"Welcome to my humble abode, Magemaster Kargan.” The former Questor proffered an exaggerated bow. “What do you think?"
Kargan scanned Loras’ cottage with a critical eye. At least the roof was covered with good terracotta tiles, unlike the rude thatch that adorned many of the other houses in the village. Nonetheless the slumping roof-trees and the cracked walls boded ill for the building's longevity.
Kargan chose what he hoped was a diplomatic reply. “It looks… snug."
Loras snorted. “It is frigid in winter, and the chimney leaks smoke into the house, despite all my efforts,” he said. “In summer, we swelter and suffer from plagues of horseflies.
"Perhaps you consider such an abode beneath the dignity of a Mage of the Seventh Rank, with your fine satin robes?"
"Not at all,” was Kargan's swift, reflexive reply. “I think-"
"It is no less than I deserve,” Loras muttered. “My only sorrow is that my wife, Drima, has to share it with me. At times, it is only her selfless devotion that allows me to bear my burden of guilt."
This last struck Kargan with some force: as a Guild Mage, he was forbidden any kind of liaison with females, and loneliness was his frequent companion.
"At least you have something I lack,” the Magemaster said, his voice harsh. “Something denied me by my vocation. I am no eunuch, and sometimes I would gladly trade my useless wealth and comfort for the love of a good woman. Know this, Master Loras: I envy you, but I would never begrudge you your only comfort. Be so kind as to allow me my own."
Loras shrugged. “My apologies, Lord Mage; sometimes I become somewhat bitter and twisted. I beg your forgiveness.” The smith's tone was anything but apologetic. “Perhaps if I had paid more attention to my own duty and less to my purse, I might not be…"
The smith took a deep breath. “That is all in the past,” he continued, as if repeating some habitual mantra. “It is perhaps unjust of me to take out my frustrations on you. Please, Lord Mage, come inside."
Kargan had to duck as he followed Loras through the door, into what he assumed was the reception room. Four rude, straw-upholstered chairs clustered around a small, round table by an empty fireplace. The Magemaster had never felt the cold hand of claustrophobia, but the dimly-lit interior and the low ceiling seemed oppressive. Kargan noted two tasteful, colourful paintings of country scenes on the otherwise bare walls; they, at least, served to brighten the small, drab room a little. He bent to examine the pictures, marvelling at the wealth of detail in them.
"Drima's handiwork,” Loras said. “She used to be the village schoolteacher. She taught arithmetic, art and literature, and she still likes to keep her hand in, from time to time."
Kargan appreciated art in all its forms. “These paintings are magnificent! I would love to hang such decoration in my own cell…"
He stopped himself, remembering that he might never return to his cell if his mission failed. Everything depended on his meeting with Loras.
"Who's your guest, Loras?” The light, feminine voice bore a trace of the local accent, but the diction was crisp and clear.
Kargan spun around, almost cracking his head on the low ceiling beams. In the dim light from the inner doorway, he saw a small, dumpy woman with greying brown hair. This, he guessed, was the artist.
"Ah… Drima, this is Magemaster Kargan, from Arnor,” Loras said. “Magemaster Kargan, I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Drima."
The Mentalist noted that Drima's presence seemed to have driven the cold, formal Mage Speech from the former Questor's lips.
"A Magemaster!” Drima's face dimpled into a warm smile. “We're honoured to have you here, Lord Mage. Do you have any news of our beloved Grimm?"
Kargan shuffled his feet a little. “The last time I met him, he was a Questor of the Fifth Rank, Mistress Drima,” he mumbled. “He's been away from the House for some time, but I understand he's away on a Quest at this moment. He is doing very well for himself; after his first Quest, he was elected Baron of Crar. Questor Grimm is wealthy and respected. You should be proud of him."
"I'll always be proud of him.” Drima's smile now appeared a little forced. “Grimm was always a good boy. Still; that's not why you're here, is it?"
