Loras Afelnor hardly noticed the weight of the iron chains on his hands and feet as Questor Olaf led him and Magemaster Kargan down from the back of the wagon.
I almost forgot what High Lodge looked like, he thought, gazing in wonder at the fantastic, towering edifice, its gleaming, white turrets seeming almost to pierce the sky.
After his long exile in the grimy hamlet of Lower Frunstock, he felt again the wide-eyed wonder he had experienced on his first visit to the Guild's spiritual home, as a mere stripling of nineteen.
This is a place of justice and honour, he told himself. They will consider all the evidence before reaching a decision"You are not here to admire the scenery,” Olaf admonished Loras, tugging the former Questor's chain. “Come on."
For such an old man, Olaf was no slow-coach, hustling his charges towards the huge edifice at considerable speed. Loras stumbled several times, since his ankle-fetters restricted his progress, and he could see that Kargan was no less encumbered than he.
As the two prisoners and their warder reached the outer gate, two armoured guards moved to block the entrance with crossed halberds.
"I am Questor Olaf, Acting Prelate of Arnor House.” The Questor held out his left hand to show his Guild Ring. “I bring two prisoners for trial."
"You were expected two hours ago, Questor,” the older of the two guards complained, a man of perhaps thirty summers. “What kept you?"
"Watch your manners!” Olaf snapped. “Do not seek to question me; remember who pays your wages."
"Sorry, Lord Mage,” the sentry replied, in an almost bored voice. “Please use the East Turret entrance. It's just over-"
"I know where it is, watchman. I first came here before your grandparents first drew breath! I'm not in my dotage yet. Do you wish me to report your insolence to the Dominie?"
The Questor's voice cracked like a whip, and the guard's face reddened.
"My sincerest apologies, Lord Mage,” he said, his spine stiffening as he raised the vicious weapon to the vertical, his companion following suit.
Olaf grunted, stepping between the guards and through the gate with his head held high, while Kargan and Loras stumbled behind him.
Loras was not out of breath by the time the group approached the East Turret; his time as a Mage Questor and his long tenure as a blacksmith had left him with a robust constitution. However, he noted Kargan's grey face and heaving chest, and he called out to Olaf, “Please, slow down, Lord Mage! Will you deliver a pair of corpses to the Conclave?"
"Be quiet, prisoner,” Olaf said, but he did relent a little, allowing a few moments’ pause for Kargan to catch his breath before they carried on.
As they stood before a black door with a small, square opening at head-height, the Questor pounded his staff three times on the flagstones. In an instant, Loras saw an eye appear at the opening.
"Your business?” a muffled voice demanded.
"Questor Olaf, Arnor House. Two prisoners for trial."
"You have the watchword?” The eye was replaced by an ear.
Olaf leant forward to whisper into the square opening.
After a few moments of utter silence, Loras heard a series of clacks, bangs, and squeaks behind the door, which swung open silently. Olaf led his charges through the entrance, to reveal a spiral stone staircase. The watchman behind the door was nowhere to be seen, as Olaf led his prisoners up the steep stairs, their staves clattering against the curving walls as they climbed.
After passing two further doors, where unseen guardians demanded further passwords, Loras felt relieved to find himself standing in a large, dimly-lit chamber; it seemed the arduous journey was at an end, at least for the time being.
He noted basic but serviceable beds lining the room, with jugs of water and bowls of food on a large metal table in its centre. All the furniture was bolted to the stone floor, and all the vessels and utensils were chained to the table.
"Greetings, Brother Mages."
"Welcome, fellow prisoners."
Starting at two almost simultaneous voices from the darkness, Loras squinted through the gloom to see Magemaster Crohn lying on one of the beds in the far corner. A long chain led from the manacle on his right hand to a large bolt in the floor beneath the central table. The smith's eyes followed a second chain from the bolt to another bed, on which sat Questor Dalquist.
While Olaf knelt, fastening Loras’ and Kargan's fetters to the restraining stud in the floor, the two new prisoners greeted their fellow mages with polite nods.
Groaning as he straightened up, Olaf said, “This room is under observation. Any attempt to discuss matters relating to the forthcoming trial will result in you all being confined to single punishment cells. I trust this will not be necessary."
"I understand, Questor Olaf,” Loras said. “I will restrict myself to pleasantries."
"Of course, Lord Mage,” Kargan responded, settling onto one of the empty beds with a loud thump.
"Now, I must report to the Lord Dominie,” Olaf said, wincing as he rose to his full height. “For your own good, I beg you to observe the rules."
With that, he disappeared into the darkness. After a pair of loud, metallic clanks, all was quiet.
After minutes of silence, Dalquist proffered, “At least the food looks good."
Loras regarded the bread, cheese, fruit, and meat on the table with distaste. A distant part of him registered hunger, but he felt nothing but a strong desire for the trial to begin. Sighing, he sat down onto the bed nearest to him.
"I cannot eat at this time,” he said, mindful of the unseen, listening guardians. “I just want this damned trial to be over."
