Kargan realised his belief that he might reach Lower Frunstock in the space of two hours might be an optimistic estimate. He had not forgotten how to ride without a saddle, and the filly was speedy enough on level ground, but he had failed to take into account the journey's toll on his body.
Twenty years of riding nothing more than a comfortable chair had softened his muscles and his stamina, and his body had forgotten just how much hard work was required to control a horse without saddle, stirrups or spurs. After riding hard for half an hour, he had to stop for several minutes in order to rest.
He brought the animal to a halt by a tree-stump, so that he would be able to remount; he knew now that he could never hope to leap onto the horse's back from level ground, as he had once been able to do.
He dismounted, feeling pleased that he managed to remain on his feet, but his lower body ached abominably. After removing the filly's rude curb bit and hobbling her, Kargan clasped his hands behind his neck and leaned backwards, trying to ease the pain in his knotted muscles.
Some dashing rider you turned out to be, he thought, with a rueful, pained grimace. If you have to stop every thirty minutes, it'll take a bloody year and a day to get there. I'll be in no condition to cast…
Oh, no! Kargan spat out a heartfelt stream of obscenity, as he realised he had left the libram containing Bledel's spell in his chamber. He had left behind the only tool he might have used to convince Loras of Thorn's treachery.
He had managed to memorise several Divinatory spells, but this potent spell might take a lifetime to master without a scroll or libram to help him. From the eyewitness accounts Kargan had heard, Loras believed wholeheartedly in his guilt. If he had been beguiled by a similar hex to that used on Dalquist-and there was every reason to think that he had been there might be little the Mentalist could do to remove the block.
Kargan dared not return to the House-that was asking for trouble and at the very least, awkward questions. Kargan had prepared himself for this journey for some time: he had exercised his voice and his brain at every opportunity, and he had spent days in loading Seeker with all the magical energy he might require.
However, forgetting the scroll with Bledel's spell might make all this moot.
He scratched his grey beard and pondered. The situation seemed intractable… or did it?
There's no block on my memory, he thought, and I know Demay's Spell of Recall like the back of my hand…
Kargan's problem with Dalquist had not been to retrieve the young mage's memories so much as to bypass the formidable blockage Lizaveta had placed on them. That would not be necessary to extract the details of Bledel's spell from his own mind.
Demay's hex is a Schedule Two Disassociative spell, he thought. I ought to know; I've used it enough times on myself, to remember where I've left things.
But is it powerful enough to pull out the memory of every single rune in a fifteen-minute Schedule Nine Engagement spell?
He knew the slightest error would render the spell at best useless; at worst, it could kill him. He had only ever used the Spell of Recall to recollect simple facts, such as a Student's name, or the location of a missing pair of shoes, and he felt chary about risking his life, his very soul, perhaps, on its limited powers.
On the other hand, he could not tolerate the prospect of the traitorous Thorn becoming Dominie, even if he had to put his life on the line to prevent it. He was confident in his abilities as a Mage Mentalist; his staff bore the seven rings that attested to mastery, and he had been teaching the craft for three decades.
His casting of Bledel's spell had been flawless, and he only needed to remember the stream of runes and inflections he had used on that day and dictate them into Seeker, as if it were some magical amanuensis. No great expenditure of energy would be required, since he would not actually be casting the enchantment.
It's a cheap enough spell, even extended over fifteen minutes, he thought. I can do it two or three times, and compare the results; if each recollection agrees with the others, I can have a high degree of certainty in the spell's accuracy. If I cast the spell on Seeker, I should be able to call it up when I need it.
He looked around him. The eastern horizon was still dark, so daybreak was still some way off.
It's worth a try.
Kargan clutched Seeker to him and began to cast the spell's first iteration.
Thorn felt ebullient and confident. Ever since Crohn and Dalquist had confronted him in this very office, he had been on the alert for the least sign of conspiracy, and his spy, Wiirt, had at last discovered the two mages engaging in mutinous conversation. It might take a certain amount of guile on The Prelate's part, but he felt sure he could convince the Presidium of the sorcerers’ guilt.
