"Please don't try to move, Lord Mage. Your neck and lower spine may be damaged. Do they hurt?"

"No more than the rest of my body, Sister."

"I can administer Trina fumes, Questor Grimm. They should ease the pain." Mercia held out a small pouch he recognised only too well.

"No!” This time, Grimm overpowered his nurse and jerked himself into a sitting position, his eyes blazing. He had struggled under the iron grip of an all-consuming hunger for that herb and its antagonistic companion, Virion, too long to risk re-addiction now.

Mercia flinched and scurried backwards from the fury of his shout, but he held his hands out to her, his palms downwards in a placatory gesture.

Not daring to look her in the eye, he said, “I'm sorry, Sister. That pouch belongs to me. If you don't mind, I'd like it back."

"Why?” Mercia's voice was the barest of whispers.

"To remind me,” he told her, his tone rueful as he raised his head back up. “To remind me of what it is to be alive."

Her frightened expression giving way to one of puzzlement, she extended the bag again, her fingers limp. Grimm nodded and drew it away from her and placed it back around his neck, feeling a certain comfort in the familiar sensation of the rough pouch lying against his chest.

"Thank you, Sister."

"Please, Lord Mage; do not mention it. At least it seems that your spine is not badly damaged, although that was a foolhardy way to find out. Apart from pains in your head, arms and legs, how do you feel?"

"My chest feels tight, and I'm having a little trouble breathing,” he said, and Mercia nodded.

"You have a couple of broken ribs, so I have bound your chest with tight bandages under your robes. Let me know if they impede your breathing too much."

"No, Sister, I can live with it—what, under my robes?” Grimm felt a hot frisson of embarrassment at the thought that this young nun might have seen him naked.

"I did not expose any more of your body than necessary,” Mercia assured him. “All I needed to do was to expose your upper torso. You had a dislocated hip, but your friend, Tordun, dealt with that, under my instruction. I did not look; it would not have been seemly. I treated your other injuries, a collapsed lung and internal bleeding, with some healing spells. By good fortune, neither of the spells required much power; for some reason, my energy is at a low ebb since the Prioress’ demise. I thank the Names that they were successful, even though several castings were required. Sister Judan knows far more magic than I, but she has fled the Priory."

Well, that's no bad thing, Grimm thought, flexing his arms to test the limits of his battered body's mobility. Not too bad, he told himself, wincing as he felt a rib grate when he pressed his hands together. With Mercia's aid, he rose to his feet. His left hip felt stiff, and it sent a metallic, shooting pain up his spine as he essayed a couple of cautious steps. However, after a few cautious experiments, he found that if he kept his leg straight, the discomfort was much reduced. This made his progress clumsy and inelegant; but, at least, it was bearable.

"The discomfort will remain for a few days,” Mercia informed him, “but there is no reason why you should not make a full recovery. I recommend that you convalesce here for a week or so, and you will then be ready to resume your journey."

"I can't afford to stay here a week, Sister!” he expostulated. “I have a duty to report back to the Lord Dominie at High Lodge!"

"Your friends are prepared to wait for as long as necessary,” Mercia said, her tone soft and soothing. “I am sure your Dominie would not expect you to travel when incapacitated. Please; just rest here and allow your body to mend itself."

Grimm nodded slowly. “I suppose you're right, Sister."

"I know what you are thinking: you think the mighty Thorn Virias resisted me from the first, do you not? I assure you, this defiance is a most recent development. He has been telling me Guild and House secrets for years."

The words of Prioress Lizaveta, spoken before the Death-sickness struck, echoed in his head, and he shivered with sudden, eager anticipation. He had no reason to assume the old witch had been lying to him, and, if he could persuade Lizaveta's disembodied shade to confess, it might put an end to Lord Thorn's treachery. More than that, it might lead to a full pardon for his beloved grandfather!

"No, Sister,” he said, locking her eyes with his fierce, implacable, Questor stare. “I cannot wait. I thank you for your diligent attention and your healing skill, but I must go to High Lodge with all speed." Despite her cries of protest, Grimm pushed past Mercia and through the sackcloth flap at the large tent's side.

He hobbled a few steps, screwing his eyes half-shut at the glaring, golden spears of sunlight, and then stopped, as his eyes adjusted to the brightness.

Where once had stood the magnificent Priory, he saw a scene of utter devastation: a huge crater extended before him, with a few isolated stubs of stone rising from the ground like the remains of a rotted tooth. Only a single turret remained intact, a lone sentry over the destruction. His jaw dropped, and he stared at the vast, bleak expanse of rubble.

I did this, he thought. I, Grimm Afelnor, a blacksmith's boy, turned a mighty fortress into a heap of fallen stone...

For the first time, he realised the true extent of the terrifying power a Questor held in his head. The scene before him was ghastly, yet he could not tear his eyes from it.

I can do anything! I am power! I am a weapon! I am DESTRUCTION!

The proud, defiant shout thrust upwards from his subconscious mind, blazing into his forebrain, but Grimm tried to push it aside and deny it.

"This cannot be all I am,” he muttered, shaking his head, feeling as if he were teetering on the brink of a deep slough of despair. “I refuse to dedicate my whole life to death and ruin!" He became aware of a presence behind him, and he turned to see Sister Mercia looking at him with an impenetrable expression on her face. Was it one of pity? Hatred? Contempt? He could not tell.

"What are you thinking, Questor Grimm?” she asked in a soft, level tone. “Are you proud of your work here?"

He heard no condemnation in her voice; only a weary desire for knowledge; for understanding.

"I'm scared, Sister,” he confessed, trying to make sense of his warring emotions. “I'm awe-stricken. So much destruction..."

"But are you proud?” she pressed him. “Thirty-eight good, blameless women are dead; women who devoted their lives to a cause they thought was right. Some of them died in my arms, and I was powerless to help them."

Grimm thought long and hard. Did Mercia want him to confess to shame? In truth, he felt none.

"I am sorry for their deaths,” he said, with a catch in his voice. “I mean that with all my heart, Sister. But I will not lie to you; I am not ashamed. This place was a home of evil, whether you see that or not. The foundations of the Priory were soaked in the blood of countless other tormented innocents, killed for no other reason than to give Prioress Lizaveta and her acolytes greater Geomantic power. I did not seek to kill those thirty-eight nuns; all I wanted was to free those poor, imprisoned souls, who numbered in the hundreds or thousands. Should I have turned a blind eye to their continuing suffering?

"I did not set out to raze the Priory. All I did was to draw the blood of the sacrificed from the earth. I could not have known that there was so much that its removal would undermine the very foundations of the building. All I knew was that, once I had started, I couldn't stop. I just couldn't stop, Sister. All those anguished souls, crying for release ... so much pain, fear and death. I couldn't help myself! Must I be ashamed of that? I'm not a mindless murderer, Sister! I'm not."

He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing fast, shallow and spasmodic, struggling to regain control over his rebellious emotions.

You're a Questor, Grimm Afelnor, whether you like it or not, he told himself. You're not supposed to have any damned emotions!

Drawing the deepest breath his tight bandages would allow, he opened his eyes again and met Mercia's gaze, his racing heartbeat steadying.

"No, Sister, I won't be ashamed. Not for you, and not for anyone. Because of me, thirty-eight women are dead, and I regret that. At least their spirits are free to find their eternal home. But, also because of my actions, countless tortured spirits are free from decades of torment and anguish. If I were confronted by the same situation, knowing what I know now, I'd do the same thing again.

"I would, Sister; accept that or not, as you will, but believe it. I'm sorry, but I'm not ashamed. Hate me if you must, but don't despise me. I may be ... I am a killer and a destroyer. But I'm no murderer." He saw moisture beading the young woman's red-rimmed eyes. She looked so helpless and vulnerable as she stood before him, trembling and forlorn, that he longed to take her in his arms and comfort her. Nonetheless, he restrained himself, awaiting her judgement.

"I have been here since I was a little girl,” she whispered, so that Grimm had to strain his ears to hear her words over the soft moan of the morning breeze. “I have known no other life.

"I am scared, too, Questor Grimm. All my life, I have fought to save lives, not to destroy them, and your words trouble me. But I believe you speak the truth as you see it, even though I may never understand. I have seen much death in my life, although never in such profusion, and I have always fought against it as best I could."

The young nun shook her head, beautiful even in her misery. “The world is complex and frightening, Lord Mage, and I have seen so little of it."

Grimm clenched his fists, keeping them at his side as his Questor training reasserted itself.

"I must go back to High Lodge,” he said, his voice a harsh monotone. “I have a Quest to requite. Where are my companions?"

"They are in Anjar,” Mercia said, a few fugitive tears leaving grubby tracks on her pale cheeks. “Some of the Sisters require more care than I could give them, and your friends have been ferrying them to Anjar for help. Others have left to make their way in the world."

She sniffed, as if trying to draw tears back into her eyes.

"Now ... now, there is only you and I. General Quelgrum said he would return tonight. I presume you will leave with him. He has a wagon, now, and he and Sergeant Erik have retrieved some of your possessions from that haunted cemetery, including some of their death-Technology. They are strong now. If you must go, I cannot stop you."

Grimm nodded. “I don't have any choice in the matter, Sister. I dare not stay here any longer. I'm sorry." A long, uncomfortable silence descended like a grey cloud over the mage and the nun. She really is very pretty...

For the space of a few heartbeats, Grimm thought of his imaginary gambol with dream-Drexelica, but with Mercia in his beloved's place.

Drex hates me now ... no! he thought, dismissing the idyllic image. I'll bring her back to me, whatever it takes. If it takes me a lifetime, I'll bring her back!

"I'm sorry, Sister Mercia,” he repeated, “but I cannot bring your friends back. I thank you for your diligent attentions, with all my heart, but I will not apologise for their deaths, dear Sister. It couldn't be helped."

She snorted, and Grimm shrugged, his wayward feelings now back under his full control. He looked down at himself. His robes might be tattered and stained, but he took comfort in the blue glow from his Guild ring: Granfer's ring.

Only one thing was missing. Drawing himself to his full height, despite the burning pain in his left hip, Grimm muttered “Redeemer; come to me."

As he felt his faithful, hand-carved staff slap into his waiting hand, the ground groaned and trembled, sending a dense cloud of yellow dust into the air with a sound like thunder. Now, he was complete. Names help Lord Thorn now! he thought.

"If my presence bothers you, Sister Mercia,” he said, “I'll leave you and make my way up Merrydeath Road as best I can. I'm sure any town around here would welcome the services of a healer as talented and dedicated as you. Thank you, and goodbye. You don't have to tolerate my presence a moment longer."

Ignoring the pain, he began to limp away to the north, turning his back on the devastation he had caused.

"Lord Mage, please wait!"

The nun's voice was so plaintive and desperate that it stopped Grimm in his tracks, sending another shooting pain through his lower body.

"Yes, Sister Mercia?"

"May I come with you ... please? I do not want to be alone."

"Are you sure, Sister? I may have to kill again; you appreciate that, don't you?” The mage made his tone rough; almost brutal. “After all, that's what I am: a human weapon. I don't have to like it, but I won't deny it."

She sighed. “You risked your life for me and some of the other nuns. They have all left, leaving me with you. I owe you nothing, and you owe me nothing. But will you take me with you?" If this girl wants to come with us, how can I deny her? he thought. My heart is with Drex alone ... if she hasn't run away already.

"Very well, Sister,” he said, trying not to reveal the growing anguish in his pelvis. “Just don't try to use any Geomancy on me."

"I do not think I have any magic left, Lord Mage,” she said. “Please wait with me. I do not want to be left alone."

With some difficulty, Grimm sat down on a grassy hillock. After a few minutes, Mercia sat opposite him, her eyes wary. The Questor looked at the sky and sighed. A long wait might lie ahead of him, but he had no intention of flirting with this young woman, however great the temptation. Nonetheless, the stark ruins of the Priory seemed to mock Grimm's earlier proud defence of his calling, denying him the inner peace he sought. Every cold stone block seemed to cry, ‘Murderer!'

Come on, Quelgrum; get me out of here, he thought. I just want to finish this cursed Quest.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 30: Resolutions

Grimm sat on the hillock next to Sister Mercia, regarding the shattered ruins of Rendale Priory. He still found it hard to believe that such devastation could have been wrought by one man alone. Dotted among the grass sward around the tumbled mass of stone, he saw numerous brown mounds; the last resting places of the blameless women who had died during the Priory's sudden collapse. According to Sister Mercia, thirty-eight nuns had lost their lives in the disaster. Grimm could not bring himself to count them, for fear that she might have underestimated the total; thirty-eight innocent lives on his conscience seemed more than enough to bear.

"Are we just going to sit like this until the General and your other companions return from Anjar, Lord Grimm?” Mercia demanded, dragging Grimm's attention back into the world of the living.

"Perhaps it is best,” he said, feeling a catch in his throat. “I know how you must hate me.” He did not trust himself to say more.

"Do you want me to hate you?” she asked.

"You have that right,” he said, not daring to turn around to meet her eyes. “Perhaps I deserve your hatred. I killed your friends and destroyed your home.” In an attempt to cover his swelling emotions, his voice became rough and harsh. “That's what I do ... I kill people. I'm good at it, it seems."

"Do you enjoy destruction and death?” she pressed him, and he felt annoyance rising within him, to add to his inner turmoil.

He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but his throat felt as if an orange had become stuck in it, blocking the passage of air. He waved his hands in a helpless, vague gesture.

"Enough!” He forced the single word through the blockage, hearing the tremor within it. “You hate me; I know ... I should be ... Oh, Mercia!"

At last, the long-dammed tears burst through their barrier, and the mage slumped into a sodden lump of misery, his shoulders shaking with the effort to regain outward composure. He felt the young nun's arm curl around him, drawing him close to her. He did not resist ... he could not resist.

"I do not hate you,” she whispered, rubbing him between his shoulder-blades with a comforting hand. “I might, if I thought you did not care about what you did, or if it had been a deliberate act. Now, I know it was all a tragic accident. I recognise what the Reverend Mother and the Score did to hundreds of innocent girls: they brutalised them, turned them into unseeing, unfeeling automata. That had to be stopped.

"You took the decision to end it, at serious risk to your own life, even though you could have walked away from the Priory.

"That took moral courage, Questor Grimm, and you did not flinch from it. There were over two hundred and fifty women in the Priory, living a life that was no life. You freed more than two hundred and ten of them, the vast majority. You owed them nothing after the way you were treated. I did despise you at first, but I despise you no longer. You are a good man, Lord Grimm. I know that now.

"There; do not try to speak. Just release your grief and hurt. Let it all out." Grimm's face burrowed into Mercia's neck, feeling the stiff calico of her wimple bristling against his feverish brow.

It felt so good, so right to let go of his warring emotions ... perhaps too right...

"No,” he said, drawing away from Mercia with a shudder and throwing off her arm. “That's enough." With his eyes squeezed shut, he drew a series of deep, shivering breaths and pushed the pain deep inside him, screwing it into a tight, inert parcel, as Magemaster Crohn had taught him to do so long ago. The pain, anger and confusion began to fade, just as Crohn had counselled him.

