"Welcome to Rendale, gentlemen,” the Prioress purred. “Sister Weranda played her part well, did she not?"

Guy raised War-maker and hissed. “I don't care how many ensorcelled sluts you command, old hag. Now, you're going to get what you deserve!"

"Ah, there you are, my dear bastard grandson! You didn't really think I'd let any kin of mine grow up to be a Guild Questor without taking a few precautions, did you?

"Quondam febrifuge!"

Guy snarled and lowered his brows, but he stopped short of decisive action. His lips moved, but no sound emerged. Guy shut his eyes, baring his clenched teeth, and beads of sweat began to garland his face. After a few further moments, he groaned and sank to the floor, dropping War-maker and clutching his stomach.

"Oh, dear,” Lizaveta said, smiling. “Dear Guy's developed a nasty tummy-ache. It's his own fault; he's such a naughty boy for trying to cast horrible spells on his devoted grandmother."

"Your little game's over, Prioress,” Grimm growled, regaining his power of speech. “If we don't return to our camp by dawn, our companions will attack the Priory with all the Technological power at their disposal. It's over: your little family code-phrases won't work on me, I fancy."

He began to gather his power, intending to cast a spell of paralysis over the women.

"Ah, you are so right, dear Grimm,” Lizaveta replied. “I have no direct hold on you… yet. However, Sister Weranda, here, does, and she doesn't want you to attack me, do you, my dear?"

She's trying to confuse me, Grimm thought, trying to concentrate on his spell. However, no matter how he tried, he could not seem to focus on his magic.

"You wouldn't cast a spell on me, would you, darling?” Drexelica said, and Grimm could not resist the urge to look into those innocent eyes.

"What's the matter with you, Drex?” he gasped, abandoning the struggle to control his wayward powers. “You're a fighter-so fight her!"