Kargan had not eaten for a day and a half, and he devoured the substantial meal before him with gusto. It was simple enough fare: thick-cut ham, boiled cabbage and home-made mustard. Nonetheless, there was plenty of it, and the Magemaster enjoyed it as much as any splendid repast from the House Refectory.
Kargan leaned back in his chair and suppressed a satisfied belch. “That was excellent, Mistress Drima,” he said with feeling.
"Not quite up to Guild standards, I imagine, Magemaster Kargan,” Drima replied, smiling and revealing a set of flawless, pearl-like teeth.
"You do yourself an injustice, madam,” the mage declared, wiping his lips and beard with his napkin. “I often suspect that our cooks disguise indifferent ingredients by smothering them with sauces and spices. You have no such need to hide the quality of your cooking. A simple meal it was, but deeply satisfying."
Drima opened her mouth to speak, but her words were interrupted by the creak of a door. Kargan turned around to see Loras standing in the doorway, no longer wearing his rough smith's clothes. Instead of patched, stained dungarees, he wore a full set of scarlet, silk robes. The full sleeves and voluminous cowl might have looked foppish on a lesser man, but not on the tall, muscular Loras. Black eyes blazed from under the cowl, as if daring any man to mock their owner. The former Questor looked almost terrifying in his intensity and his bearing. The seven-ringed Mage Staff in Loras’ right hand completed the image of a powerful and dangerous master of thaumaturgy.
Drima's eyes widened and her jaw dropped, as if she had never laid eyes on this red-clad man before in her life.
"Loras!” she exclaimed. “You look so…"
"Dangerous,” Kargan added, after a few moments.
"I am,” the smith said in a cool voice. “I am a Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, and I was betrayed by a man who swore undying brotherhood to me-a man I regarded as my most loyal friend. For all these years, he allowed me to wallow in guilt and self-condemnation; a far worse punishment than the most painful death.
"Worse than what I will now do to him in the name of justice."
Drima frowned. “That was a long, long time ago, Loras. Can't you just let it go?"
Loras shook his head. “This evil man has authority over my… our grandson, Drima. I pleaded with Thorn, begging him to accept Grimm. The gratitude and joy I felt when Thorn accepted him as a Student knew no bounds… gratitude to a forsworn traitor and liar."
"You hurt, Loras, I know,” Drima said, her large eyes pleading. “I've felt your pain many times, but thought it better to say nothing, even after I knew the cause.
"I've shared your anguish, my love; a hundred, a thousand times. Don't I deserve some respite?"
Loras’ stark, rigid expression softened and he leant to cup his wife's chin in his right hand. He gazed into her wide, hopeful eyes for many moments, after which he kissed her on the lips with evident passion. Kargan looked at a knot in the floor for a few moments; he would not dream of lessening the moment's impact by intruding.
At last, from the corner of his eye, Kargan saw the smith pull gently away from his wife and straighten up.
"I love you more than anything in the world, Drima,” Loras said, his voice soft. “I meant every word of my marriage oath to you, and I still do."
Drima started to speak. “In that case, Loras-"
Loras silenced her by raising his right index finger to his lips.
"Please let me finish,” the Questor said. “I consider any sworn vow an unbreakable covenant, Drima; it is how I was brought up. However, before ever I met you, I swore another oath on my eternal soul, and I have suffered these past thirty years, believing that I betrayed it. You have no idea how much pain that caused me; part of me died when I was dismissed from the Guild as a renegade, a forsworn traitor.
"I believe with all my heart that only meeting you stopped me from taking my life. For that, and for your indefatigable, uncomplaining support during the difficult years we have spent together, I thank you more than words can ever express."
Loras wiped his brow with a steady hand.
"Nonetheless,” he continued, in a calm voice, “there is a canker at the heart of the Guild, a sickness that must be eradicated before it infects all my former brethren and my beloved grandson. I must face Thorn and compel him to confess to the Lord Dominie… or kill him."
Drima looked close to tears, her face reddening with emotion. “But why you, Loras? Can't you just tell the Dominie the truth of the matter and let him resolve the issue?"
"The Presidium,” the smith said, “is unlikely to accept the word of a convicted turncoat."