Drima's clear, blue eyes seemed to bore into the Magemaster's very soul.
Kargan shot a nervous glance at Loras, but the smith nodded. “Don't worry, Lord Mage; my wife knows all about it,” he declared. “You may speak freely here.
"Drima, Lord Kargan is here to discuss… that other matter. Can't imagine he has anything new to tell me, but he seems quite insistent."
"Oh, is that so?” Drima's voice became cold and her lips compressed. “Loras, would you mind seeing to the range for a few moments? It doesn't seem to be heating up properly."
Loras nodded. “Of course: I leave our honoured guest in your capable hands."
Kargan thought he saw the trace of a smile on the smith's lips as he left the room.
"Won't you sit down, Magemaster Kargan?"
The Mentalist lowered his large frame into the nearest, flimsy chair, taking care lest it break under his weight. Drima sat opposite him, her eyes blazing.
She looks almost like a Questor, Kargan thought, averting his gaze from the stern visage. It's not Loras I have to convince; it's his wife.
Kargan sat on the very edge of the chair, hardly daring to breathe as Drima's gaze scanned him.
"Don't you think he's suffered enough?” she said, at last, her voice brittle and anguished. “What good will it do to drag up the past again? Loras has paid a thousand times for what he did.
"And what did he do, you may ask? He took mercy on a dying man's agonies; what's wrong with that?"
Kargan's mother had died forty years before, and his only memories of her were of a cold and distant woman. He had been brought up by a succession of nannies and tutors, and the Scholasticate had given him a sense of belonging he had never known before. However, this woman's voice bore an air of cool authority that neither his nannies nor his mother had ever possessed; he knew he would never convince this woman by trying to browbeat her.
"Mistress Drima,” he said, opening his hands towards her. “Questor Loras did not act under his free will when he did… that. He was under a spell; he was betrayed by Lord Thorn! All I wish to do is to bring out the truth of Loras’ innocence."
Drima shook her head and sighed. “What good would it do, Magemaster, even if your claims are true? I urge you… I beg you to drop this. Can you not let us live in peace? It's not as if you can turn Loras back into a Questor, is it? All you can do is to disturb a worried man who has salvaged a meagre amount of happiness after a long-ago moment of weakness and compassion!"
Kargan leaned forward, seeing his chance. “It wasn't weakness!” he said, his voice low but intense. “It was a Geomantic spell, cast by Prelate Thorn's mother, a bitter witch angry that Loras had spurned her interest in him!
"She forced him to try to smother Geral; do you hear? This is not a belief, a hypothesis, a conjecture-it is fact! Do you truly wish your husband to belabour himself for the rest of his life for an act in which he had no choice?"
"Even if what you say is true,” Drima said, her eyes hooded, “Loras will still be a simple smith. All you would do is make him angry about something he can't change; what use is that?"
The Magemaster felt a little enthused by Mistress Afelnor's change in position; she was still defensive, but she appeared to be softening her attitude a little. Now, he felt, it was time to strike.
"Is it better for him to wallow in unmerited self-accusation, or to know the truth? What's wrong with plain, simple truth, Mistress Drima?
"Loras was no murderer, compassionate or otherwise! He was the tool of an evil woman, and he was betrayed by a man he regarded as his brother! Is it wrong to tell him so? I can prove to Questor Loras what was done to him, and I may be able to arrange for his powers to be returned to him!"
"If you wish your husband to remain ignorant and wracked with guilt, and if Questor Loras agrees, then I'll go,"
Kargan sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. Seeker bobbed behind him like a playful dolphin, as if enjoying the conversation.
"Since you claim to have proof, I'd be grateful if you'd show it to me,” Drima said, her tone neutral.
"I can't, Mistress Drima. The proof is in the form of a powerful spell that will show Questor Loras what happened to him as if he were there. However, I need his co-operation if the spell is to proceed."
"How will you convince Loras that this isn't some trick or illusion?"