"I am sorry, Sister,” he said, meeting her anxious gaze with no difficulty now. “I didn't mean to push you away like that. I feel much better now."

"Am I now speaking to Grimm, the man, or to the Guild Questor?” Mercia's tone was cool.

"I don't know,” he confessed. “Nonetheless, you are speaking to me, as I now am. I am a human being, but I am a Questor, too. And I ... I like you, perhaps too much. I have another; whose name is Drexelica. I'll never feel comfortable to come too close to another girl."

"It is not good to bury your feelings so,” Mercia whispered, but she kept her distance.

"Perhaps so,” he admitted, “but it is a part of who I am."

As Mercia opened her mouth to speak, Grimm heard a distant rumbling, increasing in volume by the moment, and he raised his right hand to stem her words.

"What is it?” she asked, her face blank.

"Unless I am mistaken,” he said, “that is the sound of an approaching wagon." He stood up, wincing as his injured hip sent a bolt of pain up his spine, and he saw a growing cloud of dust from the direction of Merrydeath Road.

"I am not mistaken. That must be General Quelgrum."

Grimm caught sight of the seven gleaming rings on Redeemer, his hard-won symbols of rank as a Guild Mage. Regarding the staff with near-reverence, he took firm hold and all remaining traces of guilt and worry flew from him, as if a cool, refreshing breeze had blown then away. Thank you, Redeemer, he thought, I won't forget where my duty lies again. For a few moments, he wondered if Redeemer were somehow enforcing Guild dogma on him, but he then realised it was just restoring the indomitable sense of purpose he had felt when he had carved the staff, imbuing it with his personality as he did so.

Now, he did not need to pretend to feel better; he did.

"Thank you for your kind words and support, Sister Mercia. I really appreciate them,” he said.

"However, I do have a mission to fulfil ... three missions, in fact,” Grimm added, thinking of his disgraced grandfather and his bewitched lover. “I intend to succeed in all of them." Mercia said nothing as the wagon came into view on the long, straight road, drawn by four horses. Then, she leaned close to him and whispered, “I am afraid, Questor Grimm."

"Don't worry, Sister,” Grimm said. “You will be in the company of a Seventh Rank Questor, a mighty demon and three accomplished warriors. Only the most foolhardy of bandits would seek to attack us."

"It is not that which scares me, Lord Mage,” Mercia replied. “I ... am seventeen years old, and I was sent here at the age of six. I know nothing of the larger world. I wish to travel with you and your companions because you seem so confident and accustomed to travel..." She shook her head. “No, I am being foolish. It is unfair of me to lay my burdens on you."

"Not at all, Sister,” Grimm said. “I was sent to Arnor House at the age of seven and imprisoned in the Scholasticate until I was sixteen. I understand just how you feel, believe me. I can tell you, from personal experience, that you will soon overcome your fears. The world is a fascinating and lively place, and you will soon make friends. Have you given any thought as to what you will do?" Mercia gave her head a vigorous, earnest shake. “Not truly. All I know is healing. I imagine I will have to offer my services to some physician or apothecary."

"Would you like to carry on to the city of Crar?” Grimm asked. “There is a very gentle, kind old man there, by the name of Querl. He is the physician for the whole city, and he works very hard. I'm sure he would be very grateful for the services of a young and talented healer like you."

"Do you think so?” Mercia's face still bore the lines of worry, but they seemed shallower now.

"I'm certain of it,” the mage said. “I'll arrange a meeting as soon as we get there; I promise."

"Thank you, Questor..."

The remainder of Mercia's words were drowned by the clatter of horses’ hooves and the rumble of the wagon as it rolled into the Priory courtyard.

"I just hope I can convince General Q that this is a good idea,” Grimm shouted.

"I do not think you will have to worry about that,” the nun called back. “He ... he seems to like me." The wagon drew to a halt ten feet away from Grimm, and the General leapt off it, wearing a broad smile on his face.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 31: Arguments

Loras heard a now-familiar clanking announcing the opening of the cell door, which swung aside to reveal Questor Olaf. The former mage sat up on his bed, feeling a rush of relief when Olaf addressed him.

"The Conclave awaits you, Master Loras."

Now, Loras vowed, he would have his say, no matter what the members of the Guild court might do to restrain him. He stood to allow Olaf to unfasten his chains from the stud in the centre of the cell floor, trying not to smile.

If they want to quote laws and regulations at me, they will find that I can play their little game, too, he thought.

His former friend stood up, clapping a hand to the small of his back and wincing as he did so.

"Even a Seventh Rank Questor cannot avoid the depredations of age, eh, Lord Mage?"

"Nonsense,” Olaf grumbled. “I am only eighty-seven years old. I must have sat too long by an open door, or some such."

Loras raised an eyebrow, but he said nothing. He knew Olaf was at least ten years older than that. Mages might on average live far longer than Seculars, but they were by no means immune to the passage of time.

"Good luck, Questor Loras,” Magemaster Crohn called from the opposite bed, and he was echoed by Magemaster Kargan and Questor Dalquist. Loras acknowledged them with a courteous nod and a ghost of a smile.

"You're not to accord the prisoner that title!” Olaf snapped, rounding on Crohn.

"Did I just hear you utter a vulgar, Secular contraction, Questor Olaf?” Kargan asked, sitting up, his face contorted in mock-horror. “Surely not!"

Crohn and Dalquist smiled, and Olaf's cheeks reddened.

"You must be hard of hearing, Mentalist Kargan. This often accompanies enhanced age." Kargan burst into a deep guffaw, and Olaf rose to his full height.

"Be silent, prisoner! Have you forgotten that you are on trial for your lives? This is a serious matter, and I will not have it treated with juvenile jocularity! Remember that your every word here is heard and recorded."

Both Crohn and Kargan stiffened, and their smiles fell from their faces. Loras, too, realised he had almost forgotten the gravity of the charges levelled against him and his fellow prisoners. He had begun to think of his trial as a contest between him and his accusers; a game of skill and cunning. I have heard of ‘prison madness', he thought, when men succumb to the pressures of long confinement and lose their hold on reason. I think I have just seen its spectre; I was looking forward to baiting and berating the Conclave, without a thought as to the possible consequences for all of us.

"My humblest apologies, Lord Mage,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Please forgive our puerile foolishness. It will not recur, I assure you."

"I apologise with all my heart, Questor Olaf,” Crohn said, rubbing his left temple. “Our asinine behaviour was unforgivable."

Kargan and Dalquist did not speak, but their abject expressions spoke for them.

"This Conclave will be treated with due respect,” Olaf growled. “I will tolerate no more buffoonery." With that, he tugged Loras’ chains. “Come with me, prisoner. We must not keep the Conclave waiting." As the smith stumbled behind his warder, he began to rehearse his speech to the court. Outright confrontation would, he now realised, be treated as contempt; a more circumspect approach seemed eminently desirable.

* * * *

"Enter!"

Loras, freed of his fetters, stepped into the hall, feeling his heart beating faster and the hairs standing to attention on his arms, legs and back. He knew he might have only one chance to get his point across; one chance to have his voice heard. He did not want to waste it.

He heard a soft click as the door closed behind him.

"The Conclave admits the prisoner, Loras Afelnor, of the village of Lower Frunstock,” Rithel intoned; the officious, hectoring Voice who had so badgered him two days before.

Bang-bang!

"The Conclave is in session, by order of the Lord Dominie of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges,” Rithel declared, unseen in the shroud of darkness that hid Loras’ accusers from him. “I request permission to read from the closing records of the Conclave's last session with the prisoner, Lord Dominie."

Loras knew his chance might be slipping away from him; as he remembered it, the Conclave had ended his last session with a concerted call for the death sentence. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lord Horin's voice forestalled his incipient protest.

"The Chairman begs the Conclave's indulgence. After diligent reading of the moments of the previous session, I believe that certain Guild Laws of conduct may have been overlooked in the Conclave's desire for swift justice. The prisoner will be allowed to speak freely in his own defence, as required by Guild Law 1.6.12."

Loras felt as if his pounding heart would leap from his chest, to jump around the floor like an angry, red frog. He felt sure that the hateful Rithel would spout some formal reason for why such a motion might be disallowed, but the Prosecutor held his tongue.

For some reason, Lord Horin seems to be on my side, thought Loras, hardly daring to breathe. They will not go against his wishes ... will they?

"Is there any counter-argument?"

A long moment passed, seeming like an age, before the unseen gavel rang out again.

"So stipulated,” Horin said. “The Conclave offers the prisoner the right to offer a defence for the charges laid against him, if any. Speak, prisoner."

Loras took a deep breath; so deep that he began to see bright sparkles behind his closed eyelids.

"The prisoner begs the honourable Conclave's indulgence,” he said, opening his eyes. “As has been stipulated, Law 1.6.12 of our ... of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges may have been unwittingly overlooked. The prisoner respectfully suggests that Guild Laws 28.1.19 and 1.6.14 also pertain."

Almost before the former Questor had finished speaking, Lord Horin said, “The Chairman moves that the prisoner's statement be entered into the record as fact. The Chairman also moves that the prisoner be allowed further freedom to continue in his defence, before unwitting transgressions of the Law are discussed."

"So moved,” another, unseen Inquisitor grunted. Rithel held his counsel. Horin banged his gavel. “Prosecutor Rithel?"

Loras heard Rithel curse a little under his breath.

"So stipulated, Lord Chairman.” The Prosecutor's words sounded as if they had been ripped from his mouth, and Loras suppressed a smile. Of course; the Conclave might pretend to be a democratic assemblage, but only a foolhardy mage, or one devoid of ambition, would go against the Dominie's wishes.

"Go ahead, prisoner ... if you must take up more of the Conclave's valuable time,” the Prosecutor muttered.

"Thank you, Honoured Justice,” Loras said.

He cleared his throat. “Before I begin, gentlemen, I wish to know in full the charges against me, so that I can offer a pertinent defence. I have already been tried and convicted for the attempted murder of a Guild Prelate, but I have a right under Guild Law to hear the new charges against me."

"You were stripped of Guild membership, prisoner, as you well know,” Rithel snapped. “You have no right—"

"Then why am I being tried according to Guild Law?” Loras demanded, clenching his fists. “This court has no powers over the affairs of Seculars!"

After a brief silence, the former Questor heard a sudden, frantic confusion of mutters and whispers from behind the curtain of darkness. The only words he heard were “...damned House-lawyer..."; “...a mage or a Secular..."; and “...need a stipulation one way or the other..." As the hubbub came to an abrupt halt, Loras heard Dominie Horin's familiar drawl: “It is moved that the prisoner be granted temporary but full Guild status for the duration of this Conclave, and that that the trial be conducted in accordance with Guild Law. If found ‘Not Guilty’ on all charges, prior and present, this status will be confirmed. Should the prisoner be found ‘Guilty', penalties will be assessed according to the dictates and severity of the Laws of the Guild."

"So moved."

"Prosecutor?"

"Stipulated, Lord Chairman,” Rithel said, with a deep, theatrical sigh. Loras heard the rustle of a scroll being opened, and the Prosecutor said, in a dull monotone, “Charge One: that the prisoner did wilfully breach the conditions of his prior sentence on entering Guild demesnes—to wit, the grounds of Arnor House. Charge Two: that the—"

"I wish to offer a defence for the first charge, before others are discussed, Lord Chairman,” Loras interrupted.

"This is intolerable!” Rithel mumbled, but he nonetheless confirmed the Dominie's seconded motion to allow this request.

"Speak, prisoner."

"Questor Loras,” the smith said, suppressing a smile.

"What?"

"The Conclave has granted me full Guild status, Prosecutor,” Loras said. “I should be addressed as either Questor Loras or as ‘Firelord'."

"Your pardon, Questor Loras,” Rithel growled, sounding as if he were suffering from severe dyspepsia.

“Please offer your defence, if any, to the first charge."

"Thank you, Honoured Justice,” Loras said, in a courteous voice, emboldened by this minor but significant victory. “My defence is simple; in confirming that I held no Guild status from the time of my prior conviction, the Conclave has determined that I could not be held accountable for any breach of Guild Law."

Rithel's response was immediate and fiery; “It was a condition of your prior conviction, delivered before you were stripped of your Guild membership, pris ... Questor Loras!"

"It was not, Prosecutor Rithel,” Loras shot back, his voice as smooth as the scarlet silk he wore. “The very first condition of my sentence was that I was hitherto stripped of all rights and status within the Guild. Feel free to consult the Arnor House records, if you doubt me. Only after that pronouncement, after I had been deprived of my Guild Ring, were subsidiary conditions pronounced. Since they were delivered only under Guild Law, I was no longer bound by them. I move that I be declared ‘Not Guilty’

of this charge."

"You cannot ‘move’ anything,” Rithel's disembodied voice intoned. “You are not a member of this Conclave!"

"I apologise, Brother Mage,” Loras said. “I suggest that I be declared ‘Not Guilty’ in regard of this charge."

"Your defence is noted, Questor Loras,” Lord Horin said. “What is the next charge, Prosecutor Rithel?"

"Charge Two: that Questor Loras did, with malice aforethought—"

"My apologies, Lord Chairman, gentlemen of this Conclave,” Loras said in a firm, loud voice. “I respectfully wish to decline that any further charges be heard until the question of my Guild status and, therefore, my culpability at the time of the alleged offences, is defined. This may be of primary importance to my defence."

"Really, Lord Chairman!” Prosecutor Rithel expostulated. “This is becoming a bear garden! First, the accused claims Guild rights, and then he throws Guild responsibilities back in our faces! I move that a decision be made as to the general approach of this defence. If approved, this defence puts all the charges levied against this man at nought!"

"So moved,” another voice growled.

"So stipulated,” Horin said, his voice calm and almost bored. “Point of personal privilege: I declare Questor Loras’ request, and all defences based upon it, in order. Having noted the charge sheet, I move that the prisoner, Loras Afelnor, be declared ‘Not Guilty’ on the first charge. The evidence is clear; since Questor Loras was not a member of the Guild at the time of the alleged offence, he cannot be convicted by this Conclave."

Loras’ heart soared. He had expected a hard struggle, with every statement debated and every declaration attacked. What he had not expected was total exoneration by the Chairman of the Conclave. However, he did not dwell too long on this victory—he would not allow his fellow defendants to shoulder all the blame.

"Lord Chairman!” Rithel exploded. “Surely, you are not going to exculpate this ... this damned, bloody traitor? He tried to kill a Guild Prelate, in the person of Lord Geral, by his own admission!"

"I have already been sentenced for that offence, Prosecutor Rithel!” Loras shouted. “Under Guild Law, having admitted my guilt, I cannot be tried for the same transgression again, unless new evidence comes to light."

"You admitted your guilt to this Conclave, in your own words!"

