Prelate's full, official title, and he looked with new interest at the child. Despite the boy's wretched appearance, his dark, intense eyes seemed to burn with an inner strength that reminded Doorkeeper of someone he had known long ago.

  "What's ... what is your name, boy?"

  "Grimm Afelnor, Doorkeeper."

  The name of Afelnor was somehow familiar to Doorkeeper, echoing and resonating in his head, although he could not quite remember its significance.

  The old man furrowed his brow. “Was your father a mage here, Grimm?"

  "No, sir, he was a blacksmith, but I don't really remember him. He and my mamma died when I was little. Granfer Loras looks after me now. He's a smith, too."

  Sudden realisation flooded into Doorkeeper's mind: Loras Afelnor, the Oath-breaker!

  Once the brightest star in the House firmament, Loras had fallen from grace some forty years before, and he had been stripped of all magic before being banished from the Guild. Now, Doorkeeper knew how the child had come by the ring.

  Whilst he harboured the gravest doubts that Lord Thorn would accept the grandson of the Traitor as a Student, Doorkeeper still felt some kinship for his disgraced former Guildbrother, and he remembered the dignity with which Loras had submitted to the humbling and agonising ordeal that marked his expulsion from the Guild.

  "Grimm, I promise I will take your grandfather's message to Lord Thorn as soon as I can, tomorrow morning. Tonight, you must eat and rest; I will accept no more argument on the matter."

  For once in his life, Doorkeeper sounded as grave and serious as he had so often yearned to be; if the lad had a tenth of the power of his grandfather, a long and arduous road might lie ahead of him, and the grizzled mage felt sorry for the bedraggled boy.

  Loras had been a Mage Questor, the most powerful and valuable class of Specialist, and Doorkeeper knew the making of a Questor was a turbulent and torturous affair. If there was any chance that Grimm might be subjected to the Questor Ordeal, as his grandfather had been, this intelligent, earnest child might be turned into a neurotic paranoid or worse, and the old man felt a frisson of distress at that gruesome prospect. However, Doorkeeper regarded Lord Thorn with nothing less than absolute trust, and he accepted that, sometimes, difficult choices had to be made for the good of the House.

  Even if regrettable mistakes might be made on occasion.

  Chapter 2:

  Revelations

  "I am ever so hungry, Sir Doorkeeper, but you couldn't take Granfer's letter to the Chief Wizard now, could you?” Grimm seemed near the end of his reserves but still determined, disturbingly so for one so young.

  Doorkeeper cried, “Now, Grimm, not another word! Not another word, I say! You're nearly dead on your feet, my boy. I absolutely insist that you let me take you to the scullery for some food and warmth. Lord Thorn would be very angry with me if I disturbed him at this time of night—you wouldn't want that, would you? The Prelate usually goes to bed early and is up with the sun."

  Doorkeeper sneezed suddenly, scratched his nose and muttered unintelligibly for a few moments.

  * * * *

  "I understand, Sir ... Doorkeeper,” said the boy, his eyes wide. “I wouldn't want the Chief ... the Prelate to be angry with you."

  Grimm had to admit, even to himself, that the enticing prospects of a warm fire and food had begun to drive all other thoughts from his mind. He had tried, after all, and Doorkeeper seemed such a nice old man.

  He took Doorkeeper's proffered hand as the old mage led him out of the sumptuous entrance hall. A rabbit-warren of passages led off from the vestibule, and Grimm felt quite disorientated by the time the pair reached the warm sanctuary of what the old man had called ‘the scullery'. A large fire crackled cheerfully at its centre, the gentle, welcome heat suffusing through Grimm's chilled body. A profusion of pots, pans and utensils hung on the walls, and a delicious aroma of cooked
meat filled the room. Doorkeeper motioned Grimm towards a threadbare but comfortable chair, and the boy gratefully sank into its creaking, leathern embrace.

  Doorkeeper excused himself and returned a few minutes later with a plate piled high with food, which the child attacked with gusto. “So how did you travel here, young Grimm, especially on such a foul, horrible night? This place is far from the beaten tracks. Oh yes, very far, a long way indeed, yes."

  Grimm swallowed meat pie forcefully; he had been brought up not to talk with a full mouth. “I was sent by my Granfer Loras to be a wizard. Harvel, who works for Granfer, brought me to the bottom of the mountain, but he couldn't get the cart any further up the road. He really wanted to come with me, but the weather then was nice, and the castle was a lot nearer than it really was—I mean, it looked nearer, because it's so big."