By the time those two ever come before a Conclave, he thought, they'll believe the truth of every single accusation. Mother might think she's the only one who can control a mage's mind, but I have some skill in that area myself. It's almost a shame she may not live long enough to find out about it.
It was late, or, rather, early in the day, and Thorn resisted the urge to act at once. Taking a deep, appreciative draught of wine from his glass, he decided that the interrogation could wait for a day or two, until Crohn and Dalquist were softened up a little. He had given orders to Wiirt, Xylox and Faffel to stand guard over the two mages around the clock, and to wake them whenever they showed signs of torpor.
In view of the loss of three Scholasticate Magemasters, Thorn had decided that the next few days would be declared a holiday. By happy coincidence, Urel Demonscourge, the House's senior Questor, had just passed the age of one-hundred-and-twenty; this should provide good grounds for the brief furlough.
He doubted that any of the Students would complain.
Except for young Chag, Thorn reminded himself. The boy's anger and pain grow daily, and he's at a critical juncture. I'll take the Neophyte under my wing until the new Senior Magemaster is chosen. I will give him my personal attention. I would ask Magemaster Kargan to take over the boy's conditioning, but I think he's just a little too open and easy-going with the Students, at times. He's also the Senior Mentalist in the House, and I'll need him for the trial, when Crohn and Dalquist are good and ready to acknowledge their guilt. There's no sense in tiring him out now.
Kargan now felt satisfied that he had now stored an accurate memory of the rune-sounds of Bledel Soulmaster's Temporal Divinatory Conjunct in his staff. Despite his fatigue, the aches and pains in his body had abated, and he felt ready to ride again.
I guess Loras wouldn't have appreciated my hammering at his door in the middle of the night, anyway, he thought. Perhaps he'll be a little more receptive to what I have to say now.
His horse grazed placidly where he had left her. Kargan unfettered the animal and replaced the bit in her mouth. Climbing up on the tree-stump, he gathered up his robes and clambered astride the mount. Shaking the reins and clicking, he eased the filly into a brisk trot, deciding, at first, against a reckless, headlong gallop.
The narrow, tree-lined road was still empty for as far as the eye could see, so he worked his mount up to a canter, working with the horse, rather than against her. He confined himself to the subtlest of guiding motions, as the filly grew accustomed to him, and found the experience far more rewarding this time.
As he rode, he began to sing a song from his distant youth. The horse seemed to appreciate his voice, pricking her ears up as he sang, and Kargan could swear there was a little more spring in her stride. He continued to sing, and the willing animal's hooves ate up the miles.
A chorus of cockerels greeted his arrival in Lower Frunstock, and the golden dawn light cast long shadows on the ground. A few chimneys already showed tendrils of smoke, and he could see a few figures moving about, despite the early hour. The ramshackle thatched cottages and shops were a far cry from the opulence in which Kargan had been raised, but he found a distinct bucolic charm in the small hamlet's easy, unhurried appearance.
"Mornin', mage!” a young milkmaid called, already tending her charges, and Kargan brought the filly to a halt.
"Good morning to you, my dear!” the Mentalist said. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to the town forge?"
The girl stood up and wiped her hands on her apron. Adjusting the cap on her head, she rose from her stool, and Kargan saw this was no willowy maiden. She was golden of hair and pink of face, but her arms were like tugboat hawsers, knotted and sturdy.
"Wuthabeethupprorrthlowrforrge?” she demanded, her friendly smile revealing twin rows of small, crooked teeth.
"I beg your pardon?” The milkmaid's heavy accent was almost impenetrable to him.
"Would tha’ be the upp'r or the low'r forge?” she repeated in a loud, slow voice, as if addressing a rather backward child.
"I don't know,” the Magemaster confessed. “I'm seeking the forge of one Loras Afelnor."
The girl's face cleared. “Oh, well, you'm be wantin’ th’ upper one, then,” she said. She followed this with an incomprehensible series of instructions, but Kargan noted her pointing finger's gyrations well enough. Only one chimney in that direction showed smoke, and he knew that smiths started work early in the day.