"I admitted it at my first Conclave, too, Prosecutor.” Loras fought his rising anger. “It is not new evidence; no further liability pertains. What is new evidence is that I now disavow culpability in that admitted act, and I wish to call witnesses in my defence: witnesses who may be able to prove my assertions. I call upon the Conclave to consider evidence that may overturn my previous conviction."

"You and the other defendants attacked Lord Thorn, Prelate of Arnor House, and you sought to depose him, Questor Loras! Do you deny this?"

"I do not, Prosecutor Rithel. I wish to show that my erstwhile friend, Lord Thorn, was intimately involved in my former disgrace, and, therefore, guilty of a greater crime. My fellow defendants will present evidence attesting to this. It was for this reason—"

Bang-bang-bang!

"You may not speculate on the evidence of any other prisoner at this time,” Horin declared, “or of the defences that they may or may not offer, Questor Loras. Is that clear?" Loras nodded and bowed. “That is quite clear, Lord Chairman. I apologise for my reckless words. However, I wish to state that I believe these men blameless of the crimes for which they are held." Scratch-scratch...

"Your statement is noted,” Horin drawled. “May we hear the next charge, please, Prosecutor Rithel?"

"Thank you, Lord Chairman. Charge Two: that Loras Afelnor did, with malice aforethought, scheme and conspire to bring about the overthrow of the lawful Prelate of Arnor House; to wit, Thorn Virias, called

‘The Iron-willed'. This is an act of mutiny. How plead you to this charge, Questor Loras?" The former mage knew he could offer once more the blanket defence that he was not a Guild man at the time of the alleged act. However, he knew that doing so would throw full blame onto Kargan, Crohn and Dalquist. And yet, to plead guilty would annul his defence to the first charge. What to do? he wondered, his thoughts racing.

"I beg the Conclave's indulgence,” he said, choosing his words with care. “Is it in order to request clarification on a point of law?"

After an interlude of muted muttering between the members of the court, Horin said, “It is, Questor Loras. Ask your question. As arbiter of this Conclave, I will answer you as best I can." Loras shuffled his feet and cudgelled his brain. “Thank you, Lord Chairman. Is it permitted to introduce a counter-claim against another defendant? In other words: may an accusation of mutiny be overturned by evidence that the act was justified? Or is a Guild Prelate immune to any charge levied by a lesser mage?" He knew this might be a contentious issue; the Guild authorities would not wish to start a precedent to allow rank-and-file mages to depose their seniors. Nonetheless, the fury of the discussion between the members of the Conclave surprised him.

"Point of Order, Lord Chairman!"

"The presumptuous upstart!"

"Really, Lord Chairman!"

"This could provoke anarchy!"

The banging of Horin's gavel brought the frenzied arguments to an end in a moment.

"Such a defence would depend on many factors, Questor Loras.” The Dominie's voice was calm and measured. “The main factor would be the severity of the counter-charge. The defendant would need to prove beyond all reasonable doubt that the said Prelate had demonstrated either severe mental disturbance, so that he was incapable of fulfilling his duties; or that he had committed, or conspired in, acts of treason endangering the security and integrity of the Guild. What is your counter-charge?" Loras hesitated. He knew Thorn was already being held on some charge or other, but he suspected that it would be little more than one of failing to maintain order in Arnor House. The penalty, he suspected, would be light. He drew a deep breath.

"I accuse Lord Thorn Virias, Prelate of Arnor House, of High Treason,” he said, to the accompaniment of a chorus of gasps and shouts.

The die is cast, thought Loras. Let us see how it lands.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 32: Accusations

Bang-bang!

"The Conclave shall come to order!” Horin shouted. “Can you substantiate this extraordinary charge, Questor Loras?"

"Lord Thorn colluded with one not of this Guild, to overthrow you, Lord Horin,” Loras said. “In addition to this, he cavilled with this person to use Geomancy against a fellow mage, to bring about his unjust dismissal from the Guild."

After a moment of stunned silence, Rithel demanded, “Do you have the least scrap of evidence to support such ludicrous charges?"

"Not by myself, Prosecutor Rithel,” Loras admitted. “However, I formally request that my fellow defendants be brought here to testify in our joint defence. Without this indulgence, justice may not be served.

"Lord Dominie, you stated during my prior session here that you had some knowledge of the witch in question. Did you know—"

Bang-bang-bang!

"Silence, prisoner!” Horin shouted. “Gentlemen of the Conclave, on a Point of Personal Privilege, I request your indulgence to hear this defendant's testimony in camera. The evidence may be prejudicial to Guild security, and I feel that only I am competent to judge it. May I prevail upon you all to adjourn to the antechamber?"

The Conclave erupted in furor. Some members argued that Loras should be required to testify in iron chains, at least, but Horin was obdurate.

"I am not defenceless,” he said. “This room is surrounded by a ward against the use of any but the most passive of Minor Magics. That is why the defendants are allowed to stand here unfettered, and it should suffice even against the most powerful Questor magic. I am armed with my Mage Staff, and the prisoner cannot summon his own. Kindly leave the room at once."

Despite a few final, grumbling words of dissent, Loras heard the fading rustle of robes and the decisive slam of a heavy door.

"We are alone, Questor Loras. Tell me what you know about Prioress Lizaveta." Loras squinted into the darkness. “Lord Chairman, I would feel more at ease talking to you if I could see you. Unless my memory is playing tricks on me, I believe Guild Law permits an accused mage to face his accusers."

Horin chuckled. “You are facing me, Questor Loras, even though you cannot see me. However, if you wish..."

Loras heard a few muttered syllables, and the green mage globes disappeared in the blink of an eye. After another brief spell-chant, the blackness fell like a heavy curtain released from its rail, to reveal a splendid, wood-panelled chamber, with no windows, and only two sets of doors. The centrepiece of the room was a large table in the shape of a horseshoe, with the ends closest to him. Behind the centre of the arc sat a calm-faced, ancient-looking man amidst a wild profusion of scrolls and papers, many of which had spilled onto the floor around him.

The former Questor felt surprised at Lord Horin's apparent age; of course, most mages were old men by the time they reached the Seventh Rank, but Horin looked ancient. His forehead was deeply grooved, and the skin of his lower face hung in heavy jowls. Where most magic-users resorted to magic to hide the signs of advancing age, it seemed that the Dominie did not bother with spells of vanity. Remembering protocol, Loras executed a deep bow, and he was pleased to find that his long-ago lessons in Courtly Graces had not deserted him.

"I do you honour, Lord Dominie,” he said, as he straightened up.

"Yes, yes, yes,” Horin said, waving his hands and donning a fussy pair of gold-rimmed, half-moon spectacles. “I think we can do away with the formalities for now, Questor Loras. Come, approach me; I want to see the fabled Oathbreaker, and my eyesight is not what it once was." Loras stepped towards the older man with a measured pace, his eyes fixed on the black marble floor. He stopped a few steps away from the Dominie.

"No, Questor Loras; please come around to this side of the table." The smith complied, feeling a hot flush of self-consciousness at the Dominie's frank, appraising stare, but he locked his eyes on Horin's in any case. It would be the height of disgrace for a Questor to be stared down by a mere Specialist, regardless of his status.

"You do not look like a monster to me, Brother Mage,” the Dominie drawled, at last. “Please sit down. We have much to discuss."

Loras obeyed Horin, sinking into a comfortable, leather chair with some gratitude.

"Do you like wine, Questor Loras?” Horin asked, lifting a half-full bottle of a pale liquid from the table.

“It is Amber Pellurian; a very good year, too, I might add."

Loras shook his head. “In case you had forgotten, Lord Dominie, I am on trial for my life. My mind is on things other than alcohol."

Horin filled the goblet in front of him, raised it up and took an appreciative sip before replacing it.

"Of course, Brother Mage; a pity."

The Dominie cleared his throat.

"I have suspected for some time that your earlier conviction might be unreliable. Your prior record speaks against it, and I have recently experienced Prioress Lizaveta's powers at first hand—I was scarcely able to resist them.

"Your grandson, Questor Grimm, was of great aid in ejecting the Prioress and her cohorts from High Lodge. I rewarded him with his seventh ring in recognition of this." Loras’ heart surged. “Lord Dominie, how is Grimm? I have not seen him for two years."

"Questor Grimm is undertaking a special Quest for me, Questor Loras. I gave him the mandate to eliminate this woman's pernicious Order's influence in its entirety, by whatever means he deems fit.

"The only information I have received from my Secular agent in Rendale is that the Priory lies in ruins; I therefore expect Questor Grimm's triumphant return very soon."

Loras yearned to see Grimm again, dressed in his Questor finery, his staff adorned with the seven prestigious gold rings. He daydreamed of greeting his grandson at the entrance of High Lodge in his own silken robes, a full mage once more.

"Now, to business,” Horin said, calling Loras’ attention back to the real world. “I wish to see you exonerated, Questor Loras. However, Guild Law constrains even me, even if I have the leeway to bend it a little to my own advantage.

"The essential thread of your argument seems to revolve around Prioress Lizaveta's former influence on you. However, you and your comrades can only prevail if we can link her influence to Prelate Thorn; otherwise, the charge of mutiny will be difficult to overturn."

Loras took a deep breath. “She is Thorn's mother,” he said. “She ordered him to orchestrate my disgrace and subsequent dismissal from the Guild. He protested, but he seemed unable to resist her influence. Ever since that day, he has been dancing to her tune, so that one day he may become Dominie at her behest."

Horin's rheumy, blue eyes widened. “You speak as if you know this as a fact, Questor Loras. Can you prove any of it?"

Loras shrugged. “That may be up to you to discover, Lord Dominie. Until very recently, I believed in my guilt and culpability with all my heart, and I considered Thorn my staunchest friend. However, Mentalist Kargan invoked a spell he called ‘Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct'. He actually showed me—"

"I have heard of this spell,” Horin declared, interrupting him. “It is a Schedule Nine spell, forbidden to mages without prior written permission from the Presidium. Several High Lodge Mentalists have attempted the spell; all failed. I rather doubt a mere House Mentalist could manage it. I consider it more likely that you were shown a simple Illusion. Is that not possible?" The smith cocked his head on one side, considering the Dominie's question in detail before shaking his head. “No, Lord Dominie; it is not. Mentalist Kargan's spell dislocated my soul from my body; I am still mage enough to recognise such a dislocation, and a naked soul cannot be gulled by Illusions or Glamours. What I saw was real.

"If you summon Mentalist Kargan to this chamber and persuade him to repeat the spell, a competent Scholar armed with a suitable grimoire could surely attest to the spell's accuracy and authenticity. I saw the truth of my betrayal, without doubt."

Horin rubbed his chin and leaned back in his chair. “It is not as simple as that, Questor Loras. If Mentalist Kargan has indeed cast a Schedule Nine spell, he has broken Guild Law. I could not ignore that, and the Presidium would be unlikely to agree to a demonstration.

"The word of an accused man alone bears little weight here; it would not be accepted as proof. As for Lizaveta being Thorn's mother, that means little enough on its own." Horin took another sip of wine from his goblet, his expression distant and troubled.

"We need something better,” he mumbled.

Loras almost gasped as blazing awareness came to him: Lizaveta almost trapped him! I would wager any odds that only Grimm's skills saved him, and he dare not admit that! He would lose face in the eyes of the Presidium, leaving him open to any ambitious mage's challenge. He does not want the truth; he wants a political excuse for condemning Thorn.

The former Questor had not engaged in the darker side of Guild politics for several decades, but he had not forgotten the most important rules: deniability, distance and misdirection. Literal truth did not matter.

"Lord Horin,” Loras said, causing the Dominie to snap out of his reverie and meet his intense gaze. “Is it a necessary condition of this trial that Lord Thorn be exonerated?" Horin shook his head. “I believe Thorn is as guilty as you said, Questor Loras. Were it up to me, you and your fellow defendants would be freed in a heartbeat. However, I must not appear capricious, and I dare not declare many more Points of Personal Privilege.

"I need something concrete, not mere hearsay."

Loras almost smiled. The truth was unimportant; what mattered was the semblance of truth; something that would ring true.

This was a game he knew well.

"Have you seen Lord Thorn's ... personal Questor, Lord Horin?" Horin shuddered. “I have. The poor lad is confined in an iron-walled cell. He is too dangerous to allow him to run about at will. He is powerful and maniacal."

"Is he charged with anything?"

"Yes,” Horin replied. “Thaumaturgic assault against seven High Lodge officials. Three are in a critical condition, and one is not expected to survive."

Loras nodded and bowed his head for a moment. “I pray for them all, Lord Dominie. I have faced the boy in Questor combat, and I know well his power. I tried to reason with him, but his only response was

‘I serve only Lord Thorn'."

"The boy is plainly insane,” Horin agreed, rubbing his chin. “However, that is a poor argument to condemn a member of the Presidium."

"It is part of a pattern, Lord Dominie,” Loras insisted. “As I understand it from Magemaster Kargan, a Neophyte Questor in Arnor Lodge became insane after three months of training, and he killed the Senior Magemaster."

"Ah, yes; poor Urel.” Horin sighed. “Alas, in his zeal, he pushed a neurotic Neophyte too far. The Ordeal is severe, but necessarily so, of course, you, as a Questor, must acknowledge that. It seems that Senior Magemaster Urel misjudged his Neophyte's stability."

Loras shook his head. “After three months of my Ordeal, Lord Dominie, my tutor, Magemaster Karas, criticised my handwriting, the condition of my robes, my tardiness; irksome, yes, but not yet enough to enrage me. Every charity Student often faces worse treatment.

"If angry words were enough to unhinge this boy, surely Magemaster Urel would have noticed long before. I knew Urel as a gentle and understanding soul when he was a Neophyte." Horin cleared his throat and shrugged. “Questor Loras, High Lodge has no Scholasticate and no Questors. Although a few Presidium members are Questors, every member of this Conclave comes from a wealthy family.

"Your argument will not sway them one iota. You and they are separated by an immeasurable gulf." Loras frowned. “I believe Magemasters Crohn and Kargan, and Questor Dalquist, will swear that Lord Thorn has perverted the Questor Ordeal, so as to produce Questors at a greater rate, regardless of the risk,” he said. “This is so that Arnor House and he, as its representative, can gain greater status within High Lodge.

"Thorn is planning to supplant you, man!"

Horin scowled and picked up his gavel and, for a moment, Loras thought the Dominie would throw it at him. However, the older man drew a deep, shuddering breath and replaced it on the table.

"I am surrounded by people looking for the least sign of weakness in my decisions or actions,” he said.

“Few men ascend to the Presidium without such ambitions. Some are hand-picked by me for their devotion to the Guild, but these are few and far between. Much of my time is spent in discovering the intrigues against me, Questor Loras.

"Of course I know Thorn is plotting to overthrow me. The main reason I prefer to act against him now is that he has only now shown his hand.