  "Ah, yes, it is a very large building, and the path is full of lots of tortuous twists,” said Doorkeeper, and the serious expression came back across his face.

  "Your family name is Afelnor?” Grimm nodded. “And your grandfather's name is Loras? Loras the mage?"

  Grimm giggled. “You're teasing me, Doorkeeper! He's not a wizard—he's only a blacksmith. Harvel does most of the work now, because Granfer is getting really old and he creaks when he moves, just like you.” Remembering his manners, Grimm swiftly added, “I didn't mean to be rude, Sir Doorkeeper."

  Doorkeeper waved a hand dismissively. “I'm sure you meant no insult, Grimm. I am old, as old as the hills, yes, indeed. Are you sure your grandfather has never been anything other than a smith? Can you be sure he was never, ever a mage ... even a long time ago?"

  Grimm laughed at the thought of his bear-like grandfather in the fine, silken robes of a wizard instead of his habitual dungarees and stained leather forge apron. “He's a very good smith; everybody in the village likes him ... except for old Mister Drule, the shepherd, but Granfer says he doesn't even like his own shadow. He's quite a nasty man really; Mister Drule, I mean."

  So, the august and mighty Loras Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, once called the Firelord but more recently known to the House as the Oath-breaker, is now plain Loras, the smith, Doorkeeper mused.

  He had heard nothing of Loras Firelord since the Questor's expulsion from the Guild, four decades before, and had assumed he was dead. However, it was quite believable that Loras had gone to ground in this way. Doorkeeper knew the Questor had been the son of a smith, and he had always been reserved, as was expected of a Guild Mage. Also, instead of conforming to the common stereotype of a tall, willow-thin sorcerer, Loras had been of middling height, but stocky, and as strong as a bear. Yes, it all made sense.

  Still, Doorkeeper had a moment's amusement at the mental image of the stern, confident Mage Questor as a begrimed, sweaty figure with a straw hat, calmly discussing the shoeing of a farmer's horse in the round, wordy tones of a Guild Mage. There was no malice in Doorkeeper's daydream, for he had liked Afelnor well, but the concept still amused him.

  The ancient mage wondered if he should tell the boy the full and unpleasant truth about Loras’ downfall, but he had always doted on solemn children although, or perhaps because, he had none himself. Deciding to sugar the pill as much as possible, he turned to Grimm.

  "I don't mean to be unkind, Grimm,” he said, “but you shouldn't let your hopes rise too high. About being taken in as a Student, I mean. The name of Loras Afelnor is known here, but I am afraid that many people here don't remember him too kindly. Lord Thorn receives a lot of applications for charity places here at the Guild, a very great number indeed, but most of them are rejected outright. Lord Thorn might just reject your application because of your name. He was a good friend to your grandfather Loras, a very good friend, but I think he was very upset by Loras’ actions."

  Grimm's eyes were wide and wondering, with nascent tears glittering around them. “What could my Granfer have done to make the Chief Wizard angry? He's a kind man; everyone back home in Aylmer likes him. He is ever so nice, really."

  The boy's brow furrowed, as if he were searching Doorkeeper's words for some inner meaning; then, his expression cleared. “You mean they might send me back to the smithy? I'd like that. I only came here because Granfer wanted it so much. I can't see how I could be a wizard, even if Granfer wants me to. But I'd try hard, just for him, like I did in the smithy.” His face fell a little. “I wasn't very good in the smithy, so Granfer didn't think I'd make a very good smith. I do so want to be really good at something for Granfer if I can.

  "Doorkeeper, what did he do? I really want to know, even if it's not very nice. If I'm going to be here a really long time, perhaps I ought to know."

  Doorkeeper hesitated. It seemed unlikely to him that Lord Thorn would accept any application from Loras the Traitor but, if he did, the boy would indeed be within the House for a long time. His future classmates might have an unfair disadvantage over him, and Doorkeeper might not be able to rectify the situation before Grimm was badly hurt; the major-domo knew how cruel lads could be to each other. Better to tell the boy now, as kindly as he could. Grimm could be no more than seven years of age, and the major-domo knew that the full, unvarnished truth might upset him deeply. He knew that he must tell the child something, so he picked his words with care.