"Suppose you do have to fight Thorn,” Drima said, her hands on her hips. “You are still a strong man, but you've cast no magic for three decades. What makes you think you can beat him? Even if you do, your precious Presidium will surely have you killed. What makes you think you'll even get through the House door alive?"
"I do not know.” Loras shrugged. “I have mulled over the possibilities ever since I saw the truth of the matter with my own eyes. I want you to believe that I would let the past die if my disgrace were the only consideration.
"But Grimm is in Thorn's power, as are scores of innocent young Students and Neophytes. I cannot sit back and do nothing. I must confront Thorn, for their sakes."
Drima wheeled to face Kargan. “You got Loras into this!” she screamed, ruddy-faced and angry, with such force that the Mentalist backed away from her. “Can't you make him see sense?"
Does she mean, ‘can I dissuade Questor Loras from this risky course of action?’ he wondered. I could-just a few little runic syllables might suffice-but I won't.
He sighed; he knew he could never face himself in a mirror again if he tried to tamper with the Questor's mind; Loras was a Brother Mage who had been grievously wronged. Arnor House itself was in the control of a traitor, and two dedicated men, Crohn and Dalquist, were even now in his hands.
He looked down at the small, angry woman and he felt her pain; all Mistress Drima wanted was a normal, peaceful life. The life of a mage was often tumultuous, and the demands of House and Guild must place a great strain on any emotional relationship. A wife and family were hostages to fate, and it was inevitable that at some point the thaumaturge would need to make a choice between the imperatives of the heart and the needs of the Guild. Marriage was not forbidden, but a married man was finished as an active mage. Although Kargan often yearned to settle down with a good woman, he understood why he could not.
"I could, Mistress Drima,” he said, “but I won't. It's not my decision to make; this is between you and your husband."
"Damn you, mage!” Drima shouted, her cheeks wet. “Damn you and your bloody House, you unfeeling bastard! What does your sexless, loveless Guild know about feelings and relationships? Does it care?"
"That is enough, Drima,” Loras rumbled, interposing himself between his wife and Kargan. “Do not blame Magemaster Kargan for my decision; all he did was to place the facts before me."
"All he did was to create turmoil where we had peace, Loras,” Drima said in a lower voice, shaking with emotion. “Our life together was often hard, but I accepted that. For years, I shared your pain and shame, trying to support you as best I could.
"When Sammel was born, I thought it would bring stability to our lives. All that seemed to interest you was whether he had mage power."
"That is unfair, Drima, and you know it!” Loras snapped. “I loved Sammel as much as any father ever could. All I wanted was for him to have the best possible start in life. Yes, I wanted to know if the power existed within him, and I was overjoyed when the blood proved true.
"However, if you remember, we discussed sending Sammel to the House when he was seven, but you convinced me to keep him with us. I felt disappointed, but I did not demur; he was a strong lad, happy with life in the smithy. After our discussion, I thought of nothing but training him to take my place here, and I never raised the subject again. I felt so proud when Sammel gained his trade credentials, and even more so when he married Shura, and they bore us a grandson."
"And then he died,” Drima replied, her voice cold and brittle. “He and Shura died in a cart you built-"
Loras seemed to slump, as if life had left him, and his face turned putty-grey. He slapped a hand to his mouth, and he turned away from his wife.
"Loras, I'm sorry!” Drima's face lost its ruby cast, and her voice softened. “That was completely unfair of me; of course the accident wasn't your fault. But can't you see how much I care about you? We've lost our son and daughter-in-law, and I couldn't face it if I lost you, too."
"What about Grimm?” Loras asked. “I felt the same sorrow and loss you did when we sent him away to Arnor; you know I did. But he was not suited to smithy life, and you could only teach him so much of less physical activities. Yes, I felt hope that the lad might grow to expunge my… my guilt, but that was never why I sent him to Arnor."
"You deceived me, Loras.” Drima cupped her right hand under the smith's chin and turned his face towards her own. “I knew enough of your past by then: your mutterings during all those nightmares told me all I needed to know. I went along with your lies because I felt your pain. But you deceived me, nonetheless."
Loras wrenched his head away from her guiding hand, and the empathic Kargan felt his pain like a knife-thrust through his own vitals.