"I believe what you say, Brother Mage. However, you need to convince the Conclave members, too. Proving that a few pauper Neophytes were maltreated will not do, I promise you." Loras groaned, closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, massaging the back of his neck. I felt so sure I understood Guild politics, he thought, but I forgot the low regard in which charity mages are held; even those of the Seventh Rank. I was foolish to consider Horin as an ally; he seeks to enhance his popularity by destroying a House Prelate—who, after all, is only a damned pauper—and freeing a pair of valuable, wealthy Specialists. How better to show his power and boost his reputation within the Presidium?

I am just a pawn in his game; if it comes to a crisis, I will just be surrendered to ‘justice', as will Questor Dalquist.

Nonetheless, Horin seems to need me to help him. He wants to dethrone Thorn; I must play on that need. It is time to increase the stakes.

He clasped his hands together, opened his eyes and sat up straight in his chair, looking the Dominie straight in the eyes.

"I understand, Lord Dominie; I am just a worthless beggar to the Presidium, and I cannot change that. Why do you not just convict me now, and save time? The Conclave members will surely applaud your decision."

Horin's eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened into a thin slit, his lips whitening. For a few moments, Loras felt as if his very life were being weighed in an invisible balance. Horin sighed. “You try my patience, Questor Loras. I thought, perhaps foolishly, that you had a more potent argument than maltreatment of Neophyte Questors. If this is your sole testimony, it is worthless." Loras nodded. “I am in your hands, Lord Dominie."

Now is the time, he thought, crossing his arms over his chest as the senior mage raised his gavel. If Lord Dominie Horin wants ‘politics', perhaps it is best to give him some.

"Did you enjoy your amorous interlude with the sweet Prioress, Horin?” he asked, smiling. The gavel wavered in the air.

"What in the Names do you mean, Loras?” Horin demanded, his eyes hooded. “The witch tried to work her wiles on me, and I defeated her. That is all there is to the matter. There was no ‘amorous interlude', as you choose to put it."

Nonetheless, the gavel did not yet fall.

He is wondering what I have against him, thought Loras, and he worries what the other Conclave members may think of him.

"Let us not play games, Horin,” he said. “I, too, suffered Lizaveta's attentions, when I was much younger and she was still comely. I remember the little touches; the breathless sighs; the fluttering lashes ... I needed all my Questor power to resist her. I am sure you know all about that.

"Nonetheless, I would feel forced to relate my own lurid struggles with Lizaveta, were I pressed for evidence. Of course, we Questors, peasants as we are, are renowned for our indomitable internal strength and destructiveness, if for little else. Perhaps you would like to amuse the Conclave by telling them how you defeated Lizaveta. I feel sure your persuasive words as Dominie will sway them far more than my lurid, detailed revelations as a mere Seventh Level Questor would ever do.

"After all, I am only a worthless pauper, am I not?"

Horin placed the gavel back on its little bowl, his eyes hooded

Now I have the Dominie's interest at last, Loras thought, and he began to marshal his thoughts.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 33: An Indifferent Vintage

"Is this blackmail, Questor Loras?"

Loras shrugged. “If you wish to use such an emotive phrase, Lord Dominie, who am I to argue? Were my fellow defendants and I exonerated, of course..."

Horin lay back in his leather-bound chair, regarding the former Questor with a new wariness. He raised his wineglass to his lips but put it back down, untested.

"Even a little mud sticks, Lord Dominie,” Loras continued, still fixing Horin's gaze and shrugging again.

“Even if I am condemned, I have the right to a brief last statement ... and I will insist on it, Brother Mage."

He hesitated for just the right amount of time.

"On the other hand, my dear Lord Horin, you could always call on a few favours and Points of Personal Privilege to assure Lord Thorn's condemnation; nonetheless, I will not be a part of it. As a mere beggar-boy, my word is worthless in the sight of your good friends, is it not?

"However, people are wont to talk, are they not?"

Horin's face turned the colour of parchment, and his eyes bulged.

After a brief pause to allow his words to sink in, Loras continued. “However, perhaps we can come to an agreement more amenable to both of us, Lord Dominie."

Horin cocked his head on one side, his top lip wrinkled in an expression of distaste. “How ... how much do you want, Questor?” he said, curling his top lip.

Loras laughed. “Why do people see money as the answer to all problems?” he asked rhetorically, with a wry shake of the head. “I am sorry, Lord Dominie. I have never been for sale, and I never shall be. No; I want the stain on my name expunged, and I want Lord Thorn to be seen for what he is: a traitor to his House and to the Guild.

"You have been honest enough to show your opinion of Questors. The same men who risk their lives to enforce your decrees: the soulless weapons with which you threaten and chastise those you see as enemies; regrettable, brutish necessities; tools to be used at will.

"Is not Lord Thorn such a man? Why is it so difficult for you to convince the Conclave to take the word of two Questors and two Specialists against a single man—a Questor, as despised in his calling as the rest of us?"

Horin frowned and took a sip of wine.

"The matter is not so simple, Questor Loras. I spoke truth when I told you how Questors were regarded here, in general. However, many previous Dominies were once Questors, as you doubtless know; in fact, such mages outnumber Specialists in the office. That is not only because they are often seen as powerful leaders, but also because they have ascended to the rank of Prelate.

"Election to this rank frees a mage from any association with his former calling. Lord Thorn is no longer seen as a Mage Questor, or any other kind of mage; he is a House Prelate, elected by popular demand. The other members will not regard him as a Questor at all."

Loras sighed. “Even if he is a traitor?

"Very well: you cannot accept evidence of his brutalisation of charity boys to bolster his case for accession to the Presidium. You will not allow Mentalist Kargan to enter evidence in the form of a forbidden spell that would prove Thorn's complicity in a grievous conspiracy.

"Why then did you so readily accept my defence regarding Prioress Lizaveta? Why did you not just dismiss it out of hand and be done with it? Was it because you feared others might guess the truth about you and she? You need not lie to me, Lord Dominie; I do not need Mage Sight to recognise the truth."

"Are you so keen to die, Questor Loras?” Horin demanded, scowling. “If that is what you wish, it can be arranged with ease!"

Loras shook his head, feeling his eyes moisten. “I wished that when I was arraigned; when I believed I had committed the foulest treason. When I was stripped of my powers and exiled from the Guild, I considered suicide. Only my marriage to Drima saved me from my growing, self-destructive urge. Now, I must think of my family. My life no longer belongs to me alone. I do not wish to die.

"I repeat my question: why have you taken my side in this trial, if just to condemn me to death? I cannot believe it is just in the interest of justice: We have both played the game of Guild politics too long for me to believe that.

"I want to know everything, Lord Horin; if I am to die, I want to know why you have apparently fought so hard to keep me alive."

Horin leaned towards Loras, his former, angry expression softening. “I am an old man, Questor Loras. I have held this position for many years, and I want to hold on to it. Thorn represents a serious threat to me, and I believe he has betrayed his position. I also believe you were wrongly accused by him in your youth; since you have been here, I have reviewed your prior record, as well as Thorn's, and I find your charges compelling.

"However, I must convince the other members of the Conclave. I cannot convict a House Prelate on Points of Personal Privilege; I would be seen as a weak man relying on his position. When you made your accusation, I thought you might have something I could use to depose Thorn. I have guided this trial as best I could to bring you to this stage and to silence Thorn, but what you have offered so far is useless."

Well, that is candid enough, thought Loras, scratching the unaccustomed growth of hair on his head. Perhaps I am better off with blackmail, after all.

"As I told you, Lord Dominie, I knew the late Senior Magemaster Urel when he was a Neophyte,” he said. The words, delivered in a dull monotone, came from his mouth without his conscious bidding.

"I seem to remember he was training as a Manipulant, or as some other Specialist, Lord Dominie. Urel was no pauper!"

Horin shrugged. “I met the man on a few occasions. As I recall it, he was a Mentalist,” he said. “What does that have to do with anything?"

"What difference would it make if I could show that Lord Thorn's reckless ambition caused Urel's death?

That Thorn then tried to cover up the Senior Magemaster's death by blaming him for the whole debacle?

That it was no tragic accident, but the result of Thorn's wilful, culpable negligence?" Horin sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, but he looked at least a little interested. That was a good sign.

"Such a charge might carry more weight,” the head of the Guild admitted. “How would you prove it?" Loras threw his head back and drew a deep breath, slowly exhaling before he met the Dominie's eyes again.

"It all depends, Lord Horin, on whether you are prepared to ... massage justice a little,” he said.

"How much?” the senior mage demanded, his eyes like dark slits.

"As I said, a little, Lord Dominie; if you are willing to admit multiple testimonies, I am sure Magemasters Crohn and Kargan, both scions of wealthy families, will testify to the character of Urel. Magemaster Kargan told me of Senior Magemaster Crohn's doubts regarding Lord Thorn's innocence in this matter. Kargan, too, knew Urel well; they were classmates."

Horin shook his head. “That is not enough, Questor Loras. It is a step in the right direction, but it is not enough to depose a House Prelate. I would like you to tell me just what your proposed ‘massage of justice’ involves."

Loras smiled without humour. “I suggest that you allow me to present my proposed defence concerning the maltreatment of Neophyte Questors, regardless of derision or contempt from the other Conclave members. It might aid you if you went along with them in this; to caution me as to the possible irrelevance of the testimony, but to admit it in the interests of pure, dispassionate justice. In that way, you show yourself to be a strong, impartial leader."

Horin leaned a little closer. This time, Loras felt sure the Dominie's expression showed more than mild interest.

"Do continue, Questor Loras."

"I would quote Law ... whatever law it is that says an accused mage is allowed to summon others of the Guild to speak in his defence,” Loras said.

"That is Law 1.6.13,” Horin said, after consulting a compendious tome to his right.

"Thank you, Lord Dominie. Under Law 1.6.13, I will then call Magemasters Crohn and Kargan; you will apprise them of my testimony and allow them the same latitude you allowed me earlier. Introduce my testimony concerning the death of Urel as mere speculation and hearsay.

"If Magemaster Crohn does not react to this, I shall be very surprised." Horin drained his glass and licked his lips. “And if he does?"

Loras smiled. “I shall keep my evidence vague. I recommend that you press Magemaster Crohn for details as to the dates of the alleged events. I suggest that you adopt a very worried expression and hunt through your papers as you do so; and then call an immediate recess." The Dominie slowly nodded his head. “I presume this is where the ‘massaging’ takes place,” he said, his lips drawing back from his teeth in what might just have been an answering smile.

"Indeed, Lord Dominie,” Loras replied. “You will then remember a long-forgotten letter from the poor man, warning you of Thorn's activities in this regard. Since it also covers other charges not covered by this trial, you would be quite justified in not revealing it in full to the Conclave."

"How can I justify the fact that I did not remember this letter at once?” Horin asked. The Questor shrugged. “A man in your lofty position must receive many petitions and letters over the course of a year. You remember the fact that you received a letter from Magemaster Urel, but you forgot all about it when you heard the news of his tragic death, which, of course, arrived as you were about to open the letter.

"On the other hand, of course, you could have forgotten about the letter due to a powerful Geomantic spell..."

Horin smiled. “You missed your true vocation, Questor Loras. I believe you would have been more valuable to the Guild as a member of the Presidium than as a House Questor." Loras shook his head. “I sailed on the murky waters of Guild politics for many years, Lord Dominie. I thank you for your confidence, but I have no desire to swim in them, or to drink from them. I was a Questor, and I was content with that. I would have accepted the post of Prelate, if I had ever been offered it. However, I never sought any higher rank."

Horin's brows rose, his eyes widening, as if he could not believe that a true Guild man would aspire to any lesser goal than the ultimate accolade.

"I understand, Questor,” he said, but Loras could tell the Dominie was anything but convinced. Horin picked up his glass and raised it to his lips before realising it was empty.

"Are you sure you will not partake of this splendid beverage, Brother Mage?” he asked, replacing the glass on the table and picking up the bottle. “It is vintage ‘57; the finest year for Pellurian Amber over the last century. I paid a pretty penny for it, I assure you. Of course, I would not expect you to appreciate the finer details of such an exclusive beverage...

"I beg your pardon, Questor Loras. I intended no insult."

Despite the Dominie's belittling words, Loras now felt far more relaxed than he had for some time, and he realised he felt rather thirsty.

"Thank you, Lord Dominie; I believe I would appreciate a glass." Horin stood up, walked over to a small, round table and selected a tall, fluted crystal glass. Returning to his seat, he poured a generous measure of the golden liquid and handed the glass to the Questor. Loras held it up to the light and rotated it before raising it to his nose, wafting delicate vapours towards his twitching nostrils.

He tilted the glass towards his pursed lips, allowing a small amount of the turbid liquid to enter his mouth and swirling it around his teeth before swallowing.

Smacking his lips, he smiled.

"An excellent vintage, is it not, Brother Mage?” Horin said, his expression eager, almost pleading. “It cost me fifty gold pieces per bottle."

"You were robbed, Lord Dominie,” Loras said, still smiling. “This, I regret to say, is not ‘57 Pellurian Amber. I believe I recognise it as the product of a small vineyard on the lower slopes of Mount Brindam, in Verisia. It is an indifferent wine at best, and this is not one of their better vintages ... it is either an ‘83

or an ‘87."

He took another sip and winced. “Definitely ‘83. You can tell from the sharp tang of tannin, followed by a distinct aftertaste of blackwort, which only grows in that region." Horin's expression fell; he looked aghast as he picked up the bottle and regarded the label.

"Another point, Lord Dominie,” Loras said, “The serifs on the label are level; the serifs on a true Pellurian wine label have a slight downward cast to the left. I am afraid you have been deceived." Horin put the bottle back on the table, his expression dark and angry.

"I was told this was the finest Pellurian Amber,” he growled. “I thank you for the services of your educated palate. I am indebted to you."

Loras tried to keep his expression neutral. “Please, do not mention it, Lord Dominie. I am glad to be of service."

"Perhaps it is time to call the Conclave back into the chamber and proceed as you suggested earlier,”

Horin said. “Is that amenable to you?"

Loras suppressed a yawn. “It is, Lord Dominie. I am sorry that I had to bring you such bad news about your wine purchase."

"You have done me a great service, Questor Loras. A reckoning is due, I promise you; on several counts. You have my support."

As the Dominie raised his gavel and pounded it on the small wooden bowl, Loras felt happier than he had in many years. He felt sure his innocence would at last be proved, and he knew that Grimm should be returning soon from his successful Quest. He would return to Lower Frunstock in glory, and he would deliver his beloved Drima from the hot squalor of the forge. The future seemed full of hope, after decades of misery.

He stood up and moved back to his appointed position facing the table. The lights dimmed as the Conclave members began to file into the chamber, until he could no longer see his accusers. I may know nothing at all about fine vintages or wine labels, he thought, but I know vinegar when I taste it. Perhaps, after all this time, I will soon be able to taste something else. Bang-bang!