  "Grimm, what I have to tell you is what I know and nothing else. A long time ago, a very long time ago, before I became a mage, I knew your grandfather. He was twenty-seven years old, and he was very kind to me. Twenty-seven may seem very old to you, but it's very young for a Guild Mage. It seemed like nearly all the others were nasty to me because my parents didn't have a lot of money. Nearly all of them seemed to be rich, or nasty, or both. I was very unhappy, but your grandfather, Loras, wasn't like the others. He was much younger than me, but he really was a proper mage, one of the kind we call a Questor. He was one of the best mages in the whole house, except maybe for Lord Thorn.

  "He was rich, too; not because he'd been given the money, but because he'd earned it in his Quests ... they're like errands that Questors do for the Lord Prelate. He was asked to go on a lot of Quests because he was such a good mage.

  "I was very depressed because I'd tried a lot of different types of magic and still hadn't found the right one. Loras gave me a long talk about how awful it had been for him when he was learning to be a mage, and how he often wished he was back in his father's smithy.

  "He made me talk about my family, although I didn't want to. I didn't have a happy childhood, and I didn't like my parents for sending me here. If I'd been from a really poor family, I'm sure they wouldn't have put up with me here for long, because I wasn't a very good Student. My parents had just enough money to send me here, and I felt like they'd locked me away from the world rather than have me around. I hated them and almost everybody else. Loras made me see just how wrong I was. He even visited my parents to see how they were coping, and I think he gave them some money.

  "Nearly everybody liked Loras Afelnor. He did get a lot of trouble and teasing from the richer boys at first, because he was a country boy, and they weren't very kind to him. Still, he was a good Student, by far the best of his age group, and nobody was too surprised when he became a Questor."

  With this last sentence, Doorkeeper had glossed over several important details. He knew little of what the Magemasters did to turn a Student into a Mage Questor, but he knew it was very different to what was done to most of the House Scholasticate's inmates. Loras had become reclusive and neurotic, starting at shadows, his eyes hooded and haunted. For many months, Doorkeeper had seen little of the youth, but he had seen with his own eyes the result of Afelnor's training: a wrecked schoolroom; four Students and a Magemaster in the Infirmary with grievous injuries; and, many months later, Loras’ Acclamation as a Mage Questor.

  "Loras Afelnor was declared a wizard, or as we would say ‘Acclaimed as a mage', and he soon became a very important one,” Doorkeeper continued. “He was asked to visit High Lodge, the most important place in the w
hole Guild, several times, and he got to be very rich.

  "Lord Thorn was his best friend, another strong Questor, and we all assumed that, one day, either Loras or Thorn would become Prelate here or be asked to join High Lodge. Then Lord Thorn caught Loras—doing something bad."

  Grimm balled his small fists and frowned. “Granfer isn't a bad man! He wouldn't do anything wrong!"

  Doorkeeper gulped, a little out of his depth. “I'm sure Loras didn't mean it to be bad, Grimm,” he stammered. “It wasn't like stealing or anything, but it was bad anyway. All I will say is that I think he was trying to ease an old man's pain, but other people didn't see it like that.

  "Nearly all of the House council, what we call the Presidium, wanted Loras to be executed for what he had done, but his good friend Thorn persuaded them to let him live. Instead, Loras had most of his money taken, and the Presidium made a great spell to take away his magic."

  Grimm looked close to tears. “But what did he do, Doorkeeper? He's a good man, a nice man!"

  The major-domo felt hot-cold spears of panic lancing through his nerves. He knew he could never bring himself to tell Grimm the full truth. He knew his diplomatic skills and his way with words were poor; nonetheless, he tried to sweeten the bitter pill as best he could.

  "Grimm; Loras Afelnor was a very, very kind man,” he said, putting what he hoped was a grandfatherly hand on the boy's shoulder. “I mustn't tell you too much, but I will ask you: would your grandfather help a sick, old man who was in great pain?"

  The child still looked confused, but he nodded.

  Doorkeeper locked Grimm's eyes with a serious gaze. “Well, that's just what he did. He helped an old man, but he shouldn't have done."

  Grimm's expression showed little more comprehension than before, and Doorkeeper stared at the ceiling for a few moments, wondering how he could escape from the tangle in which he found himself. Then, welcome inspiration flooded into his mind, and he stifled a sigh of relief.