"Thank you so much, my dear,” he said, taking a silver coin from his pocket and proffering it.
The milkmaid eyed the coin with suspicion. “Whass that for?” she demanded, her eyes narrowed.
Kargan frowned. “Why, for your time, of course."
"F'r me toime? Oi ain't that kind o’ girl, Oi'll ‘ave ye know!” she cried, raising a ham-like fist that Kargan knew might well flatten him.
"I only offered it to thank you for taking the time to give me directions!” he protested. “I didn't mean anything else by it, I promise you!” He realised he was sweating, despite the cool morning.
"Oi don't take nuffin’ fer advoice anyone'd know,” she said, with a dainty sniff that seemed at odds with her powerful frame. “Thank'ee, but Oi'd rather ye kept yer money."
In a whisper, the girl no doubt considered confidential, but which almost overpowered the restless mooing of her cows, she said, “'Sides, me old man'd ‘ave it off me later, anyway. Sorry Oi took offence; Oi can see ye're a gent, and ye didn't mean no ‘arm. Ye can't ‘elp th’ fancy words, Oi can see that."
"Well, thank you anyway,” Kargan said, raising the reins.
"If ye're in The Black Churn later on, ye can buy me a drink,” the girl said, her voice conciliatory. “'Ow about that?"
"That sounds very fair to me,” Kargan replied, wanting nothing more than to escape. “The Black Churn it is."
"Oi'll be waiting,” she said, with a fair imitation of a coquettish smile. “Two o'clock, don't ye be late."
Kargan nodded politely. “I wouldn't miss it for the world,” he said, vowing to give the hostelry the widest berth possible. “Until then…"
He flicked the reins and eased the horse forward, not daring to look back as he traversed the increasingly muddy street.
Lower Frunstock proved to be a tumbledown rabbit-warren of alleyways, dirt tracks and runnels. Navigating his way to the forge proved far harder than he had expected; many a promising thoroughfare led to a dead end.
However, at last, he found himself in a wide, paved courtyard outside the forge.
A short, burly man with black, greying hair stepped from a passageway and knuckled his forehead.
"Good mornin’ to ye, Lord Mage,” the man said. “I'll be reckonin’ ye'll be after a decent saddle and tack, by the looks o’ things. Am I right?"
"Well, that would be nice,” the mage confessed. He had never learned how to saddle a horse and, although he knew how to ride bareback, it would be far more comfortable to ride in style.
"I'm Harvel Angol, full partner in this smithy,” continued the muscular man, and Kargan blinked: this bulky man shared his first name with the slender, foppish swordsman who had joined Questors Dalquist and Grimm on their first Quest together. He suppressed a smile. This man would never be a dainty fencer; the contrast was ludicrous.
"I'm really looking for Que… for Master Loras Afelnor,” the mage said, sliding from the filly with all the decorum he could manage. A shock of pain blazed through his spine and legs as his feet took his weight, but his pride still outweighed his discomfort.
"He's workin’ on the fire,” Harvel said. “Old Loras doesn't do much o’ the really heavy work, now; thass up to me. You want shoein’ or heavy forging, I'm yer man."
Kargan felt unwilling to offend the smith. Harvel seemed a pleasant enough man, but the mage did not want to give too much away; he had no idea of what Loras might have told anyone of his tainted past.
"I would like a good, full set of tack, Master Harvel,” he said, showing his full purse, “and I'm willing to give you a good price for it. However, I'd like to see Master Loras first. I wish to bring him news of a relative of his."
"Ye're from Arnor?” said Harvel, and Kargan nodded. “That'd be Master Grimm, then. I took him there, ye know: it broke old man Loras’ heart.
"Ye wait here, Lord Mage,” he said. “I'm sure Loras'll want to see ye."
Harvel hurried away, and Kargan waited in the courtyard. His eyes scanned the rude cottage, with its slumped roof, and he thought of the last time he had seen Loras. He had not been present at the Questor's trial, but he had seen him many times before, bedecked in sumptuous, lustrous silk robes.