"I agree,” Crohn responded, his tone dull and lifeless.
"I couldn't eat a mouthful,” a laconic Dalquist said.
After waiting for a response from Kargan, Loras turned to see the Mentalist lying prostrate on his bed, his eyes shut. In a few moments, he heard the mage begin to snore.
Good idea, Kargan, he thought.
"I need some sleep, gentlemen.” With that, he lowered his head onto the rough pillow and closed his eyes, seeking some quietus within his inner turmoil.
Loras realised he had fallen asleep only when he felt a rough, impersonal hand shaking his shoulder. Jerking his eyelids open, he emitted a rough, incoherent grunt as his head spun. After a few moments, his gaze focussed on a pair of grey eyes.
"It is time, prisoner,” the Questor said, his voice little more than a whisper.
Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs from it, Loras sat up and nodded. He shook down his scarlet robes in an attempt to clear the dust of the journey, while Olaf disappeared beneath the metal table with its untouched goodies. The smith registered the sounds of his bonds being unfastened with little more than mild interest.
He rose to his feet, snatching up his staff as the aged Questor emerged from his task. “I am ready, Lord Mage,” he said, fixing the older mage's eyes with a frank, intense gaze.
At last, the dim corridors gave way to wider, brighter passageways, down which Olaf led him until he stood before a pair of golden doors. Outside the portal, he saw a pair of tall, black-robed mages, their seven-ringed staves held out in challenge. Hoods obscured their features, and Loras found the two men eerie in the similarity of their stances, like a pair of dark statues.
"Give the watchword, Brother Mage,” they growled, their bass voices coming so closely together that Loras could not tell who had spoken first.
Olaf stepped forward and rose on tiptoe to whisper into the nearest guard's cowl; he was almost six feet tall at full stretch, but the watchman had to lean down to hear the muttered password.
The mage-sentry grunted and nodded at his companion. Both men stood away from the doors, which swung open on silent hinges. Olaf took a ring of keys from his belt and unfastened Loras’ fetters, letting them fall to the marble floor with a reverberating clatter.
As he unlocked the last manacle, the old Questor whispered into the smith's ear, “You are on your own now, Brother Bile. Good luck.” Without waiting for a response from his former friend, he turned his back and strode away.
"Enter,” the dark-clad mages chorused.
Loras nodded and stepped inside the doorway, with an air of confidence greater than he felt. As the doors clicked shut behind him, he walked through a dense bead curtain, which emitted a shimmering hiss as he did so.
The chamber in which he now found himself seemed without windows, and it was lit by two bright globes of green mage-light. The lights floated between him and whatever else might be in the room, and he saw nothing beyond them.
Bang-bang!
"Name?” a sharp, high-pitched voice barked from the darkness.
"Loras Afelnor,” he replied in a firm, loud tone. “May I know the details of the charges-"
"You will remain silent except to answer direct questions, prisoner!” the unseen inquisitor snapped. “Answer ‘Yes’ or ‘No', unless further information is required. You will confine your answers strictly to the question asked. You are to address us as ‘Honoured Justice.’ Is that understood, prisoner?"
"Yes, Honoured Justice."
"Your name?"
"Loras Afelnor, Honoured Justice."
"What is your place of residence, prisoner?"
"The village of Lower Frunstock, Honoured Justice."
Loras heard a scratching sound, like that of a chicken's claws scrabbling for food in a barnyard.
"Did you once hold the title of Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank in Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, with the Guild cognomen ‘The Firelord'?"
"I did, Honoured Justice."
Scratch, scratch.
"Were you dismissed from the Guild in dishonour, after committing an act of the gravest, foulest treason?"
Loras frowned. If he were to answer in the affirmative, this might be taken as an acknowledgement of guilt. Were he to give a negative response, it might be taken that he denied being dismissed from the Guild; an act of perjury. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and he shook his head in frustration.
"A physical motion cannot be accepted as testimony!” the hateful Voice screamed. “Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no', prisoner."
"Your question is in two parts, Honoured Justice,” Loras protested fighting rising anger. “I cannot, in conscience, answer it with a single word."
"You deny you were dismissed from the Guild?” The shrieking Voice scorched him with its intensity.
"No, Honoured Justice."
"Do you, then, deny committing an act of high treason?"
Loras felt an acrid burning in the pit of his stomach, and he began to wish he had eaten earlier. He knew he had committed treason, but he had been possessed by another will at the time.
The question is unfair!
"May I answer the question in my own words, Honoured Justice?"
"You may not, prisoner! Did you attempt to murder Prelate Geral-yes or no?"
"Wait, Rithel."
It was a soft voice, but Loras’ sensitive ears heard the words clearly enough. “I declare a point of personal privilege; I wish to address the prisoner directly."
"Of course, Lord Dominie,” the Voice muttered, now deferent and soft.
"Master Afelnor,” the unseen Dominie said. “I gather your objection revolves around the question of intent. Is that correct?"
"Yes, Lord… Honoured Justice."