"The Conclave is called to order,” Horin declared. “I have some details of the defendant's proposed accusation against Lord Prelate Thorn, and I declare it in order. However, I must advise the Conclave and the defendant that I see this approach as dubious at best, since it seems to rely heavily on hearsay and innuendo. It is recommended that the defendant's testimony be treated with the utmost caution in this regard.

"Prosecutor Rithel; the floor is yours."

"Thank you, Lord Chairman,” the Prosecutor said, in an oleaginous voice. “Questor Loras; you have made a most grievous and disturbing accusation against a valued member of the Guild Presidium. How can you possibly substantiate such a ridiculous charge against a respectable, selfless, hard-working Mage?"

Loras drew a deep breath; he would hold up his end of his bargain with the Dominie. It only remained to see if Horin would do the same.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 34: Horin's Ultimatum

Thorn sat in a comfortable chair upholstered in lush, crimson velvet. He leafed through a copy of one of the oldest and most important works in the Guild library: ‘Out of the Darkness', by Peltian Melluor, the founder and first Dominie of High Lodge, absorbed by its inspiring story. The book told of the early wars between rival Thaumaturgic Houses, Arnor House amongst them, and the rise to prominence of the first Questors. In those far-off days, such mages were used as weapons in the strictest sense, and several nascent Houses were destroyed by Questors from more powerful establishments.

Thaumaturgy as a craft was splintered and disparate, without direction or guidance. Into the midst of this strife walked Peltian, a middle-aged Questor tired of his trade of death. An inspiring orator, he garnered support for his campaign of unification from several dissatisfied mages. Peltian founded his own House at Zhure, where now stood the imposing bastion of High Lodge; it had borne the name of ‘Harmony House'.

At first, Harmony was too small to bother the larger, more warlike establishments, but the steady exodus of unhappy mages to Peltian's side soon made it a force with which to be reckoned. By the time Peltian declared war on all other Houses in the region, it was too late; Harmony was the most powerful House of all, and when he invited the local Prelates to parley, they had little choice in the matter. Peltian's slogan had been “Unity or death.” The other Houses, bled white from continual battles, soon accepted the first option as the only realistic choice. At that historic meeting, the formation of the Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges was announced.

What a man Peltian must have been, Thorn thought, putting down the book and yawning. Not like that pallid mother's boy, Horin. One little bit of bluff, and he collapsed like a house of cards in a hurricane; I wonder he has lived as long as he has. How did our glorious Guild come to such a pass? How did High Lodge become so weak and pampered? Peltian had the services of eleven powerful proto-Questors at his command; Horin has none, except from the Houses.

Thorn had read his own, well-worn copy of Peltian's book many, many times in his life, and he always managed to find new sources of inspiration in it. The most important pearl of wisdom he had garnered was that the Dominie's position was not safe; Peltian had survived five attempts on his life in his first year of tenure.

I am happy as a Prelate and a member of the Guild Presidium, he thought. I have the ear of a weak and persuadable Dominie, and that is all I want. There is no need to get involved with the cut and thrust of High Lodge politics. I have Horin just where I want him.

Smiling, Thorn picked up the book again and read on, devouring the details of the Guild founder's ruthless war against external and internal enemies and the building of High Lodge. He had just reached the point of the first formation of the Presidium, made up of elected representatives from each House in the fledgling Guild, when he started at a peremptory knock on the cell door. It must be time for luncheon, he thought, licking his lips. Good; I am famished!

"Enter,” he drawled in a casual monotone.

The man in the doorway bore a tray, but he was no servant. Thorn stood up to greet the Lord Dominie of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges.

"I bid you welcome, Lord Dominie,” he said, executing a perfunctory bow. “I trust you bring interesting news."

Horin closed the door behind him and put the tray of sweetmeats and delicacies on Thorn's bed.

"I do indeed, Lord Prelate,” he said, his lined face wearing a broad smile. “I think you will be surprised." I doubt it, the Prelate thought. After all, I paid for this verdict.

"I have consulted with the other members of the Conclave on the charges of cruelty levied against you,”

Horin said. “Of course, they found the charges ludicrous. If a few charity Students suffer a little ... well that is what the Questor Ordeal is about, is it not?"

"Exactly, Lord Horin,” Thorn replied, returning the Dominie's smile in equal measure. “I suffered during my own Ordeal, and I never once complained. The youth of today have no respect or stamina; they expect everything to be given to them. I presume these ridiculous charges will be dropped?" Horin nodded and Thorn suppressed a chuckle.

"Indeed, Lord Thorn; put them from your mind. Loras Afelnor will also be exonerated from his earlier conviction for treason, as you requested. The latter charges, of course, will remain."

"Of course,” the younger man said, making a show of inspecting his cuticles. “Justice will be done, eh?

When may I expect to be set free? I am needed in Arnor; I need to procure the services of at least two Magemasters, and I have another charity boy to consider for the Ordeal. It would be a shame to lose three Seventh Rank men to the headsman's axe, but I must accept the Conclave's impartial decision." Horin's smile grew even wider, and his rheumy eyes seemed almost to sparkle.

"I regret that I cannot free you immediately,” he said. “There is one more little legal matter to consider—a trivial one, of course!—before you can be liberated. Do not trouble yourself over it, Lord Prelate. It is nothing, I am sure; just a traitor's last, desperate gambit. Think nothing of it." Thorn frowned. “What is this legal matter?” he demanded. “I cannot afford to be kept from my duties by lawyerly pettifoggery!"

Now, Horin took his time to examine his fingernails. “Oh, it is just a pair of wild, nonsensical counter-charges by the other prisoners. A last, hopeless throw of the dice, I presume."

"Lord Horin, what are these counter-charges?” Thorn demanded, trying to keep his composure. “I demand that you tell me!"

Horin indicated the meal-tray with an immaculately-manicured, wrinkled index finger.

"Your repast is growing cold,” he said in a mild voice.

"I am not hungry,” Thorn said, his growing annoyance taking the edge off his appetite. “What are the charges?"

"Negligence, leading to the death of a senior House official, and conspiracy to pervert the passage of justice through the submission of false evidence,” Horin said. “The penalty for the latter charge is severe—too severe, some might say—but you need not worry. The charges are, of course, groundless." Thorn's head whirled, and he sat back down. “What is all this nonsense?” he blustered.

"The boy who committed suicide,” Horin said, “taking Senior Magemaster Urel with him. The charges implicate you in this matter."

The Dominie's expression was no longer merry, and Thorn felt tendrils of worry play like a giant, palsied spider's legs on his stomach. He had thought the matter of Urel's death buried along with the mage.

"Of course, you need not worry, Lord Thorn,” Horin said in a smooth, soothing voice. “A Great Spell of Divination will soon find the truth of the matter, and you may then be on your way." The fear-spider seemed to drive its mandibles deep into the Prelate's vitals, and Thorn fought to conceal the sudden trembling in his hands.

"I told you everything in this regard, Lord Dominie,” he said, his words all but drowned out by his pounding heartbeat. “Surely that will not be necessary? What is the word of a forsworn traitor against that of a House Prelate?"

"Two forsworn traitors,” Horin said, his voice as slick as the finest silk. “Questors Loras and Dalquist know only inadmissible hearsay, but Magemasters Crohn and Kargan have declared themselves willing to swear on oath that you are guilty of this crime. As befits their lower status, they will, naturally, undergo Divination first, so you need not worry. Their accusations will be revealed as lies, with unerring accuracy, so your testimony will surely not be required."

Thorn felt beads of sweat tickling the furrows in his forehead.

"They are wily dogs, Lord Dominie,” he said, wiping his brow with the back of his right hand. “They have proven themselves traitorous by their attack on me; what further proof is needed?"

"This is only a minor legal issue, Lord Prelate,” Horin said. “Both Crohn and Kargan are the scions of wealthy, powerful families. You appreciate that we need to apply the law's full rigour, ridiculous as it may seem, before justice may be seen to be done. Do not worry; I am sure the whole, sorry affair will be finished within a day or two. You will then be free to return to your beloved House while we then assess the overwhelming condemnatory evidence against the other prisoners." Thorn wanted a stiff dose of potent liquor to steady his jangling nerves, but none was available to him.

"As a matter of casual interest,” he said, his mouth dry as desert sand, “what are the penalties for such charges?"

"If I remember rightly,” Horin replied, “the first charge, if confirmed, would merit the penalty of dismissal from the Presidium and from the position of Prelate, for the rest of your life. The second charge, of the

‘perversion of justice', carries the automatic penalty of death. In the case of a House Prelate being convicted of such an offence, the method of execution would be subject to a majority vote from the Conclave.

"If proved, of course, the method might be quite nasty."

Now, Thorn could say nothing. His mouth moved, but his dry throat made no sound other than a hoarse hiss.

Horin's brow wrinkled until the lines looked like undulating dunes. “Are you sick, Lord Thorn? Shall I call a Healer? You look quite unwell!

"Please, do not worry; the Divination spell cannot be deceived by a foolish liar. The truth will out!"

"You do not know them as I do,” Thorn whispered. “They will say anything to save themselves!" His skin seemed to crawl over a crumbling framework of cold, fragile bones.

"They can say what they like, Lord Prelate. Fear not, for the spell can detect even the deepest-buried lie!

Are you sure you do not need the services of a Healer? We have fifteen of them here."

"Does it ... does it have to be death?” Thron asked.

Horin laughed. “So, you still feel loyalty towards your treacherous comrades!” he crowed. “A very meritorious sentiment. Yes: I am afraid their groundless charges will merit a slow and painful death for them, but that need not worry you."

Thorn licked his lips, trying to cudgel his mind into action, even though it felt like a mass of cold molasses.

"For me!” he croaked

Horin's eyes widened and his jaw dropped, revealing a flawless set of teeth. “What do you mean, Lord Prelate?"

"I have always felt ... a little guilty about poor Urel's death,” he said through thick, nerveless lips. “This may show on my conscience."

Horin sat on the bed, his face a mask of concern. “Ah, but you have little concept of High Lodge Great Spells, Lord Thorn.” His words fell like cold ashes into the Prelate's ears. “Only facts will emerge from the Divinatory spell. Feelings of guilt and worry are quite immaterial.

"Are you sure there is nothing you wish to tell me?"

"I may, perhaps, have allowed the zeal for my duty to blind me to certain Guild procedures,” he mumbled, looking at his feet. “It is often difficult..."

His voice failed him and he shook his head, not in negation but in helplessness.

"I see,” Horin said, his expression bleak. “I am afraid the Laws are quite explicit about such matters; they know little of mitigating factors concerning a mage's position with the Guild.

"Are you admitting that there may be some truth in these accusations?" Thorn nodded. “A little, perhaps,” he croaked, desperate for a strong drink. Horin sighed, running bony fingers through his hair. “I may be able to help you,” he said. “However, you must answer my next questions with absolute truth if I am to have any chance of success. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lord Horin.” The Dominie's words had thrown Thorn a slender lifeline, and he seized it.

"Did you show negligence in ignoring Senior Magemaster Urel's concerns about the suitability of this boy, in your keenness to produce a new Questor?"

"Yes, Lord Dominie."

"Did this negligence lead directly to the death of the boy, and to that of the Magemaster?"

"It may have. I felt very confused..."

"Would you prefer Divination, Thorn?” Horin's tone was as cold, sharp and hard as an icicle. Thorn shook his head. “No, Lord Dominie. I confess that my ... negligence led directly to Magemaster Urel's death."

"That is better,” Horin said, his bushy brows hanging like thunderclouds over his grey eyes. “There is now no ‘but’ or ‘maybe'; only absolute, unqualified truth may save you. Now: did you wilfully and knowledgeably attempt to cover your folly and negligence by blaming Magemaster Urel for those deaths?

Lie to me, and I will leave this room, right now. I will no longer be able to help you. Do you understand me?"

Thorn sighed. “Yes,” he muttered.

"My hearing is not what it was, Lord Prelate,” Horin snapped. “Be so good as to speak up." Thorn raised his head. “Yes, Lord Dominie,” he said, forcing himself to meet Horin's gaze. “I lied under oath, and I allowed Urel to take the blame. Is that what you wish to hear?" Horin shook his head. “Indeed not. It displeases me to think that a House Prelate might do such a thing,”

he said. “It plays havoc with Guild discipline and prestige. This could be disastrous if not handled correctly."

The Prelate chewed his dry lips, trying to stimulate moisture to no effect. “What is ‘correct handling’

Lord Dominie?"

Horin leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands and rocking back and forth. At last, the Dominie spoke.

"If—and only if—you plead guilty to these counter-charges, without reservation,” he said, “I may be able to plead Personal Privilege, to restrict your sentence to irrevocable banishment from Guild lands. Otherwise, the sentence will be slow, painful death. The matter will be out of my hands." Silence hung in the air, like an anvil suspended over Thorn's head by a single thread. At last, he said,

“What must I do?"

"Confession is your only hope,” Horin replied. “You must write a full confession, exculpating the other prisoners of the charges against them, before the next meeting of the Conclave. The next interview is scheduled to be with Magemaster Crohn, tomorrow morning. If there is no letter from you by then, the Great Spell will be called, and I will be helpless to aid you. I can offer the Conclave strong guidance, but I cannot use a Point of Personal Privilege to order the exclude of valid evidence. If the Spell found Magemaster Crohn innocent, I can assure you, the rest of the Conclave would seek your blood with a vengeance.

"Two of them, including Prosecutor Rithel, are ex-Arnor men who respected Senior Magemaster Urel." Thorn felt his teeth grinding, but he saw no way out of this bind.

"If I write such a statement,” he croaked, “will you assure me that the Conclave will not impose the death sentence?"

"No,” Horin admitted. “However, I assure you that the maximum sentence will be a quick, painless death. I will press for banishment, and the Conclave is likely to accept my recommendation.

"The choice is yours. Confess, and you may live. That is all I can offer you" Thorn had faced many problems since he had first helped to disgrace Loras Afelnor, but all had been solved by the cachet of his rank or the relative importance of Arnor House; or by blaming someone else. However, this problem seemed intractable; it was an issue he had not foreseen. It seemed he had no choice, if he wanted to live.

"I'll write your damned confession, Horin,” then, throwing etiquette to the winds, “and be damned to you and all the bloody Guild lawyers. You're all the same, valuing petty details over significance."

"I will return in an hour to collect your confession,” Horin said, who seemed quite unfazed by Thorn's outburst. “You may have no outside contact during that time; if you try to attract the guard's attention, he will ignore you. Enjoy your meal, Prelate Thorn.

"Make sure it is not your last."

With that, Horin was gone, the cell door clanging with awful finality, and Thorn felt more alone than he had in his entire life.

Mother, help me, he thought before cursing himself for a fool. He could not contact Lizaveta from this iron box, and she might well be dead by now, assuming that Loras’ whelp of a grandson had succeeded in his Quest. She was the only person who might have helped him out of his predicament, and she was lost to him.