Does Loras still sing? Kargan recalled Loras beautiful rendition at a House festival thirty years or so before. It doesn't seem as if he has much to sing about, now…
In a few moments, Harvel returned, in the company of a heavy-set man with a shaved head. Despite his forge uniform of simple, grey dungarees and a leather apron, Loras’ burning, black eyes were unmistakable, and Kargan knew he was looking at the former Questor. Age had not yet bowed this man, and his gaze was as level and intense as the Magemaster remembered it.
The smith spoke in a pleasant and deferent tone. “I am Loras Afelnor, Lord Mage. I understand that you are from the House, and that you are here to tell me news of my grandson, Grimm. Is he well?"
The studied formality of Mage Speech was still apparent in Loras’ voice, even after all these years, and Kargan replied in the same style.
"I am Mentalist Kargan of Arnor House, Master Loras. To answer your question, Questor Grimm is now a Mage of the Fifth Rank. Even now, I believe, he may be on some new Quest. The last time I saw Questor Grimm, he was healthy and hungry to serve the Guild."
Loras nodded. “That is as it should be for a young Questor.” He turned to the younger smith and said, “Harvel, would you mind tending the fire a while? The bellows are leaking a little, and the flame needs constant attention. You might also want to have a few words with the collier concerning his wares; I fear he may be short-changing us on his latest loads."
Harvel knuckled his brow. “I'll sort it out, Master Loras. You can rely on me.” With that, the younger smith disappeared into the forge.
Loras scanned the Mentalist at some length, until Kargan began to wonder if the former Questor was dissecting his very soul.
"What do you really want, Mentalist Kargan?” Loras asked, after several minutes. “It is plain that you are not here just to discuss my grandson's well-being."
"I am a Magemaster at the house. I trained Questor Grimm in Runes, Incantation and Spell Structure. However, I wish to speak to you about… about the events leading to your expulsion from the Guild."
Loras’ expression hardened. “I have long since acknowledged my guilt in that matter, Magemaster Kargan,” he said. “It is in the past, and not something about which I wish to discuss with a stranger.
"Please consult Master Harvel about any needs you have,” he continued. “Our discussion is at an end. I have a forge needing my attention."
Loras began to walk away. Kargan yelled, “You do not remember the act at all, do you, Questor Loras? Answer me!"
Loras stopped and swung around, his brows hovering like thunderclouds over his black eyes “My memory of the act is irrelevant, and no business of yours. I know what I did, and it shames me still. I do not wish to be reminded of it, and I do not take kindly to your use of my earlier title.
"Say no more and go in peace, or carry on and make yourself an enemy, Magemaster Kargan. It is up to you. I no longer talk of my Guild past, and I fell that to do so would serve no useful purpose. Goodbye."
The old man turned and resumed his steady walk.
Kargan felt a little cowed by the vehemence of Loras’ speech, but he refused to succumb to it.
"You met Prioress Lizaveta, did you not, Questor Loras?” he demanded. “She did this to you! I have absolute, undeniable proof that I am ready to show you. Do you want to bask in guilt for the rest of your days, or do you wish to see for yourself what really happened?"
Loras stopped, although he did not turn around “I wish you to stop addressing me by that title, Magemaster Kargan! It is ancient history. Just what do you hope to achieve by this nonsense, raking over these old coals?"
"I am trying to bring justice to the Guild, Master Loras! You have been wronged, whether you know it or not, and you owe it to the Brotherhood you once served to acknowledge that. The same wrong enshrouds your grandson, Grimm! The Traitor's Spawn, himself! That is what the Students used to call him-and some had even worse epithets for him."
After several moments without motion, Loras swung around to face Kargan. His face was blank and impenetrable, but he nodded.
"I will play along with this charade for a little while,” he said. “If what you say concerns Grimm, I will go along with you for the nonce. However, I feel we should take this matter inside; Harvel knows nothing of my past."
Kargan bowed. “As you wish… Master Loras."
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