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…'
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