"We can dispense with honorifics for the moment.” The Dominie's soft baritone sounded comforting after Rithel's hectoring scream. “In your own words, what led to your expulsion from the Guild?"
Loras drew a deep breath, and he vowed to choose his words with care. “My hands pressed a pillow onto Prelate Geral's face in an attempt to kill him,” he said.
He heard a series of gasps from the unseen Conclave, but he continued. “The will behind them was not mine. I was ensorcelled by a devotee of the Geomantic art, and my will was not my own."
After a further flurry of gasps, he heard a voice bearing the distinctive, harsh accent of the Challorean region: “Do you claim that you, a Seventh Rank Questor, were subdued by a mere witch?"
"Why did you not mention this at your first trial?” a second voice demanded.
"A seven-ring Questor admits to being the puppet of a mere witch?"
His head spinning, Loras said, in a feeble voice, “She was very strong… I did not know. Even after the trial, I did not know. She was no ordinary witch…"
He felt a cool rush of relief as the invisible Dominie came again to his aid.
"Gentlemen, I know something of this woman, and I am in a position to declare that she is possessed of remarkable strength for a witch, as the prisoner testifies. The Conclave accepts the possibility that the prisoner's acts may have been forced by Geomantic influence.
"So stipulated."
The smith's head reeled anew. Has the Dominie fallen foul of Lizaveta? he wondered.
"Really, Lord Dominie,” Rithel protested. “Are we to believe…"
"I said, ‘so stipulated', Prosecutor. Are there any formal objections from the prosecution?"
"But a Questor, Lord Dominie…” the Callorean inquisitor moaned.
"Come to order!” the Dominie's voice cracked like a whip. “I possess confidential information which confirms in some detail the power of the aforementioned Geomantic agent. It is stipulated that the prisoner's defence is permissible in principle."
"Agreed, Lord Dominie. So stipulated."
Loras knew he had won at least this point.
"Brother Rithel,” the Dominie continued. “Please continue, remembering the aforementioned stipulation; and get on with it!"
Loras heard a long period of chicken-scratching after this imperious command.
"By your command, Lord Dominie,” the Voice responded, with either a resigned sigh or a venomous hiss; Loras could not tell which.
"Under the sentence of your first trial, were you forbidden to set foot on Guild land for the remainder of your life, on pain of death?"
"Yes, Honoured Justice.” This much could not be denied, but Loras quailed inside at what he knew must be coming next.
"Do you deny breaking this condition of your sentence on the eleventh day of this month, by entering Arnor House?"
Loras gulped.
"No, Honoured Justice,” he said. He could make no other response to this direct question.
"The Prosecutor moves that the prisoner has breached the terms of his sentence, regardless of other considerations,” Rithel crowed. “There can be only one punishment for this-the sentence of death; so moved."
Loras held his breath: he had, indeed, transgressed the conditions of his sentence.
"So moved,” boomed a distant voice, which he had not heard before, with the sing-song accent of the Grivense people.
"I agree.” This time, a Gallorleyan man, from his accented vowels.
"So moved,” another inquisitor echoed, and Loras bowed his head.
I am sorry, Drima, he thought. May the Names bless you, Grimm.
"I invoke a point of order,” the Dominie drawled, sounding almost bored. “We note this breach of conditions of a former sentence, but we also note that all witnesses have not been heard: final sentence cannot be passed at this stage."
This time, Loras knew Rithel's initial response was no mere frustrated sigh; the man's hatred for him was plain.
"Accepted, Lord Dominie; however, this member wishes to stipulate the prisoner's response as a clear record of admission of prior guilt."
After a long pause, the Dominie answered, “So stipulated,” and Loras fought to keep his shoulders straight.
The unseen pen scratched on its paper, sending a cold shiver up the smith's back.
"Lord Dominie,” a voice at the very edge of Loras’ awareness whispered. “Time grows late. May I remind you of our evening game of Birritch? I move that we adjourn for today."
The former Questor felt cold hands of shock running sinuous fingers along his spine.
This is a bloody farce! he thought, trying not to panic. My life depends on a group of men whose main worry is about a damned card game!
"Are we agreed on adjournment?” Horin asked the Conclave, and Loras heard an enthusiastic chorus of assent. “So stipulated."
"With the greatest respect, Lord Dominie, that is ‘so declared',” an anonymous inquisitor said.
"Oh, very well, Drimend. ‘So declared', if you wish. Conclave is adjourned."
"The Conclave adjourns,” Rithel declared.
Bang-bang!
Loras swung around as golden light flooded into the room from behind him. He saw the two guards walking into the room, dark and forbidding, bearing his chains like garlands.
"Remove the prisoner!"
Loras walked towards the black-clothed men, struggling to retain his composure as they fastened iron manacles and fetters around his wrists, ankles and waist.
As he was led away from the dark, green-lit room, he thought of the simple, poor existence he had led as a blacksmith in Lower Frunstock, compared to his glorious, rich incarnation as a Mage Questor. He now longer knew or cared which of these lives he preferred; he just knew he wanted to survive at any cost.
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