All my dreams, all my hopes, ruined. A life-long career, washed away in a moment of imbecilic rashness. I should never have made an enemy of that vapid idiot, Horin; that was a bad mistake. He knew that he had only a single ally in the world: his insane pseudo-Questor bodyguard, Chag Jura. That boy has so much power ... he almost brought Loras to his knees. If I could only free him, no group of superannuated, pampered High Lodge mages could hope to stand against the two of us. There has to be a way to reach him!

No, there are more important matters to handle now, Thorn. This damned letter will not wait. We will deal with Master Horin later.

Thorn took a sheet of fine vellum, a quill and a small bottle of ink from the small cabinet beside his bed. He picked up Peltian's autobiography put it on his lap, laid the expensive page over it, dipped the quill in the ink and began to write, in a fluent, cursive hand:

'I, Thorn Virias, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Iron-willed, Prelate of Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, do make the following statement of my own free will:'

He poised the quill above the page, hesitating a few moments before continuing.

'With full knowledge of the gravity of my crime, I acknowledge complete culpability and negligence in the death of a House representative: to wit, Urel Shelit, Mage Illusionist of the Seventh Rank, called the Dreamweaver...'

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 35: Judgment

For the first time since his incarceration in High Lodge, Loras Afelnor stood before the Conclave in the company of his fellow defendants, Crohn, Kargan and Dalquist. As he stood facing the wall of darkness, behind which sat his accusers, Loras felt a warm glow of companionship with the men he had come to regard as his friends.

Whatever happens here, gentlemen, thank you for your support, he thought, as the gavel banged and Prosecutor Rithel began his familiar, tedious opening speech.

On his previous appearance in court, Loras gave the testimony he had discussed with Lord Horin, but he knew Rithel had been unconvinced, and several other members of the Conclave had seemed far from swayed by his arguments. Doubtless, his reputation as the disgraced Oathbreaker must have spoken against him. He trusted Horin to be as good as his word and introduce the ‘new evidence’ he had

‘discovered'.

"We are here today to pass judgment on these defendants concerning charges of unlawful mutiny and the attempted overthrow of a House Prelate: to wit, Lord Thorn Virias, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Iron-willed, honoured Prelate and Acclaimed Master of Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges,” the harsh-voiced Prosecutor intoned.

“Each charge carries a maximum sentence of death. How say you, Manipulator Crohn Bowe, called the Mindstealer? Address your plea to the Chairman."

Crohn cleared his throat, and Loras heard him take a deep breath. “Not Guilty, Lord Dominie, by reason of extenuating circumstances."

Loras breathed a sigh of relief. A ‘Guilty’ plea would have condemned all of them. Rithel made the same demand of each of the accused in turn, and he received the same answer from each. Loras was the last to speak, and he fought to keep his voice level. The Prosecutor grunted. “Gentlemen of the Conclave, it is my intention to demand the severest possible sentence for each of the accused. I therefore propose to present a full summary of the evidence against these men."

"Seconded."

"A moment, Prosecutor Rithel,” Horin drawled, and Loras’ heart felt as if it had vaulted into his throat. “I have here a piece of paper which casts new light on the case. I move that it be read to the Conclave." The motion was quickly seconded and passed.

"I, Thorn Virias, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank,” Horin read, “called the Iron-willed, Prelate of Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, do make the following statement of my own free will: With full knowledge of the gravity of my crime, I acknowledge complete culpability and negligence in the death of a House representative: to wit, one Urel Shelit, Mage Illusionist of the Seventh Rank, called the ‘Dream-weaver.’”

Loras’ eyes opened to their full extent, and his jaw dropped for a moment. This was not what he had expected to hear!

"In addition, I admit to conspiring against a brother mage: to wit, Loras Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Firelord. I declare the said Questor Loras innocent of the attempted murder of Lord Prelate Geral Fursh, called the Tempest.

"Loras was beguiled and deceived by a powerful Geomantic spell cast by one not of this Guild: to wit, my mother, Prioress Lizaveta, Superior of Rendale Priory. I was party to this deception, in full measure, dominated as I was by the overpowering will of my evil mother."

Loras had to lean on his staff in order to remain upright, his head whirling and giddy.

"Breathe, Questor Loras,” Kargan whispered into the Questor's left ear, and Loras realised he had been holding his breath. With his heart pounding fit to break his ribs, he complied with the Magemaster's advice.

The remainder of the letter was a litany of self-accusation and admission, giving details of Thorn's dealings with his mother and his various deceptions and acts of cruelty, culminating in the creation of the poor, mindless, insane Questor Chag, his personal bodyguard. It specifically exonerated the defendants, stating that they were justified in the actions they had taken.

"It is therefore with shame that I declare myself unfit to hold the post of House Prelate, and I throw myself on the Conclave's bounteous mercy,” the Dominie read.

The silence in the chamber was heavy, cloying and oppressive, but Loras felt unable to speak.

"Gentlemen of the Conclave,” Horin intoned, as the stillness became almost unbearable. “Prelate Thorn gave me this letter in person, and it bears his seal. He has agreed to testify before the Conclave, but he has asked that a mitigating plea of force majeure be entered on his behalf."

"Really, Lord Chairman...” Rithel began, but his voice was weak and dull, and it faltered to a halt before he had raised a formal objection.

"You all heard Questor Thorn's former testimony,” Horin said. “Did he seem insane or unhinged at any time?"

No answer came.

"On the basis of this free and full confession, I move that the defendants’ pleas of extenuating circumstances be accepted, and that they be set at liberty, with commendations for brave and resolute action against an insidious threat to our Craft and our Order. Under Guild Law, the motion must be passed unanimously. I therefore urge each member of the Conclave to examine his conscience before answering."

Coldness seemed to seep into Loras’ very soul, and he felt as if the walls were closing in on him, threatening to crush him.

"Well, gentlemen?” Horin chided, his soft entreaty sounding like a thunderclap to the Questor's sensitive ears. “Will you accept this new motion, or not?"

"Accepted, Lord Chairman!"

Loras could not identify the lone voice, but he sent silent thanks to the brave man who responded first. This initial declaration seemed to spur the other members, setting off an avalanche of acceptances, merging and blurring into a collage of sound:

"I agree."

"Not guilty!"

"I concur."

At last, the hubbub ended, and Horin said, “Your decision, Prosecutor Rithel?" After a long pause, Rithel spoke in a hesitant voice: “May I address the Conclave and the defendants directly, Lord Chairman?"

"You may."

The Prosecutor stepped forward from the shadows, and Loras saw him for the first time. Rithel was a tall, rail-thin man, his expression impenetrable and dark. Long, grey tendrils of hair swathed his deeply-lined face, and his robe was an unadorned, black tent, cinched at the waist by a simple length of cord.

"This has been a long and difficult case,” Rithel declared, his eyes fixed on his feet. “It did not seem so at first; mutiny against an ordained Prelate is an abomination that cannot be tolerated, and the defendants’

guilt seemed beyond reasonable doubt ... indeed, beyond any doubt. Even after this new evidence, I still regard the defendants’ actions as reprehensible in the extreme. They should have brought any concerns to the attention of the Presidium, instead of taking matters into their own hands—"

"Prelate Thorn is a member of the Presidium—"Questor Dalquist interrupted, his face flushed and his mouth twisted.

Rithel banged his seven-ringed staff on the stone floor. “Silence!” he shouted. “I have not yet finished!"

"My apologies, Lord Chairman,” the young Questor muttered.

Rithel grunted. “Nonetheless,” he continued, “I acknowledge a measure of implausibility in the concept of a large group of respected mages deciding to rebel in such a public manner at the same time. I regarded Questor Loras’ guilt as explicit, due to his prior conviction, but I am not now so sure. It is easier to believe in one mage's treachery than in that of four. However, I still cannot accept that it is right to take matters into one's own hands—"

"Time is pressing,” Horin chided. “Do you accept the motion or not? Your decision, please, Prosecutor Rithel."

After a long pause, Rithel said with evident reluctance, “I ... I accept the motion! I feel so betrayed and

... dirty at this revelation of Prelate Thorn's treachery. Yet another damned, low-born Questor—" Bang-bang-bang-bang!

"Thank you, Prosecutor Rithel; that will be quite enough! Your declaration suffices!” Horin cried.

"Gentlemen—Brother Mages—I declare you Not Guilty, and I offer the Conclave's apologies for the tribulations you have undergone. I declare you free men, and I honour your courage in overthrowing a cruel tyrant and a self-avowed apostate, who threatened our whole way of life. You have done well, and your meritorious acts will be recorded in the annals of the Guild.

"Questor Loras is declared innocent, and he is discharged without the least stain on his character for any former act. He regains his full status as a Questor of the Seventh Rank, his cognomen, ‘Firelord', his former accolades in the Deeds of the Questors and his seniority. Is there any dissension?

"No?"

Bang-bang.

"The defendants are excused."

The darkness fled away, and Loras saw the whole Conclave exposed in the glorious light of a new morning, its golden rays flooding through the wide bay windows of the chamber. Rithel shook his head in apparent disbelief, but he did not speak.

Kargan was the first one to react, throwing his arms around Loras’ shoulders.

"We did it!” he crowed, slapping the astounded Questor on the back.

"The Chairman of the Conclave records a minor censure against Mentalist Kargan, for the unauthorised casting of a Schedule Nine spell,” Horin droned, “and sentences the said mage to one month of close confinement and loss of seniority for the said period. Since the said mage has already undergone six weeks of imprisonment, this sentence is declared discharged."

"Thank you, Lord Dominie,” Kargan whispered, still clinging onto the stunned Questor. I am free, Loras thought, shaking his head in disbelief.

He could no longer think; he could not look at anyone on the crowded room. He could not speak. He was full.

"Loras Firelord!” The Dominie's voice cracked like a whip, jerking the Questor out of his confused reverie. “I wish to address you in person. Please approach the bench." Loras was old by Secular standards, although still young for a Guild Mage; however, he felt feeble and ancient as Kargan released him with a whispered, “Welcome back, Firelord." He trudged towards the grim-faced Dominie as if his feet were encased in lead, his breathing swift and shallow.

"You are improperly dressed, Questor Loras!” Horin snapped, a half-smile belying the censorious tone of his voice. “Where is your Guild Ring?"

Loras shrugged, incapable of speech. Grimm has it, may the Names bless him, he thought, but his mouth and tongue seemed to have turned to stone.

"This belonged to Lord Thorn,” Horin said, extending his hand to reveal a small gold-blue ring. “He wants you to take it, and to bring honour to it, where he has brought only shame." The stoical smith, the impassionate and mighty Questor, the stern grandfather, broke down into hot, long-denied tears before his senior. It did not last long; no more than five tears trickled down his burning cheeks before he shook them away, as if denying them.

I am a Questor! he reminded himself, glorying in the prestige of the title. He drew several tremulous breaths, and he extended his trembling right hand, its palm upwards. The small ring dropped into it, and Loras closed his fingers around his long-denied birthright. As the wide-eyed members of the Conclave looked on, Loras felt as if his supportive, former co-defendants’ gazes were also burning into his back.

"Please, Brother Mage. A Guild Mage is naked without his ring. Put it on." The ring looked far too small to fit on any of his thick, calloused digits, but Loras knew this would change. He offered it to the bare third finger on his left hand, and the ring convulsed and grew, sliding onto the digit as if had been made for him.

The magic, gold and blue annulus conformed to the dimensions of Loras’ calloused, smithy-worn finger in an instant, suffusing him with a pride he had not felt since his staff had rebounded from the Breaking Stone at Arnor House, so many decades ago.

Loras stared at his hand, turning it so that the ring caught the sun's light and gleamed. He felt almost reborn, and he longed to take Drima, his devoted wife, into his strong arms and share in her long, unshaken faith in him. Even in his darkest days, she had stood beside him, giving him the will to carry on through decades of self-condemnation, shame and regret. Now, it felt as if his life had been suspended all that time, and it had now begun anew.

He felt warm joy suffusing him. Now, I can show myself to the world as a true mage. I can greet Grimm as an equal, and we can toast each other's successes ... I do not have to be ashamed of my past any more.

"Thank you, Lord Dominie and gentlemen of the Conclave,” he said, regaining his starchy, formal, Questor's voice. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have given me my life back." He stepped back from the table and executed an immaculate bow, and a sallow, saturnine-faced member of the Conclave began to applaud. In a few moments, other mages joined in, and, at last, even Prosecutor Rithel contributed a few, half-hearted claps.

"Welcome back, Brother Mage,” Horin said, as the reborn Questor turned and walked back towards his smiling comrades, his head spinning.

The Dominie's gavel banged once more, and the applause stuttered to a halt. “I declare this session of the Conclave closed,” he said. “You are free men, and I extend the hospitality of High Lodge to you for as long as you wish to remain here."

"Thank you, Lord Chairman,” Crohn said in a stiff, stilted voice. “My Students’ education suffers in my absence, and I wish to return to Arnor House as soon as possible."

"So do I,” Kargan declared, his eyes misty. “We have been gone for too long. Anarchy may be breaking out in the Scholasticate even now."

Horin shook his head. “You are dedicated and honourable men, but you need not fear for your Students, Neophytes and Adepts. Each of four teaching Houses has seconded a Magemaster to fulfil your invaluable roles. The Arnor Scholasticate is in good hands.

"Come, now, gentlemen. The last few weeks must have imposed considerable strain on you. I am sure a few days of relaxation will revitalise you for when you return to Arnor House. Your positions and seniorities within your Scholasticate are confirmed."

"Relaxation ... it seems such a frivolous concept,” Crohn said, frowning. “However, I accept your offer with gratitude."

"I wish to wait for my grandson's arrival here,” Loras declared, his chest puffed out with pride. After a few moments’ silence, Kargan said, “I want a drink—very large, very cold and very potent." Loras laughed, long and loud. The sound was unfamiliar to his ears, and he revelled in the strange, comforting feeling it gave him.

Trust a Seventh Rank Mentalist to read my thoughts, he thought, shaking with long-suppressed humour.

"I ... I would not ... object,” he gasped, trying to regain his stern demeanour.

"Nor I, Brother Mage,” Dalquist said. “The last few months have been difficult, and I, for one, wouldn't object to a little recuperation before I return to the rigours of a Questor's life. What do you say, Magemaster Crohn?"

"Oh, very well.” Crohn sighed. “Perhaps my enthusiasm for my calling has waned a little of late; a modicum of alcohol and some good food might renew my zeal."

"Then that is decided,” Horin said, his smile fading. “I would gladly join you, but the Conclave now has other pressing matters to discuss."

The Dominie stood and banged his staff on the floor three times, and the double doors to the chamber swung open to reveal an ashen-faced Olaf, bearing a heavy load of iron shackles.

"The fetters will not be required, Questor Olaf,” Horin said. “These men are Guild Mages. The Conclave thanks you for your inestimable and meritorious support during this difficult period. You fulfilled your onerous duties in accordance with the highest dictates of Guild protocol; you will receive a special mention in the Deeds of the Questors."

Olaf's jaw dropped, and the weighty, cumbersome chains clattered to the floor. Loras approached his old friend, smiling.