This question gave Kargan some hope: Drima seemed to be shifting from an attitude of outright opposition to one of cool interest.
"I would start by showing him something only he knows,” the Magemaster said. “The choice of time and place is up to Loras; all I will do is to cast the initial spell. Once the enchantment is enabled, we can visit any location and period within Loras’ memory. He can terminate the spirit journey at any time he wishes."
"Are there any risks involved in this, Magemaster Kargan?"
Kargan shrugged. “It is a powerful enchantment, Mistress; what we mages call a Schedule Nine spell. I cannot pretend it has no attendant dangers, but I have successfully cast the spell before, on Grimm's friend, Questor Dalquist, a Mage of the Seventh Rank. That is how we uncovered this plot: Dalquist, at least, is convinced."
He stopped himself from telling Loras’ wife that Dalquist's life might now be in danger. There was no need to complicate matters further.
"If only I could be sure…"
Drima seemed to be wavering, and Kargan guessed that only a little further pressure might be needed to convince her. He could not be sure that Loras would go along with him, but he hoped Drima's attitude might sway the former Questor.
"Mistress Drima, why did you become a teacher?” the mage asked.
Drima blinked. “What does that have to do with it?"
"Please, Mistress, answer my question. Humour me."
Drima wrinkled her brow, but she answered.
"I wanted to make a difference,” she said with a shrug. “I love children, and I also love to see them grow up, gaining a clearer and clearer picture of the world as they gain wisdom."
"Would it not have been better to leave them ignorant and innocent? Have you not dashed their illusions, battered down their youthful beliefs and sundered their view of the world?"
Drima gaped. “I see what you're seeking to do here, Magemaster,” she hissed, “but I don't appreciate the comparison!"
"I too am a teacher, Mistress Drima. I try to turn callow, carefree boys into responsible adults. I do not see innocence as a positive virtue, but a dangerous state that can only be protected or eradicated; there is no middle ground. Innocence has no concept of right or wrong, and it can be perverted. I seek to give protection against mindless perversion by filling empty minds with moral and technical knowledge.
"What I try is to give my charges the ability to make their own decisions. Such decisions may be right or wrong, but I believe a tutor's responsibility is to destroy innocence. Is it right for Loras to languish as an innocent in pained ignorance, or is it better to open his eyes to the truth? He did not choose to assault Prelate Geral, even if he believes he did.
"That's all I have to say on the matter, Lady Drima."
The smith's wife opened her mouth and closed it again. She wrapped a stray tendril of grey hair around her right index finger and toyed with it, her hand trembling a little.
At last, she spoke: “I agree, Magemaster… that is, I prefer knowledge to ignorance. Loras is a grown man, and he should be given the opportunity to confront his demons, instead of cowering from them. I'll do my best to convince my husband that if what you say is true, it may be in his best interests to consider it carefully."
"Thank you, Mistress Drima,” Kargan took Drima's small left hand in his own wrinkled, liver-spotted extremity. “That is all I could ask."
Drima nodded and rose to her feet, slipping her hand from the Magemaster's.
"I'm doing it for Loras, not for you,” she said. “Please wait here and I'll see what I can do."
She left the room, shutting the flimsy door behind her, and Kargan slumped back in his chair.
Well, the die's cast now, he thought. Let's see how it lands.
After a seeming age, Loras entered the room. His face was ashen, but he had the ghost of a smile on his lips.
"All right, Magemaster,” he rumbled in a quiet voice. “I am willing to be convinced: so convince me!"
Kargan felt his heart beginning to pound, and he took a succession of deep breaths.
"Please sit down, and shut your eyes, Master Loras,” he said, motioning to the chair opposite him. “Make yourself as comfortable as possible, and try to remain still."
Loras did as the Mentalist bade him, lowering himself into the chair and closing his eyes, his head slumped on his chest.
