Magemaster Kargan wanted a hot bath more than anything else in the world. His robes were stiff with dried perspiration, and his grey hair hung in bedraggled tendrils.
The Great Spell cast on Loras so long ago remained intact, but Kargan was proud of the seven hard-won gold rings on his staff, Seeker: he had no intention of surrendering before he had tried every suitable spell at his command.
After an hour spent in casting one fruitless spell after another, he located the block on the former Questor's abilities, which he visualised as an iron clamp constraining Loras’ psyche.
However, Kargan knew that finding the mental impediment was one thing, but removing it was another. He had used all the power he had poured into Seeker, and he had been forced to use Loras as a human battery; fortunately, the former Questor had plenty to spare after decades as an enforced Secular. The Magemaster had hoped to be able to remove the block by a series of Persuasions and Easements, cajoling, enticing and commanding the barrier as if it were a living thing, but he had failed so far.
The Magemaster tried to relax for a few moments, running through the list of spells he had memorised after half a Secular lifetime in the Craft.
Sural's Freedom? No: that's just a tertiary adjunct to Barin's spell, and I've already tried that in the primary case.
Hap's Assertion? Orgel's Clarifier? No, they're Internal spells, and I doubt I could strengthen either of them to External form without months of research…
I'm going about this the wrong way, he told himself, fighting frustration and a sense of impotence. I've been gently pushing and pulling at Loras’ mind or at the block, trying to ease it off like a mother trying to remove a saucepan from a child's head. I really need to shatter the block…
How can I do that without shattering Loras’ mind, too?
Kargan almost gasped as the realisation came to him; if Loras’ soul was absent from his body, he could hammer and batter the block to his heart's content.
Kor's Mind-Steal! I'd have to act fast, but"Do you have a solution yet, Magemaster Kargan?"
"Perhaps, Master Loras, if you're willing to take a risk."
"Just what risk would I be taking, Magemaster?"
Kargan shrugged. “Maybe even your mortal life, Loras. I've gone easy on the block so far, because I've worried above all about damaging your mind. However, I know a spell capable of extracting your innermost mind and memories into Seeker. It would be a hazardous undertaking; every minute's delay will increase the risk that your body will refuse to accept your mind back again."
"You took my soul from my body with that time-travelling spell, Magemaster Kargan, did you not? I feel no ill effects from that."
Kargan shook his head. “That was different. This spell would strip your soul bare while leaving it in your body. After a while, the mindless soul will begin to assert itself, resisting the invasion of your mind. How long we have before the resistance becomes too strong depends upon your willpower. Without a body, your mind will begin to wither and die."
The Mentalist paused for a moment to let this sink in before continuing. “Another, lesser risk is that you will resist the spell. I need your utmost co-operation. You'll need a lot of willpower to submit to it."
Loras rolled his eyes. “I was a Mage Questor, and such men are renowned for their willpower. I accept the risk if you will."
"I don't know how long we have,” Kargan confessed. “It could be hours or minutes."
"Do it, Magemaster Kargan. I absolve you of any and all consequences. I feel imprisoned and powerless, and I wish to be free."
"Very well, Master Loras.” Kargan nodded and sighed. “I will try this for your sake."
"For the record,” the burly smith said, “I thank you with all my heart for your thaumaturgic skills and your attempts on my behalf. Drima has given her assent to these activities, whatever happens."
Kargan sat for a moment in silence, readying his mind. At last, he nodded.
"Place your right hand on Seeker, and give me your will,” he said.
Loras nodded and put his hand on the staff's brass-capped extremity.
Kargan began to chant, the runic syllables tumbling from his mouth in a cool, melodious tenor.
"Sha-ra-kak-oh-ma-do…” he began, ignoring the rivulets of sweat trickling down his face. The least tremor or hesitation could ruin the spell.
He sensed the personality within Loras’ soul; every memory, every fleeting expression, every factor that contributed to the man's being. Still chanting the complex sequence of runes, he pulled at the mind, feeling it pop into Seeker as he trilled the last three syllables.
