Loras raised his right hand and rapped on the oak door. Hearing no response, he clenched his fist and pounded harder.
"What is it?” a peevish, slurred voice demanded.
"It is Brother Bile, Questor Olaf!” he called. “I need to talk-"
The door flew open, and Loras beheld a stooped, dishevelled man. An unruly shock of greasy, white hair hung either side of a lined countenance, as if Olaf wore a map of his long life on his face.
"Loras?” the ancient mage croaked, staring at the smith-Questor with wide, grey, rheumy eyes. “What in Perdition are you doing here? To set foot on Guild property means your death!"
"I know, Questor Olaf,” Loras said, forcing himself to remember that this crabbed, wizened old man was his esteemed former colleague and friend. “However, you would not condemn a man before hearing his defence, would you?"
"I heard your defence many years ago,” Olaf growled. “You confessed. You had your trial, and you were convicted. What more is there to say?"
"I placed the pillow over Prelate Geral's face; I admit it,” Loras said.
"You could hardly deny it!” the older man snapped. “I saw it with my own eyes!"
"I was ensorcelled by Geomancy, Olaf. The act was mine, but the will-the intent-was not. I am guilty neither of high treason nor of attempted murder."
"So you say,” Olaf said, with a snort. “Why should I believe you?"
"Will you at least hear me out?” Loras pleaded. “If there is one man in this House I trust, it is you. If you will listen to me, and you remain unconvinced, I will not resist. Nonetheless, if there is even a chance that a miscarriage of justice has occurred, is it not your duty to consider the evidence?"
"No,” Olaf replied. “It is the duty of a duly-assembled Conclave to determine guilt or innocence."
Loras sighed. “Olaf Demonscourge. For the sake of the fraternal bond we once shared, will you not at least listen? That is not too much to ask, is it?"
"We were friends,” Olaf admitted. “However, you were always closer to Lord Thorn. I suggest that you throw yourself on his mercy; you mean nothing to me now. The Loras Afelnor I once knew is long dead."
"I choose you, Olaf, for reasons that should become clear."
Long moments passed as the older Questor scanned the smith from head to toes, as if seeing him for the first time.
"I grant you thirty minutes to plead your case,” Olaf said. “No more."
"Agreed,” Loras replied. “Must we discuss the matter in the corridor?"
Olaf grunted and stepped away from the door.
"Very well; come in,"
Loras beheld a chaotic jumble of books, scrolls, alembics and bizarre curios littering every surface. A single candle lit the room, throwing fugitive shadows across the floor.
Olaf must be a wealthy man after all those Quests, the smith thought as he stepped through the doorway. Why does he choose to live in such squalor?
"Sit there,” Olaf said in a stiff, flat voice, pointing to a chair with faded, cracked, leather upholstery opposite a moth-eaten bed with a thin mattress. “Mind my treasures; some of them are irreplaceable."
Placing his feet with care, Loras did as he was bidden, and Olaf sat on the bed, which creaked alarmingly. The older Questor rummaged through a pile of items at his feet for a few moments, and came up with a sand-glass. Inverting the glass, he placed it atop a precarious pile of papers and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest.
"What have you to say that has not already been said, Loras?"
Loras knew his life, and those of his companions-in-crime, might rest on his argument. He thought of Drima, waiting back at the smithy, anxious and helpless in her ignorance of his fate. He had never been an eloquent man, but he knew his arguments must be convincing if he were to prevail, for the sake of those he loved and respected.
"Feel free to examine my aura at any time, Olaf,” he said. “You will see I tell the truth."
"Mage Sight is not infallible,” the older mage said. “You have had many years to rehearse your story; for all I know, you may well believe it yourself."
"Was I a weak Questor, Olaf?” Loras asked, trying another tack, trying not to think of the sand trickling into the bottom of the glass. “Was I careless, flighty or impulsive?"
"No,” the shrivelled man replied, shrugging. “I was more than satisfied with your conduct on our Quests together. Your self-control in times of crisis was admirable."
"Prelate Geral was dying,” Loras said. “He was a delirious wraith of a man, was he not?"
Olaf nodded. “Agreed. You took advantage of that fact, hoping that his death would be considered natural. Unfortunately for you, Lord Thorn discovered your treachery."
"Let us suppose for a moment, that you, as a Seventh Rank Questor, considered it desirable to dispose of such a man,” Loras said. “Surrounded by powerful mages, how would you have chosen to carry out your evil act and avoid discovery? Would you have placed a pillow over his face to suffocate him, a task that might take many minutes?"
"That is irrelevant,” Olaf said. “What is undeniable is that you chose that method of murder."
Were you born with the brain of an ox, Olaf, or did you have to work at it? Can't you think for yourself?