"Is it true, Loras?” he whispered.

"It is, Brother Mage,” the younger Questor replied, showing the gleaming ring on his left hand. “I am no longer Loras the Smith, but Loras Firelord, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank." Olaf's lips moved without sound for a few seconds, and then he lunged at Loras, throwing his arms around the smith's burly back, his hands hammering on Loras’ shoulder blades.

"Well done, Brother Bile!” he crowed, having regained his full voice. “I expected ... I do not know what I expected, but this was no part of it."

"These reprobates have prevailed upon me to join them in the ingestion of a few beverages, Questor Olaf,” Crohn intoned, his expression suggesting that he had accepted only with the greatest regret.

“Would you care to accompany us?"

Blinking and wiping the back of his left hand over his eyes, Olaf nodded and released his hold on Loras. The five mages strode out of the chamber with their heads high, and the doors clicked shut behind them. Loras felt as if the sound marked the closing of one long, dark chapter in his life and the beginning of another, promising a new, exciting, glorious future.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 36: Travellers

Grimm sat next to General Quelgrum, holding on tight as the wagon shimmied and jounced on the rough road, the four horses pulling the vehicle at a considerable speed. Every bounce shot hot twinges of pain through his damaged body, but he tolerated them as best he could.

"Well, it's no ATV, or chopper, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, raising his voice over the clamour of the wheels and hooves, “but it should get us to High Lodge in good time.” The old soldier seemed in excellent spirits.

"I understood the part about High Lodge, General, but not the rest,” Grimm replied. “What are Aitivees and choppers? I presume they're Technological artefacts of some kind." Quelgrum nodded. “An ATV is an All-Terrain Vehicle: a machine with rolling tracks or large wheels that can handle swamps, deserts or rocky outcrops. We used one to bring you to our base by the hydroelectric dam at Glabra."

Grimm remembered the noisy, battered, chaotic-looking conveyance well. Quelgrum's name for the vehicle seemed a little extravagant, but the mage had to admit that it had handled the desert sand well, and at some speed.

"And a ‘chopper’ is..."

"A machine like the air vehicle Pilot Foster used to take you from Haven,” the General explained, and Grimm remembered the whipping, chopping sound the machine's spinning wings had made as it traversed the sky.

"It's a good name,” he declared. “Thank you, General. At least I know a little more about Technology now."

Grimm knew well how the ancient art of Technology was despised throughout the Guild, but, even as a mere Student, he had realised that the maligned, destructive discipline held wonders as well as horrors. When he returned to his home town of Crar, Grimm decided, he would learn as much as he could about all the Technological marvels at Quelgrum's disposal.

The wagon bounced and skittered along for about half a mile more before Quelgrum spoke again.

"Did Sister Mercia say why she wanted to accompany us?"

Grimm shrugged. “Her home is in ruins,” he said. “She has no friends or known relations, and she was scared to be left alone in the world. I said I'd speak to Physician Querl back at Crar. I'm sure he'd be grateful for her help."

"So that's what she said, is it, Lord Baron? I understand,” Quelgrum said, and Grimm saw that the old soldier's mouth bore a strange half-smile.

* * * *

Drex sat in the back of the wagon, her eyes fixed on her feet. She felt confined by the press of bodies around her. To her left sat Sergeant Erik, the gangling fumbler, who was engaged in some inane conversation with Tordun, the oversized ogler...

Her thoughts began to snarl and tangle, and she bit her top lip. Whenever she called up the image of any of Questor Grimm's entourage, her mind lit up with a specific, unvarying phrase for each of them ... except for Seneschal Shakkar.

She cast a fugitive glance at Shakkar, the one member of the group she felt she could trust. The demon sat at the very back of the vehicle, looking out of the opening in the canvas cover. He had pointed out this quirk to her: the foul rapist ... as Grimm had caused her considerable confusion over the same matter. Now she could no longer hear Prioress Lizaveta's blandishments and harangues, she felt increasingly bereft of direction and confidence as the rude vehicle carried her further away from Rendale.

"Are you ill, Sister?” a solicitous voice from her left asked.

Drex ignored Sister Mercia and tried to bring order to her mental processes.

"I may be able to help,” the nun insisted, and Drex forced herself to keep her reply civil.

"It is of no importance, Sister,” she said. “I ... I miss the familiar routine of the Order; that is all."

"So do I,” Mercia admitted, and Drex wished she would just leave her alone. “Do you wish to discuss it?

It may help us both."

"I doubt it,” Drex replied, shaking her head. “I don't want to talk, and I don't need your healing skills. Please, be silent."

She looked across at Tordun, still deep in animated argument with Erik about the relative merits of popular pugilists. He did not spare her as much as a sly glance; he even seemed to be making an effort not to do so.

Would he do that if he was a lust-ridden voyeur?

Drex tried to will the traitorous thought away, but it remained, prickling and tickling a corner of her mind, like an irritating thistle lodged under a horse's saddle.

Am I losing my mind? she wondered. I know Grimm took advantage of me, and his companions are just as contemptible ... except for Shakkar.

What's happening to me? Why did I agree to go to this hotbed of Names-cursed, male magic-users?

The answer flew into her mind with pure, almost blinding light: Justice for Prioress Lizaveta; the chance to show these ruffians and despoilers in their true colours. What is your mere convenience compared to those laudable goals?

Drex knew this was no message from the Reverend Mother, but a reminder from within her own psyche. She wished Prioress Lizaveta could still contact her, to fortify her resolve and strengthen her. Within the Priory, with its close, comforting links to Mother Earth, she had found true peace and contentment; a mission in life. Since leaving it, she had known only pain and confusion, and she had lost the power the Prioress had awoken within her.

The world is confusion, hatred and covetousness. The familiar, rote-learned phrase slotted into place, but it gave her little solace. She needed advice, not litany!

Nonetheless, she began to mutter, “Reverend Mother, show me the way. Reverend Mother, guide me. Reverend Mother, correct my faults. Reverend Mother, show me the way..." She clenched her fists and her eyelids as she tried to find the inner peace she sought, but it did not come. It is them, she thought, as she continued to chant under her breath. Grimm, Tordun and the others; they are trying to destroy my faith.

"The real trial starts now, eh, Sister?"

Mercia's unwelcome words burst into her head like a thunderclap, and Drex's chant faltered to a halt.

"What did you say?” she snapped, spinning round to face Mercia.

"I said, ‘the real trial starts now',” Mercia replied, her face blank. “I meant that life will be difficult and unfamiliar for us in the world. Pray, Sister, tell me what I did to offend you." Her tone was tremulous and pleading, but Drex did not feel charitable.

"Shut up, Sister,” she said. “Why, you're chatt'rin’ like a bloody hen-house when Mister Wolf come callin'!"

She slapped a hand over her mouth, as if she could somehow deny the words that had just burst from it.

"Please, Sister, what did I do?"

Drex ignored Mercia's plea, as the phrase ‘the real trial begins here,’ reverberated and hammered through her mind, growing ever louder, drowning out the rumble of the cart and the noise of the warriors’

animated argument. Now, she put her hands over her ears, but she could not blot out the seemingly innocuous words.

Louder and louder, the phrase seemed to drive her soul inwards, compressing and crushing it into a point.

"Plenty, my darling girl, but we didn't want to rush you. We always ensured you had just enough free will to think you had the better of us. The whole process was designed to make you burst from your shell, my dear, and it did just that. The real trial begins now. Once the genie has escaped from the bottle, it cannot be replaced."

Prioress Lizaveta had spoken those words an age before, and Drex had replied, “You haven't beaten me yet, bitch. I'll resist you with every fibre of my being, and I'll curse you with every breath. At the first chance I get, I'll kill myself. You won't have me."

Other forgotten words began to balloon into her soul, swelling it and strengthening it, although Drex tried her best to suppress them:

"Roast in Hell, bitch."

"At least she won't be able to use me against Grimm. I hope he rips her heart out!"

"I'll see you in Hell before I'll submit to you, bitch!"

"You'll have to do better than that, you old cow! I've been beaten by the best, and you aren't even close!

Grimm will..."

Drex gasped in pain as the angry phrases battered into her bruised psyche. The voice was hers, but she could not, would not believe that she had ever spoken such words to her beloved teacher.

"Sister...” Mercia's voice was sharp, insistent.

"Shut up!” Drex cried, although the words came out as a hoarse bark that was almost smothered by the noise of the wagon's passage.

"Please, Sister, leave me in peace!"

She was not even sure if Mercia had heard this final, impassioned plea.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter 37: Realisation

Grimm felt his eyelids growing heavy, and his head began to nod as the wagon's metronomic rattle and the soft birdsong from the trees began to unwind the tense knots in his nerves and muscles. The sun's warm, morning rays seemed to fill his body with lassitude and long-denied, blessed acceptance. He was Grimm Dragonblaster, a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank. He was Grimm Afelnor, the son and grandson of poor blacksmiths. He was the wealthy Baron Grimm of Crar. He was a Weapon of the Guild; a destroyer. He was a passionate young man and a would-be lover, from whom the Guild's misogynistic dictates and the Geomantic wiles of an evil, disembodied woman had stripped the solace he sought. He was a lonely man who longed to restore the good name of his grandfather. I'm all these people, he thought, abandoning the effort to keep his eyes open. Why deny it? Why fight it?

My life may be one of conflict and struggle, but at least it isn't tedious or humdrum. The world provides me with more than enough conflict, without me adding to it by fighting myself. He thought of his staunchest friend and ally, Questor Dalquist, so earnest and dedicated. Dalquist had suffered, destroyed and struggled for longer than Grimm had, but he remained good-natured and even-tempered, at ease with himself.

Dalquist has come to terms with the contradictions in his life, he told himself. He doesn't seem to agonise about every decision and every action the way I do. Being a Questor doesn't have to turn a man into an unfeeling monster, so why am I working to turn myself into one? Dalquist knows what I am, and he doesn't hate me, so why must I?

If I could only—

His eyes jerked open as the wagon lurched backwards and to the right, and his injured hip and ribs clamoured for his attention, drawing a sharp, agonised gasp from him. The vehicle emitted a groaning scream and heeled over to the right, and he saw General Quelgrum struggle to bring the horses to a halt, soothing the whickering animals with a few soft words. He heard a series of startled cries from inside the vehicle as he rubbed his left hip and willed the pain to subside.

"No need to panic, friends,” the General declared. “Something's broken." Grimm slid down from the side of the wagon, taking care to land on his right foot. Using Redeemer as a crutch, he hobbled around to the right side of the vehicle as the other travellers spilled out of it to inspect the damage.

"We've lost a wheel,” Sergeant Erik said, pointing to the misshapen article. Grimm saw that at least two spokes had splintered.

Mercia leaned over to inspect the shattered wheel. “Can we mend it?” she asked, her eyes wide.

"Not a chance, Sister,” Erik replied, shaking his head. “We'd need a carpenter's lathe and a forge." Drex stood with her arms crossed over her chest, and Mercia looked upwards, as if the sky might give her help.

"How far is Anjar behind us?” Grimm asked, after a few moments of silence. “From what you said, Shakkar, they're decent people."

"I would guess Anjar lies about forty miles from us, Lord Baron,” the grey demon rumbled. “I could fly there and back within a day—"

"With the greatest respect, Lord Seneschal,” Erik said, “do you really think even you could bring back a carpenter with all his tools? Or a smith and his forge?"

"We don't need a forge,” Grimm declared, shaking his head. “It will be easy to remove the tyre now. I can heat it enough to expand it so we can replace it. When it cools, it'll shrink back onto the repaired wheel and hold it tight. If you take an unbroken spoke back to Anjar, you should be able to find a carpenter to make replacements."

Quelgrum twisted around and said, “A small problem there, Lord Baron: we have no money left. The Anjarians are generous, but they can't afford to do everything for nothing. I spent all our remaining funds on the wagon, four horses, food, drink and the physician's fees for all the injured nuns—"

"You did that, General?” Drex cried, her voice a keening yelp. “You paid for the physician's services?"

"I did, Sister,” the old soldier replied. “I found quite a lot of our money and our weapons lying on the ground around Merrydeath Road, but the zombies took a lot with them. I have no intention of trying to get it back by digging around that Names-cursed hellhole."

"I can't argue with that, General,” Erik said.

"We may have no choice,” Mercia said and sighed.

"I may be able to help."

The voice from the back of the wagon was soft, and it took a few moments for Grimm to realise who had spoken, before Necromancer Numal hopped down from the vehicle's tailgate.

"You?"

Drex's voice was cool and scathing, but Numal just shrugged.

Grimm felt equally dubious about the hapless Necromancer's abilities, but he kept them to himself. If he's thinking about using Minor Magic to repair the spokes, he can forget about it, the Questor thought. Reintegration spells only work on inanimate minerals, and wood's a living substance. Still, I don't want to dishearten the man; it's good to see him volunteering to help. Perhaps a gentle reminder would be advisable, though, just to save him from embarrassment...

"Thank you so much, Necromancer Numal,” he said. “Unfortunately, my own powers don't work on living matter."

"Dead matter, Questor Grimm,” the older mage said with a smile. “That is an important difference. I know dead things. There are a few hidden paths within the Minor Magic that only we Necromancers can follow."

Grimm nodded, answering Numal's toothy beam with one of his own.

I've been too used to thinking of Specialists as inferior to Questors, he thought. They're just ... different from us.

"What do you need, Brother Mage?” he asked

Numal rubbed his thin, grey beard. “We need to collect all the splinters and shards we can find,” he declared. “The more of the original material we can assemble, the stronger the mend will be."

"They already look fairly complete to me,” Erik said, holding up one of the broken, bottle-shaped spokes. “See? This one's cracked and splintered, but there doesn't seem to be any wood missing."

"We need to make the spokes look as near to their original condition as possible, Sergeant,” Numal said.

“Think of it like straightening a broken bone before splinting it."

"I can do that,” Mercia declared. “I have set many broken bones in my time as a Healer."

"Grimm said, “Before we do that, we'll need to remove the wheel. Can we prop up the front of the wagon and hammer out the retaining spike?"

"You need no prop, Lord Baron,” Shakkar said, with what might have been a disdainful sniff. “I can lift and hold this vehicle as easily as I can draw breath."

"I can hammer out the spike with a rock,” Tordun offered.

The wheel was removed in less than a minute. Shakkar's biceps scarcely seemed to twitch as he hoisted up the front of the vehicle. Tordun struck three times with a grapefruit-sized rock he found at the side of the road, swinging the wheel free with only a soft grunt to show his exertion. In a few moments more, the metal rim was off, and the damaged spokes were pulled from the hub. On Grimm's advice, Tordun took care to pull only on the undamaged portions of the spokes, nearest to the hub. He bore off the freed booty to the waiting Mercia, who began to wrest the spokes into a semblance of their former shape with surprising strength. When she pronounced herself satisfied, Numal took the damaged members from her and began to chant.