He felt no pain or nausea: the spell was good. Now, there was no time to waste. Drawing strength from the smith's drained body; Kargan located the mental block and began to chant anew. This was no melodious incantation, but an insistent drone. The Magemaster hammered, chipped and slammed the magical clamp, pouring destructive strength into it for minute after long minute.
Come on; break, you bastard! Break!
With a huge access of relief, as if he had rid himself of a troublesome, unyielding tooth after weeks of relentless pain, he felt the magical structure crumble and shatter. Loras’ soul is free at last!
Don't sit around congratulating yourself-get him out of there! Kargan's ever-present mental guard screamed. Move, Mentalist!
With a mental push, something no Secular could ever understand, Kargan impelled the imprisoned psyche back to its body: he fell back in his chair, dropping Seeker to the stone floor. His vision blurring, he saw Loras lying back with a dull, fixed smile on his face. Had the smith's soul rejected its burden? Had the Magemaster failed?
"Master Loras, speak to me!” he croaked, panic rising within him like a bubble of sulphurous gas in a hot column of lava. “Are you there?"
Loras’ mouth moved, but no coherent speech emerged. Kargan felt the cold, slimy tentacles of pure horror running through him; he had failed, failed, failed The Magemaster lowered his head into his hands and mourned the loss of a good man.
"Mmstilere…"
Kargan looked up with a sudden jerk: this was more than an idiot's random mumbling. He looked closely into the smith's eyes; they were dull, but clearing, and they fastened upon his own. Loras coughed, blinked and sat up.
"I am still here,” the smith said with care, shaking his head as if to shoo away a wasp. The Magemaster almost cried with relief. “Did your spell succeed?"
Kargan shrugged. “There's only one way to tell."
Loras levered himself into a sitting position, but his eyes were now bright and focused. “Let me try something…” he muttered. For several moments, the smith sat on the mattress, his expression tense and pensive.
As Kargan waited with bated breath, Loras cried, “Japlya-redeteris!"
Nothing happened, and the smith's shoulders sagged.
"How did that feel?” Kargan asked, his voice soft and cautious.
Loras looked at the ceiling and shrugged. “I felt the power gathering, just as it always used to, and it drew my special Questor spell-language from me. I was trying to create a simple ball of light, but I failed. Whether that was because of a miscast, or because the block remains, I do not know."
Kargan rubbed his chin. “If you cast a simple runic spell, instead of one of those bizarre Questor concoctions, you'd know soon enough, Loras."
Every ‘normal’ spell carried a penalty for a miscast, ranging from a mild pang to the agonised death of the caster, depending on the power used. Only Questors, with their unique form of magic, seemed immune to such punishment.
"Do you remember the Minor Magic Light spell?"
"How could I ever forget it?” Loras rolled his eyes. “Magemaster Tomas hammered that spell into me day after day"
Kargan nodded. “Tomas was my Neophyte tutor. He was a very old man then, but strict.
"Try the Light spell, Master Loras. You'll soon know if you still have magic."
Loras’ lips moved in silence for a moment, and he nodded his head in a complex rhythm as he rehearsed the spell in his mind.
"Ap-chet-jak-tat-de-ran!"
The spell was simple enough, but the tricky cadence held several traps for the lazy or inattentive Student. Even before the gentle, formless glow appeared in the centre of the room, Kargan's critical ears knew the chant was perfect.
Loras’ eyes widened in disbelief, and Kargan clapped his hands in pure joy.
I've done it! The thought blazed in the Mentalist's head with an intensity that far outshone the spell's feeble glow.
"Welcome back, Questor Loras!” Kargan said, feeling a broad smile spreading across his face.
Loras snuffed out the spell, cried, “Puridemendyura-madat!", and gestured towards the small fireplace in the bedroom. The paper and kindling exploded from the grate, and Kargan ducked to avoid a flaming, splintered fragment of wood that flew over his head.
"We need to work a little on your control, Afelnor,” the Mentalist said in a parody of his Magemaster's tone. “But I believe you understand the basic principle."
"You did it, Magemaster Kargan! I am a Questor again!” Loras wheeled and grabbed the Mentalist in bear-like arms, crushing the breath from Kargan.
"I am Loras Firelord!"