The smith's voice trembled as he spoke: “I know, Drima, and I feel shame for that; a shame greater than I ever felt for what… for what I thought I had done. I have no right to ask this, but I beg you to believe that this is not for me and my pride alone. This is for all the Students, Neophytes, Adepts and Mages whose lives will be perverted and turned by Thorn's influence; but, most of all, it is for the sake of our grandson.
"I leave for Arnor House to do what I know is right, Drima; if it is with your blessing, I welcome that more than you can imagine. However, if I have to do this alone, without your support, then so be it. Perhaps I will lose; maybe I will die; but I will risk that in order to expose Thorn's treachery.
"I am leaving, Drima, and I ask you to forgive me for what I have done, and for what I must do."
Drima laughed, but there was no humour in the harsh sound. “Of course I forgive you, Loras,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “I don't agree, and if I thought I had the slightest chance of changing your stubborn, mule-like mind, I'd fight to the end of the world to dissuade you. Still, I know how hard it is to persuade you when your mind's made up, so all I can do is to go along with this insane plan."
Her eyes filled with tears once more as she whispered, “I love you, you pig-headed idiot."
Loras faced his wife, and Kargan saw the traces of moisture on the Questor's face, too. “I love you, too, Drima; I love you as much as life itself."
"Go, then!” the old lady cried. “Just promise me that you won't be seduced by the damned House or the Guild while you're away. If I-"
Loras stopped Drima's mouth with his own, and Kargan stared at the ceiling, wishing he were somewhere else. After many moments, he lowered his gaze, as he felt a firm tap on his right shoulder.
"We are leaving, Magemaster,” Loras said, his expression calm, almost beatific. “I fancy I can take us to the House faster than a pair of horses.
"Woman; wife; beloved: believe me when I tell you that no power on Earth can persuade me to stay away as long as I have you waiting for me."
"Go, Loras,” Drima whispered. “Take care of yourself."
"Always, my love. Be sure of it.” Loras took a firm grip on his staff and turned to Kargan.
"Put your arms around my neck, Magemaster,” he said, “and trust me-both of you."
Kargan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He did as Loras bade him, as the smith began a guttural, droning, Questor chant that seemed to come from the centre of his chest: “Ominaomadiya-redessamu…"
As a deep-blue coruscation began to play around him, Kargan heard Drima muttering. He could not make out the words, but her expression made her meaning clear. The Magemaster suppressed a pang of envy at the love between Drima and her husband, an emotion he would never experience.
"…rumandatana-getiyu…” The walls of the smithy blurred, and the very air seemed to take on a soupy, heavy consistency.
"…simonumat'ur-gamnusim…"
Kargan felt a moment of panic as the walls, ceiling and floor disappeared, to be replaced by a black void filled with blue motes. He knew he was moving, but without any sense of direction.
"…amatumonimasadata!"
Kargan's stomach lurched as he felt sudden discontinuity and deceleration, and he found his feet again on firm ground.
The Magemaster closed his eyes and gulped, seized by momentary nausea. When he opened them again, he saw the stark, forbidding face of Arnor House. Even in the golden, evening light, he saw only corruption and senescence in the ancient fortress’ blurred outlines. Releasing the Questor, Kargan staggered and suppressed a sudden upsurge of hot, acrid bile within him. He swallowed, fighting his protesting body's demands.
"We are… home, Magemaster Kargan,” Loras said, seemingly none the worse for the dizzying journey. “I believe you hold the key."
Kargan, his head spinning, held up his left hand with its blue-gold Guild ring. He stared at it for a few moments: the band which showed his love and dedication to a corrupted House; the band which denied him a normal life.
"I am ready, Questor Loras,” he muttered, moving his left palm towards the black, oaken portal. The door swung open in a smooth, silent arc, and saw the hunched figure of Doorkeeper rushing towards the entrance.
"Welcome; welcome back, Brother Mage,” the beaming major-domo crowed. “It is good to-"
Loras, resplendent and terrifying in his scarlet apparel, stepped from the shadows. “Greetings, Mage Doorkeeper. I trust you are well."
Doorkeeper's smile fell; he looked from the Questor to the Magemaster and back again, his expression like that of a confused, frightened child.
In a dull voice he said, “Greetings, Questor Loras. I am under orders to report your arrival to Lord Thorn."
Before Kargan or Loras could protest, the old man shuffled away with surprising speed, and they were left alone.
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