Fighting to regain his composure, Loras said, “If I had wanted Geral dead, I could have achieved it in many ways. He was in no condition to resist any magic I might cast. Weak and mindless as Lord Geral was, I could have achieved it from the sanctuary of my own cell in the space of a heartbeat. Is it reasonable that I would have dared to choose such a clumsy, Secular method?"
"But you did!” Olaf said. “I saw you! Whatever your reason, the facts are undeniable. I cannot pretend to know why you chose that particular method of dispatch, but the fact remains that you did!"
"I laboured under a powerful spell, Olaf!” Loras cried. “I have already admitted the act, but can you not admit my behaviour was, at least, bizarre for a Seventh Rank Questor-a feared Weapon of the Guild?"
"Perhaps,” agreed the old man, “but I do not profess to understand the mind of a damned traitor!” He spat the last word out with venom. “Is this the main thrust of your so-called ‘proof''?"
Loras clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to find some argument that would sway his old friend.
"You saw how Thorn stopped me,” he said. “He first tried to wrest the pillow from my grasp-a foolish move, since I was far stronger than he-and then struck me across the chest with his staff. I should have been hurled across the room, senseless or dead, but I remained on my feet. Then, he chose a showy, time-consuming method of subduing me, instead of blowing me into a thousand motes."
Olaf shook his head. “Lord Geral was too close; a destructive spell might have splashed onto him,” he drawled. “Lord Thorn chose to use caution. Remember also how he pleaded for your life at your trial. Most eloquently, as I remember."
The smith clenched his teeth; Olaf seemed quite incapable of putting himself in another man's shoes.
I am losing this battle, he thought. Fight, damn you! Fight!
"Wake up, Questor Olaf!” he cried. “If you had struck me with your staff, after discovering me trying to murder the Prelate, would I have remained conscious? Thorn was just ensuring that he had plenty of witnesses to my treachery!
"If Geral had died of natural causes, who do you think would have been elected to replace him?"
Loras did not wait for a reply. “You and I were senior to Thorn, and I had just been granted a commendation from High Lodge. You were a full member of the Presidium, and you must have known that I was recommended as Geral's replacement. I only had to wait, and Geral could barely have lasted another week. It made no sense for me to attack him."
Olaf shrugged. “Perhaps, as Lord Thorn said at your trial, you acted out of misguided mercy, seeking to put an end to Lord Geral's suffering. I don't know."
The vulgar contraction, ‘don't', told Loras he had disturbed Olaf a little, and this gave him new hope.
Push, push, PUSH!
"Was it not fortunate for Thorn to discover me standing over Geral?” he demanded. “It led directly to his becoming Prelate."
Olaf leaned forward to look at the glass. “As far as I am concerned, you are just wasting sand, Loras,” he said. “All you have said is circumstantial. You said you were acting under a Geomantic spell. Lord Thorn was a Questor, not a witch."
"His mother is,” Loras shot back. “As I now know, she is Prioress of the Sisters of Divine Mercy at Rendale. She has an inner coterie of fellow witches who aid her in her more devious and powerful spells. What was cast on me was the Geomantic equivalent of a Great Spell; all so Thorn could become Prelate."
Olaf snorted. “One wonders why you were allowed to run around free after such a mighty Compulsion! If he betrayed you, why did Lord Thorn not slay you when he had the chance? I am unimpressed."
Was ever a man born with such a lack of imagination? Loras raged, inside his head. What will it take to reach him?
"A Geomantic spell enters a mage's soul, and it may be revealed to all if he dies,” Loras growled. “That is why Thorn pleaded so eloquently for my life. Had I been killed, the spell would have been apparent to all."
"Perhaps ten minutes’ worth of sand remains in this glass,” Olaf said, his tone cold. “I promised you thirty minutes in which to convince me. I will give you the remaining time, until the last grain falls, but all you have offered me is unsubstantiated anecdotes and innuendo. Do you have anything else to offer, or may we curtail our discussions now?
"You only prolong the inevitable, Loras. I would remind you that I am well within my rights to kill you in an instant."
Inspiration flooded into Loras like a beacon, lighting up the dusty recesses of his mind.
"I can prove my accusations to you, Questor Olaf,” he said. “Kill me, and you will see the Geomantic spell rise from my body."
Olaf's expression softened. “I misjudged you, Questor Loras. You are not evil, but mentally disturbed! I am sure that I can arrange for your sentence to be commuted to tenure in a charitable asylum. They will take care of you."
Loras looked the older mage straight in the eye; he felt sure now that he had the proof Olaf demanded. The risk was great, but he knew he had gone too far to surrender now.
"I am not deranged, Olaf,” he said. “Many years ago, you used a spell you called the ‘Little Death'. I was never able to duplicate it, but, as I recall, it caused the death of an unresisting person within a few minutes. I ask you to invoke this spell again; you should see something… interesting.