The Magemaster saw bright motes dancing before his eyes, but the awful pressure on his ribs eased, and he drew a rasping breath. For once in his life, Kargan could not think of a thing to say.
The Questor regarded his scarred, shovel-like hands as if noticing them for the first time.
"You lack two important things, Questor Loras:” Kargan said softly, “a Guild Ring and a Mage Staff. Questor Grimm bears the former, but you know what to do about the latter."
Loras nodded. “Blade must be buried somewhere in the bowels of Arnor House. Even when the Conclave took my powers away, they could not destroy Blade, of course."
Kargan nodded: once forged by magic, such a weapon could never be destroyed while its creator lived. Wherever hidden, a Mage Staff could not be concealed from its rightful owner: if it would fly to his hand if called, or, if the path was blocked, it would teleport to him, bypassing any intervening obstructions.
Loras bit his lip and called, “Blade! Come to me!"
Thorn yawned and wandered down to the lower levels of the House. Today, he thought, he would look in on the two renegade mages, Magemaster Crohn and Questor Dalquist.
They should be softened up by now.
He had given Questor Xylox and Magemaster Faffel orders to allow the two prisoners no rest, and they had alternated watches for three days now. Sleepless and imprisoned in their iron-walled cells-pure iron being the only element capable of suppressing magic-Dalquist and Crohn should be groggy and confused now.
Thorn would ensure they were properly washed and dressed before they appeared before the Presidium, but he wanted them subdued and befuddled when they came to trial.
They should soon be ready for preliminary interrogation, he thought, as he descended the stone staircase from his private chamber. Kargan's the senior Mentalist; I'll appoint him to carry out the first interrogation.
The Prelate stepped into the Great Hall, to see Doorkeeper shambling towards the Scholasticate.
"Good morning, Doorkeeper!” he carolled, feeling in good humour.
Doorkeeper spun around like a frightened rabbit fearing that a weasel might be behind him.
"Good morning, yes, a very good morning to you, Lord Prelate!” he twittered. “All is well, as far as I know; still, there may be some naughty Students playing pranks during the holiday! You know what boys are like, Lord Prelate; always seeking some kind of mischief-"
"Thank you, Doorkeeper. Boys will be boys, I suppose."
"My work is never done,” Doorkeeper complained. “I do my best to ensure that proper House protocol is-"
"Doorkeeper,” Thorn said firmly. “Please locate Magemaster Kargan and ask him to visit me at his earliest convenience."
The old mage looked blank for a few moments before his face cleared. “Magemaster Kargan, Lord Prelate?” he said. “Why, it quite slipped my mind! He told me that he was going away for a couple of days for some research. Some kind of-"
Thorn frowned. “Research? Kargan is no Scholar! What would he need to research?"
Doorkeeper seemed to shrink, and his mouth worked like that of a grounded fish gasping for air.
"That was a rhetorical question, Doorkeeper!” Thorn snapped.
"I was asking myself, not you,” he explained with a sigh, as Doorkeeper's eyes widened further in apparent confusion. The addled major-domo nodded, although he still seemed baffled; this was not unusual. Thorn stopped himself from growing angry; he knew it would only confuse Doorkeeper further.
"Where is Magemaster Kargan?” he demanded.
"He is-where is it…? It involved Lord Prelate Algar, I'm sure."
"Lord Algar,” Thorn said softly, as if trying to pacify a fractious child.
"Or Lord Rulec,” Doorkeeper scratched his bushy, grey eyebrows. “Yes, it was definitely Lord Rulec.
"Magemaster Kargan said he wanted to go to Kuloka, to find Lord Rulec's family records. I told him it was too far for one day, but he said-"
"Thank you, Doorkeeper,” Thorn interrupted the slow-witted factotum in order to restrain his frustration. “Do you know when Magemaster Kargan will be back?"
Doorkeeper shrugged. “He told me a day and a half,” he said, “but he's not back yet. As you know, I can always tell-"
"It can wait, Doorkeeper."
Kargan's absence bothered Thorn a little, but the man was no charity Student, required to remain on the premises at all times. Normal protocol required a Magemaster to request leave from the Senior Magemaster, but, of course, Crohn was unavailable, and Thorn had made no announcement concerning him. At least Kargan had informed Doorkeeper of his whereabouts.
