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Tertius Fume laughed. “It is no more than mere tradition that the Draw takes place at the end of an Apprenticeship. A Draw may be called at any time.” The ghost raised his voice and called out the password for the doors. A gasp of dismay came from the Ordinary Wizards. No one ever
shouted out the password to the Wizard Tower—it was considered highly unlucky and extremely rude. But the doors to the Wizard Tower did not have the finely turned sensibilities of the Wizards and they opened obediently to reveal—to Tertius Fume’s surprise—the Questing Pot
standing forlornly on the top step, like the last guest to arrive at a party. Suppressed giggles erupted from some of the younger Ordinary Wizards.
What, wondered the Ghost of the Vaults angrily, was the Pot doing there on its own? Where was that idiot of a scribe?
Tertius Fume jumped down from the stairs in an athletic leap he never would have dared make when Living. He strode through the Gathering
and positioned himself in the very center of the Great Hall. “You!” he bellowed to Hildegarde, who was closest to the door. “Bring in the Questing Pot!”
“Not so fast, Fume,” said Marcia. “You are forgetting something—one voice among many. Your voice may be extremely loud but it is still only one. What about the many? What does the Gathering have to say?”
Tertius Fume sighed loudly and reluctantly addressed the Hall. “All ye Ghosts Gathered here—is it your wish that the Questing Pot be brought in?”
Over seven hundred and fifty ghosts had not left their cozy haunts on a windy evening—the one kind of weather that a ghost finds difficult—for nothing. There were only twenty-one against—the nineteen ExtraOrdinary Wizards who had lost their Apprentices to the Queste, plus Alther Mella and Marcia. The resounding vote was to bring in the Pot.
A large blue circle with a Q
in the center began to appear in the illuminated floor right beneath the feet of Tertius Fume, who hastily stepped back.
With an apologetic glance at Marcia, Hildegarde placed the Pot on the circle.
The Questing Pot
was a beautiful thing. Tall and elegant, the blue lapis lazuli shone in the bright candlelight and the burnished gold bands that ran around it had a deep glow—as did the large golden stopper that sat in the top. With a shudder Marcia remembered drawing out the very same stopper on her last morning as Apprentice to Alther Mella—her whole future suddenly hanging in the balance. Marcia remembered her relief and joy as she had drawn out a plain lapis pebble with no sign of the gold Q that would have sent her away from the Castle forever.
“Now, boy,” Tertius Fume said. He fixed his gaze on Septimus. “It is time for you to make the Draw. Come hither.”
“No!” said Marcia. She put her arm protectively around Septimus’s shoulder. “I will not allow Septimus to make the Draw.”
“What you will or will not allow is of no consequence,” Tertius Fume told her. “Each of us is—as you so rightly pointed out—but one voice among many. However, as Convener I am required to put it to the Gathering if you so wish.”
Marcia did wish, although with little hope of success.
Tertius Fume addressed the Hall. “All ye Ghosts Gathered here—is it your wish that the Apprentice make the Draw?”
Again it was an overwhelming vote in favor, with, once again, the same twenty-one against. Septimus was to make the Draw.
“I’ll do it,” Septimus said to Marcia. “I probably won’t get the Questing Stone anyway. Then at least I won’t have to do it at the end of my Apprenticeship like you did.”
“No, Septimus,” said Marcia. “No. There’s something not right about this.”
“I’ll be okay.” Septimus smiled at Marcia. “Anyway, we’ll never get rid of this bunch if I don’t do it.” Without waiting for her reply, Septimus plunged into the crowd of ghosts, which parted respectfully. As Septimus drew near to the Questing Pot, a ghost with copious bloodstains running down the side of his face put his arm across his path. Septimus stopped, unwilling to Pass Through.
“Apprentice,” whispered the bloodstained ghost, “I fear you will not be able to escape this Queste. But heed this: when you have the Stone, escape the Questing Guards
and you will escape the worst of the Perils. I wish you well.” The ghost let his arm fall to allow Septimus to pass.
“Oh,” whispered Septimus, the danger of the situation beginning to dawn on him. “Um…thank you.”
“You should not have told him that, Maurice,” said a neighboring ghost as Septimus walked on, more hesitantly now, toward the Questing Pot.
Maurice McMohan—ExtraOrdinary Wizard some three hundred years ago, who had lost a much-loved Apprentice to the Queste—shrugged. “I don’t see why not,” he said. “There are too many secrets around here. I’d have told mine if I had known at the time. Give the boy a fighting chance.”
“On your own head be it,” replied his neighbor. “Oh, sorry, Maurice. I didn’t mean it like that.” For Maurice McMohan had been killed by a candlestick that had fallen from a window on the eighteenth floor of the Wizard Tower, and he had a very nasty candlestick-shaped dent on the top of his head.
As Septimus moved through the now silent ghosts, Alther appeared beside him and told him all he could about the Queste—for Alther knew what would happen if Septimus Drew the Questing Stone. There would be no time then for talking.
As Septimus and Alther moved toward the Questing Pot, the walls of the Wizard Tower, which usually showed uplifting pictures of important events in the life of the Wizard Tower, began to show scenes of previous Apprentices setting off upon the Queste. These were anything but uplifting. Sad farewells were said as the Apprentice was escorted away by Tertius Fume and seven heavily armed Questing Guards. Some Apprentices went bravely, others were in tears, and one girl—forgetting in the heat of the moment that Tertius Fume was a ghost—had tried to punch him in the nose, which gave rise to a few sniggers from the floor. But at the sight of the pictures many of the ghosts remembered the reality of an Apprentice embarking on a Queste
and began to regret their support of the Draw. However, it was too late to change their minds now.
Alther dropped back into the throng of ghosts and, to the accompaniment of excited murmers, Septimus reached the Questing Pot. The atmosphere in the Wizard Tower was electric. Septimus looked at the Pot, which was almost exactly the same height as he was, and it seemed to him that it looked back at him. He hesitated, remembering Marcia’s words.
Something was wrong—there was something Darke nearby. No—not nearby. There was something Darke inside the Pot.
Tertius Fume was losing patience. “Make the Draw,” he commanded.
Septimus did not move.
“Are you deaf, boy?” demanded Tertius Fume. “Make the Draw!”
Septimus reached out as if to pull out the stopper of the Questing Pot, but instead he raised his right hand and made a circle with his index finger and thumb—the classic symbol that accompanies a See Spell—the advanced kind that can See through precious metals and stones.
“Cheat!” cried Tertius Fume. “You are trying to See inside the Pot. Cheat!”
“I am not the cheat,” said Septimus, his voice carrying clear through the shocked silence. “It is not I who have placed a Thing inside the Pot ready to put the Questing Stone into my hand.”
Tertius Fume was almost speechless with rage. “How dare
you? I shall give you one last chance to redeem yourself. Remove the Stopper and make…the…Draw!”
“I will not.”
“You will!” Tertius Fume looked as though he was about to explode.
“He will not.” Marcia’s voice came from beside her Apprentice.
“Are you telling me that you and your Apprentice are refusing the Rule of the Gathering?” Tertius Fume asked, incredulous.
“I am telling you that my Apprentice will not make the Draw. If that also means we refuse the Rule of the Gathering, then so be it,” Marcia replied.
A loud muttering spread through the Great Hall—had this ever happened before? No one thought so. Many sympathized with Marcia but there was a core of Rule-loving ghosts who were outraged. The muttering grew into a hubbub of heated discussion.
