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.
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