It did not occur to the Prelate to inquire when the Mage Mentalist had left the House; he assumed that this had been after Thorn declared the impromptu holiday. It was perfectly reasonable that Kargan use his free time to indulge his hobbies.
"Thank you, Doorkeeper,” he said, with a faint imitation of a smile. “I will not keep you from your pressing duties any longer."
"Thank you, Lord Prelate, thank you so much. So few people understand all the work I have to do. I'm never still, never a moment's rest for me…"
Thorn waved a cool, dismissive hand and walked away from Doorkeeper, heading for the doorway to the secret dungeon level of which so few House alumni were aware. He waited by the black, pyramidal Breaking Stone, making a show of minute inspection of the ebon surface until the major-domo shuffled out of sight, still muttering about his endless travails for the House. Looking around to ensure he remained unobserved, Thorn unlocked the door to the lower level, opened it and stepped inside.
The winding steps were uneven and the light was poor, so Thorn made his way down the stairs with the greatest care. The walls and floors were damp and covered with moss and lichen, the only plants capable of growing in the low, flickering light.
By the time he reached the slimy flagstones at the foot of the stairs, his eyes had adapted to the gloom. His feet squished as he moved along the mossy corridor.
The passageway opened up to reveal four rusty metal doors and Questor Xylox, perched on a tall stool. He wore a heavy, blue cape around his shoulders, presumably to ward off the dismal hallway's pervasive chill. As he caught sight of his Prelate, he bounded to his feet, almost losing his balance on the slick flagstones in the process.
"Greetings, Lord Prelate."
"Greetings, Questor Xylox. How goes the vigil?"
"Slowly, Prelate Thorn. The traitors are in separate cells, as you commanded, and I check on each of them every hour. If they appear asleep or drowsy, I rouse them. However, they remain defiant. This is hard work."
Thorn nodded. “Patience, good Questor. Their treachery is undeniable, but we must persuade the miscreants to acknowledge their wrongdoing before trying them. I trust you and Magemaster Faffel to convince them to admit their treason."
"Lord Prelate,” Xylox said. “I thank you for the trust you have placed in me."
Thorn started at a sudden banging from behind one of the doors. Xylox jumped into action, battering the door with his staff.
"Be still, traitor!” he shouted, and the noise stopped.
Xylox sighed. “It is like this all day, Lord Prelate."
Thorn patted the mage on his shoulder with what he hoped was a gesture of paternal comfort.
"You serve your House and your Guild well, Questor Xylox. It will be remembered, I promise you."
The Prelate stepped carefully to the end of the corridor and took a small key from his pocket. Looking round to check that Xylox remained focused on his duty, he opened the door and walked into a small room lined with shelves.
My charms, he thought, regarding the objects on the dusty shelves: a bizarre collection of curios from his past. He picked up a boxy, fanged skull the size of a large dog's, a relic of his first Quest and fondled the bleached skull with something approaching reverence.
Olaf was slow to react when the were-beast attacked the party. However, my spell dispatched the creature in an instant; I reacted as quickly as thought. I was young, strong, swift and fearless then.
Thorn sighed. I feared nothing but Mother's wrath. I thought the old bitch might be pleased when I gained the first gold ring on my staff, but all she did was to remind me that Loras had two on his. Whatever I did was never enough for her.
He put down the skull and turned to face the middle shelf opposite the door. Its sole occupant was a black rod, six feet in length, with brass-bound ends. The staff's brass shoes were now dull and tarnished, and the once-gleaming black wood was now covered in dust-to touch another mage's staff without his explicit permission was to court injury, or even death-but the seven gold rings at the right-hand end still shone dimly through the grime.
I should have stood by you, Loras, and we could have defeated Mother together. I just wish it hadn't taken me so long to realise that. If only we'dThorn felt his heart surge as the staff shimmered and vanished. He needed to exert the utmost control over his bladder and bowels so that he would not soil himself. There was only one possible explanation for the baton's disappearance: somehow, Loras had regained his powers!
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