Kargan grasped Seeker and began to access his memory of Bledel's incantation, rehearsing it in his head. As a musician and a mage, he found it easy to read ahead, scanning the sequence of runes and cadences for cohesion and harmony, silently moving his lips as he did so. He spotted a few areas where his recalled sequence deviated from magical logic; having cast the spell once, he now understood the purpose of each section of the thaumaturgic chant, and he mentally substituted the correct rune, rhythm or cadence. At last, he felt satisfied, and he settled himself into a comfortable position for casting, ensuring that his body would not fall from the chair while he was away from it.
"Are you ready?” he asked, and Loras nodded.
Kargan accessed his power and began to cast…
The last few runes spilled from the Mentalist's lips, and he knew he had succeeded, his heart full to bursting with a sense of triumph and elation.
"You may open your eyes, Master Loras,” he said, with just a trace of smugness.
"Nothing happened, Mentalist Kargan. We haven't gone anywhere!"
Kargan's spirit form stood up, and Loras gaped.
"We are free of our bodies, and capable of drifting through your memories to wherever and whenever you desire,” the said Mentalist, as if outlining a summer picnic. “Where and when would you like to go?"
Loras also stood, looking down at his physical body with wide eyes. “An impressive spell,” he said. “Very well; I wish to travel to-"
"Don't tell me,” Kargan interrupted. “This is your spell. Just access the relevant memory inside the privacy of your own mind. Perhaps that will prove to you that I am not using some king of flashy subterfuge."
The small room faded and disappeared, to be replaced by an open field. Loras’ memory counterpart now wore an unrestricted shock of black hair that flowed over his back like a dark wave, and his lower face now bore a burgeoning, black beard. This younger Questor stood with a defiant, confident expression, his staff raised over his head in a two-handed grip. Beside him stood a slender, blond-headed man that Kargan did not recognise. This man, too, bore a staff with seven gold rings, and his expression seemed no less determined.
The blond man spoke, and Kargan realised this handsome young Questor was no less than Lord Thorn!
"If we succeed, this ought to get us into the Deeds of the Questors,” the younger image of the Prelate said, and dream-Loras nodded.
Kargan turned to see an advancing line of beasts. They were like dogs, but the size of horses, and their four-inch fangs dripped with foaming saliva. The Magemaster guessed there were forty to fifty of these hell-hounds, and they raced towards their human prey with astonishing velocity.
The dream-Questors stood their ground, unleashing their first spells when the beasts were about fifty yards distant, sending a pink shower of canine gore into the air.
"The vision is accurate,” Loras declared, although he seemed otherwise uninterested. “This confrontation was not recorded in any of the Guild's annals, as far as I am aware; politics intervened. I am convinced in the efficacy of your spell."
Kargan winced as the lead beast leapt onto dream-Thorn, only to be thwarted by what appeared to be an invisible ward. The dog-thing's claws skittered over the unseen dome's surface, and dream-Loras dispatched the animal with a potent spell of green fire.
"I suggest you take us to the night of the… incident,” the Magemaster said, unable to tear his eyes from the carnage unfolding before him. “Perhaps two hours before it happened?"
The bloody scene warped into the image of the Refectory at Arnor House, where dream-Loras sat opposite a middle-aged man. The older mage was somehow familiar, but Kargan could not place him.
"That is Questor Olaf,” Loras said, and the Mentalist nodded slowly, recognising the younger image of the now-grizzled senior Questor. “As I recall, we did have dinner together on that night."
Loras seemed to be taking the whole thing in his stride, almost enjoying the revelations of his youth as the two dream-mages discussed trivial House matters, including the results of a recent athletic tournament.
"I believe we should visit Lord Thorn's chamber,” the Magemaster said. “We may have to wait some time, but the results should be… interesting."
"Very well, Magemaster Kargan; Thorn's room is at the end of the West Wing corridor. Let us go."
The two mages, under Kargan's direction, walked through the intervening walls, up the stairs and into a dark empty room.
"What do we do now?” Loras asked.
"We wait,” Kargan said. “I hope this will be interesting and instructive."
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