"You May Rest When You Are Dead"

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 he patterned his mind for the sleight of Telepathy.

"Yes, Mother?"

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

The mental voice invoked the sensation of an army of slimy, slithering worms cascading into his skull. Thorn knew his mother's 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 just 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.