* * * *

Drex sat on a grassy bank at the side of the road, feeling numb and lonely. Not even her faithful, former protector, Shakkar, cast her so much as a glance as he regarded Numal's performance. She saw Grimm standing next to Mercia, leaning on his staff like an old, huddled man: he, too, seemed intent only on the Necromancer's actions. Sergeant Erik and General Quelgrum chatted idly about some insignificant, tedious, military matter, but she saw the older soldier's gaze fall often on the young Healer. Tordun sat under a large tree, protecting his pale, sensitive skin from the sun's rays. Despite his damaged eyes, he looked at peace.

What about ME? Where's my happiness? she wanted to scream, but she knew that would be unseemly behaviour for a member of the Anointed Score.

She began to notice how the Necromancer's knotted, liver-spotted hands caressed the damaged wood in a soft, rhythmic motion as he crooned and muttered to it.

Just as Grimm once held me.

The unwelcome thought popped into her unwary mind, and she could not dismiss it. She found her breathing becoming short and stuttering, no matter how she tried to retain her image of purity and aloofness. Something sensuous about the Necromancer's movements struck her, and she could not erase it from her mind.

His hands look just like Grimm's hands did on me...

Fugitive images flickered into reality and, just as swiftly, disappeared: the large bed in the white tower at Crar; Grimm leaning over her, his face flushed and sweaty, but peaceful; idyllic mornings, spent at her beloved's side.

What followed that blissful, guilt-free congress? Whips, chains and imprecations! Endless hours of torment, of kneeling on sharp stones, of cleaning the dried blood from her white robes! The chants—the unending, droning paeans of submission, abjection and self-denial!

Drex saw Mercia lean close to Grimm and whisper something in his ear, smiling as she did so. Grimm smiled in return as he replied.

Something snapped inside her, shattering with a tumultuous crash within her mind.

"He's mine,” she whispered, feeling a powerful surge of long-suppressed passion and possessiveness.

"He's MINE, you little bitch!” she cried, as she leapt to her feet. “Get away from Grimm!" Silence reigned; the birds in the trees and the insects in the grass stopped singing, and Drex saw every eye fixed on her. Numal continued to chant, but even he stared at her.

"He's ... he's mine,” she whispered, as hot tears tickled at the margins of her eyes. Drex stayed them for as long as she could, but then gave rein to her dammed-up emotions. She began to sob, her shoulders shaking and her body heaving. She closed her eyes in an attempt to stem the sudden flood, but she could not do so. After a few moments, she felt a strong arm around her shoulder, drawing her forwards. She tried to resist, but the arm was too strong for her.

"It's all right, my love,” a soft, familiar voice said, with just a trace of tremulousness. “I'm here; I'll always be here, if you'll have me."

She buried her head in Grimm's chest, hearing his swift, shallow heartbeat echoing her own, and she clasped him tight in her arms.

"You didn't rape me, Grimm,” she whispered, not knowing if he heard her or not, but she did not care.

“Never. Never!

"I'm sorry, Grimm.” Her voice grew louder, stronger. “I'm ... I'm yours, and I always will be."

"It'll be all right now, Drex."

Drexelica felt his voice rumble in his chest as she crushed her head into it, not daring to relinquish her hold on him.

* * * *

Drex's sobbing subsided to a gentle quiver as Grimm sat with her beside the road. He kept his arm around her, as if he could draw all the pain and anguish from her. He felt glad that the other travellers had the gentility to leave them alone. He felt quite at peace, at terms with what and who he was. He was many men, but this particular man was the one he most wanted to be. This was the Drex he loved; not one of Lizaveta's facsimiles, even though he knew the Prioress’ soul remained somewhere within her body.

"Will we be going back to Crar?” she asked, looking up at him with moist eyes.

"Eventually,” he said, “one way or another."

"And just what be you meaning by ‘one way or another', Grimm Afelnor?” she demanded, and the mage felt overjoyed at the brief resurgence of the unfussy Grivense patois she had been at such pains to eradicate from her diction.

"I want to tell everyone about it: Lord Thorn; Lord Horin; everyone. I want to scream it from the rooftops: ‘I love Drex!'” he said.

"So why can't you, Grimm?"

"I've broken Guild Law just by letting you into my life,” he said, with an unhappy shrug. “You know that. I'll still owe the House for my tuition for many more years; that's why I've tried to keep our relationship a secret. I don't want to live with that any longer, but they do have a hold over me. Perhaps they'll accept money in lieu of my continued service—I'm rich enough now—but they don't have to. And ... even if I can give up my service to the Guild, I'll also have to give up working to redeem my family name. That means so much to me."

"Then don't,” she said, with stark finality, her mouth fixed in a firm, determined line. “I don't mind being your secret lover, as long as I'm your only lover. I'll be your docile housekeeper, or anything you want me to be, as long as I'm yours. As long as I don't have to hide, and as long as I can be me."

"I have a Quest to complete,” he said, “and it involves you, too. We have to return to High Lodge, with your soul cargo intact.

"We have to, Drex, otherwise we'll never be free. If we just run away, they'll hunt us down, and I'll be just another damned Oathbreaker like Granfer."

"I hate the old witch, now I remember what she put me through,” the girl whispered, with fierce intensity.

“How she tried to turn me against you, and how she made us both suffer. I'd give almost anything not to have to go through it. However, if I have to deliver the evil cow to your High bloody Lodge just so we can stay together, I'll do it."

Grimm rubbed his forehead. “I don't know what they'll do to find out the truth, Drex,” he said. “I don't know what Lizaveta will say to them. The whole ... thing between us may come out. I don't know if I can stop it."

"Then we'll face it together,” Drex said, her expression looking stern but loving. “They can't kill us ... can they?"

"They won't kill you,” Grimm said, shaking his head. “Don't worry about that. I'm pretty sure they won't kill me either—I'm too valuable to them as a Questor—but they could do something to make me a little more ... tractable."

Just a few minutes ago, he had felt happy with his lot, but Drex's sudden change had thrown a new, difficult problem into his life; however, this was a problem he knew he must not ignore, nor try to diminish. He did not want to.

Whatever happened, he knew there was only one answer.

"No matter what they do, Drex,” he said, feeling his blood rising in determination. “I want to face it with you, and only with you.

"I won't love anyone else, ever. I only want to be with you, whatever happens!"

"That's all I want,” she said, her lips curling into an almost beatific smile, and he felt his heart surge in response. “If you have to give me up, you have to: just remember me always in your heart. All I—"

"I think they're as good as they're ever going to be,” Numal cried, and Grimm returned to the real world.

"I'm sorry, Drex,” he said, giving her a swift but passionate kiss, which she returned in full measure. “I'm needed."

"You certainly are,” she said, as he rose to his feet with the help of Redeemer. “I know you'll do a good job of it—whatever you have to do."

Despite the nagging pains in his left leg and his ribs, Grimm walked towards the other travellers with a song in his heart.

* * * *

Sprit-Lizaveta gasped as she felt the last dregs of earth-power fade with Weranda's—Drexelica's—words.

The disembodied soul thrashed and screamed to no effect. Devoid of her intimate contact with the nourishing, empowering earth, she felt her strength wilting like a candle in the fierce heat of a forge. Guy ... listen to me. LISTEN, rot you! Answer me!

She tried to contact her host, but she could not do so; all she received in return was a package of anguish, self-doubt and suppressed guilt.

Somebody ... talk to me ... talk to me...

Lizaveta had faced many setbacks in her long life, and she had defeated them all by guile, cunning and native power. Now, she, the pre-eminent witch of her age, was a helpless prisoner in the body of a callow girl. For the first time in her life since she had been the violated vassal of a Temperan slave-trader, whom she had later killed with her nascent Geomantic skills, she felt utterly alone and powerless. It's all going wrong! Damn Afelnor and his bumbling grandson! Damn this worthless girl and the traitorous Score! Damn them all!

Labouring under the sick, heavy mantle of dread certainty, she realised that she had failed to complete the spell she had begun to cast on her grandson. She knew Geomancy had little in common with its mechanistic, male equivalent, but the concept of an inescapable, ever-amplifying Resonance was well-known to practitioners of both arts.

She knew she had given Guy the first part of his mission: Go to High Lodge. The next part of the spell contained the message, Dominie Horin must be killed. Soon, I will identify the chosen assassin to you, and tell you your part in the deed. Wait for my signal. If you waver in your resolve, you will know my displeasure like this!

Guy must have received at least part of her spell, but Lizaveta did not know how much. If he only heard a small part of it ... oh, Names, this could be disastrous!

The corporeal Lizaveta would have sighed in dismay. As it was, the spirit-Prioress had to content herself with the fight to prevent her personality being submerged under her host's. Her former handmaiden, Drexelica, had forsaken her.

The stupid girl had succumbed again to Afelnor's blandishments and in so doing had deprived Lizaveta's wandering spirit of her last vestiges of power. The Prioress's spirit raged within her fleshy prison, but to no avail. Only one path seemed available to her; she needed to find another, more controllable host—and soon!

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Chapter 38: Travels

The road became narrow and rutted, and Grimm regretted his advice to General Quelgrum to give Yoren such a wide berth. The ill-sprung wagon jolted and jarred as if it were some living creature trying to escape its leash, and the young mage began to wonder how much longer he would be able to hold on to his last meal.

Only another two days, he told himself. Then we'll be back in civilisation, with decent roads ahead of us. The thought did not enthuse him much: they had been bouncing on this dirt track for only four hours, and Grimm already felt nauseous.

Shakkar had abandoned the cart, preferring to take to the air on his leathery wings. Grimm had no intention of looking for the demon; only by focusing on the vehicle's relatively motionless interior could he retain any sense of equilibrium. The merest glimpse of the outside world sent his entrails into convulsions, and closing his eyes proved even worse.

In front of him sat Tordun, who seemed quite unaffected by this chaotic motion, lost in some pleasant world of his own as he hummed softly to himself. Grimm envied the warrior's iron constitution, not for the first time.

He looked down at Drexelica, who sat in silence beside him, her head lolling on his left shoulder and her right hand resting lightly on the other. Her face looked a little paler than usual; indeed, he fancied her ashen complexion had taken on a faint tinge of green.

Grimm turned his head slowly to the right. Sister Mercia seemed in even worse straits: from time to time, her throat twitched, and she held a slender, trembling hand over her moisture-beaded forehead. Her hair was matted and lank, and her breathing was shallow and fitful.

Refusing to surrender to his nauseous misery, the Questor drew Redeemer closer, hugging the staff as if it were some long-lost brother, drawing strength from it.

Redeemer! The bright thought flashed into his mind, and he thought of the very first spells he had first cast on the weapon: the Minor Magics of Stability and Inner Clarity. Magemaster Kargan had advised him to use these spells to combat the worst effects of inebriation.

Grimm drew hungrily upon the buried spells, like a starving man falling on a banquet. In an instant, he felt a cool flood of calm running through his rebellious gut and his fevered head, steadying and soothing him. He was whole again, able to look around with abandon.

As long as he accessed the spells, he would be able to withstand the rigours of the journey, and the simple Minor Magics required little energy to maintain. Redeemer held more than enough stored power to fulfil this paltry function.

"Ladies,” he yelled, his voice only just able to overcome the riotous din from the wagon's unsteady progress, “take hold of Redeemer. As long as you keep hold, I think you'll be all right." Drex removed her trembling hand from his shoulder and reached out to grasp Redeemer. At once, he saw the colour returning to Drex's face, and her drooping eyelids shot wide open.

"That's wonderful, Grimm!” she cried. “I feel so much better!" Mercia laid her own hand on the staff, just below the lowest golden ring. She did not speak, but her broad, grateful smile was answer enough.

Well, at least I've done something useful today, he thought. Let's hope the rest of the journey is a little more cheerful.

Drex leaned her head back on his left shoulder, and Grimm felt her contentment and her love. He smiled and rested his head against hers.

* * * *

Prioress Lizaveta's soul could not suffer from motion sickness, but she felt as miserable as the love-struck mortals. She had hoped Drexelica might access her Geomantic powers at some point in the journey, perhaps allowing spirit-Lizaveta to regain full control over the girl's emotions and actions. However, she had not done so. Drexelica's rediscovered love for Grimm Afelnor was the last straw. Spirit-Lizaveta knew her last vestiges of command had been obliterated by that blinding revelation. The intricate network of mental blocks, associations and aversions she had fostered were washed away like a spider's web in a flash-flood.

She knew now that nothing could stop her being delivered to the tender mercies of Lord Dominie Horin's interrogation at High Lodge. Having done her best to ensnare Horin, she had been thwarted by the same Questor Grimm who had contrived to kill her, and who now led her back to judgement. Horin will never show me clemency, she berated herself. His Guild will never tolerate a challenge to their masculine supremacy by a witch; they will surely expunge my spirit.

It is my own fault: I underestimated Questor Grimm when I tried to control him, at the cost of my physical life. I assumed he would be a pale copy of his grandfather, Loras; but, if anything, he is Loras’ superior in skill and power. I should never have attempted to dominate him.

Her plans to exert control over the Guild, so that her own Order would gain the respect and ascendancy she craved, lay in ashes. Thorn, her ungrateful oaf of a son, had betrayed her, despite all she had done for him. She had also failed in her attempt to exert her full will on her bastard grandson, Guy, when her power was stripped from her in mid-spell by Questor Grimm.

It keeps coming back to Afelnor! He has frustrated and thwarted me at every turn. If I had an ounce of power left to me, I would not waste it in a foolish attempt to bedazzle him: I would destroy him!

Damn Thorn; he trained the boy too well!

Despite spirit-Lizaveta's pride in her inner powers, she knew now she would never dominate Questor Grimm, even by stealth. The youth was more determined and powerful than any male she had ever encountered, and she knew even she would never break down his defences. Drexelica was another matter. Lizaveta had broken down the girl's strong defences after a concerted effort. Although regaining her earlier domination would be impossible with her current low reserves of power, perhaps gentle persuasion might work better.

If I can just persuade her to access her Geomantic powers...

She dismissed the thought in an instant.

It took days of torment to even begin to break her, and months of dedicated work to gain full control. My one lever was the absence of support and love from the world outside the Priory, and I can't hope to repeat that with Afelnor at her side. The girl is strong, and he'll only add to her resolve.

* * * *

Grimm gazed into his lover's eyes with a feeling of the deepest contentment. The Dragonblaster wanted nothing more than to hold Drex—his Drex!—in his arms and dream of an idyllic future with her. Tomorrow might bring any number of problems, but the two lovers had each other, and they had today—and that was more than enough.

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About the Author

Alastair J. Archibald lives in south-east England and is employed as the quality manager of a local electronics company. Apart from writing, his interests include playing the guitar, singing, songwriting, pool, chess and, of course, reading. You are invited to visit Al's website at: ajarchibald.wcpauthor.com/

The first four books in this series (A Mage in the Making, Weapon of the Guild, Questor and Truth and Deception) have all been Whiskey Creek Press #1 Bestsellers.

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