"If you avert the magic when you see the effect, I need not die. I do not wish to die before my time is up."
Olaf rubbed his forehead with his right hand.
"I have not cast this spell for over four decades, Loras; in any case, what is to stop you from showing me some fantastic Questor illusion?"
"I believe you will not see the truth of my words until I am on the very point of death,” he said. “Could I hide that from you?"
The old man shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “Are you resolute in this? Execution would be swifter and more merciful, and I am not certain I could abort the spell in time to save you."
"I have been dead to the Guild for half a Secular lifetime,” Loras said. “My grandson was brought up here as the progeny of a traitor.
"I wish to live but, now that I know myself blameless of the crime for which I was convicted, I cannot allow a greater crime to go unpunished. Every sleepless night, every bad dream, every pang of guilt I have felt for the last forty years was caused by the weakness of a man I thought my blood brother. I now trust only one man, Olaf: you."
"I may kill you, Loras,” Olaf said, his voice soft but intense. “I have cast no powerful Questor magic for many years."
Loras laughed, stopping the sound before it became tinged with incipient hysteria.
"You were quite prepared to kill me only a few minutes ago, Olaf!” he cried. “Why are you so worried to do so now?"
Olaf shook his head. “I do not know."
"You kicked me as I lay unconscious,” Loras said, looking straight into the grey eyes, “with your right foot. Your boot was unlaced."
"I felt a personal betrayal at your action,” Olaf said, “I… how did you know about my bootlace? I nearly tripped over it as I walked down the stairs!"
Loras smiled. “A kind Brother Mage showed me the truth of what happened,” he said, a little pleased at Olaf's apparent confusion. “All I want is for you to know it, too.
"There, the sand in your glass has run out,” he said, pointing at the timer. “You are welcome to kill me in any way you wish."
Olaf looked into Loras’ eyes, and the smith now saw the potent gaze of the Questor he had known so long ago. Without looking down, the senior mage picked up the glass and inverted it.
"If you wish to risk death so easily,” he said, “I will accommodate you. Is that what you want?"
Loras shook his head. “No, Questor Olaf; but I need you to believe me!"
Olaf sighed, and shook back his voluminous, brown sleeves. “Please lie back,” he said. “Are you ready?"
Loras nodded as his mind raged, What in Perdition are you doing, Afelnor?
Too late; the chant had begun. Loras felt his fingers and toes becoming numb.
"Ojimandelatimatomanerat… irandemanigotimanforanet."
Cold, slimy fingers seemed to wander through Loras’ body unchecked, making him shiver. With a shock of sheer terror, the smith realised that he could not control the flow of life-force from him.
"Merimondimenosimarit…"
Loras Afelnor felt his inner essence plunging into oblivion, growing smaller and smaller. Now, it was the size of a marble; now, the size of a barleycorn; now, the size of a grain of sand…
He could neither see nor remember his own name: he was a mass of cold numbness, floating in a dark void.
An iridescent bird arose from him, threatening to tear the soul from his body… but it was so glorious!
So sweet to die like this…
With a thump, the nameless soul dropped back into his cooling cadaver.
The agony of returning to the mortal world tore a harsh cry from Loras’ mouth: every nerve burnt; every fibre screamed as feeling returned. Loras gasped, coughed and shivered. Death had seemed a release; almost pleasant.
Only life hurt.
"I believe you!” Olaf shouted, and Loras smiled, bereft of all his strength. “I saw it! I have no idea if Lord Thorn was behind it, but you were held by some kind of a spell. You deserve another trial; I will call Lord Thorn at once."
"Thorn is involved in the spell, as I told you,” Loras croaked, feeling the words peeling from him like leaves from a dying tree. “He is imprisoned, as is Questor Xylox. Questor Dalquist and Magemasters Crohn and Kargan are with me. Doorkeeper will know by now…"
"Thank you for telling me that now, Loras.” Olaf groaned, rolling his eyes. “Now I am convinced at last that there may be some doubt concerning your guilt, you tell me that you have imprisoned a lawfully-elected House Prelate! Are you going out of your way to make my life difficult, Brother Bile, or is this just a knack?"
Loras smiled. “We Questors are trouble, are we not?"
"I declare myself acting Prelate,” the older mage said, raising his right hand, “until a High Lodge Conclave may be assembled to investigate your contentions. You, Questor Loras, and your confederates, are my prisoners."
"I am your prisoner,” Loras agreed. “All I ask is that you arrange for the detention cells to be cleaned; I understand the sanitary facilities there leave something to be desired."
"You will have your retrial,” Olaf growled, standing up, “but do not presume too much upon my good nature. You are under arrest."
Loras stretched and rose to his feet. Now the pain of his rebirth had passed, it felt good to be alive.
"As you command, Lord Prelate,” he said.
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