The Magemaster looked at the blacksmith, and he could have sworn that he saw traces of tears in Loras’ eyes. The former Questor must have caught the quizzical lift of Kargan's eyebrows.
"I never thought I would see the House again,” he explained. “If I am a little affected by this, it is because I was brought up here, just like you. When I was banished, it was as if most of my life had been stripped from me, along with my magic."
Kargan nodded. “I know what you mean, Questor Loras-"
"Master Loras,” the smith corrected him. “I am no mage now."
"My apologies, Master Loras; I know just what you mean. I may lose all this, too, and the prospect scares me more than I would have thought.
"I was just thinking, Master Loras,” he said. “At this very moment, I'm sitting in my cell in the Scholasticate, talking to an inanimate piece of wood in the hope it will come to life, and give meaning to my existence…"
Kargan brushed a bead of moisture from his left eye. “It didn't work."
He would have said more, had the door not opened at that moment. Both mages turned to see the dishevelled figure of Thorn entering the room. His long, blond hair and beard lay in disarray, and Kargan saw dark rings like bruises around the Questor's eyes.
The younger Thorn walked through him and sat on his bed, cradling his head in his hands; he was, of course, quite oblivious to the presence of these ghosts of the future. After a moment's pause, he extracted a bottle from under the bed, pulled the cork and took a long draught of the ruddy beverage.
Loras. gasped “What on earth is the matter with him?"
"I suspect he already knows what is to happen. He's just giving himself a dose of Gallorleyan courage before he acts."
"Thorn always did like a drink,” Loras said, “but I never saw him drink to such excess."
The prodigious amount of alcohol seemed to have had little effect on the younger Thorn. “Here's to you, old friend,” he muttered, raising the bottle to his unseen Brother Mage before downing its remaining contents at a single swallow.
He bared his teeth and drew in a sharp breath as the fiery liquid took hold, dashing the empty bottle against the stone wall and smashing it into a hundred glittering shards. His gaze was dull and fixed on the blue-gold Guild Ring on his wedding finger, twisting and turning it with his right-hand middle finger and thumb. After long moments of listless introspection, he looked up as if startled. Thorn rose to his feet and headed for the small desk near the far wall.
Both Kargan and Loras stood in rapt fascination as the scene unfolded before them.
Thorn took a small, green baize bundle from the desk drawer and brushed fragments of glass from the desk. He opened up the bundle to reveal a glowing, pulsing green orb, a twin to the one Kargan had seen in Lizaveta's chamber in High Lodge. With almost reverent care, he spread the baize out on the table and placed the globe at its centre, positioning his clawed hands on the luminescent crystal.
He stood in silence for several moments, nodding from time to time. At last, he spoke.
"Is this really necessary, Mother?” he said, his voice almost like that of a child in its plaintive, whining tone. “I mean, why Loras? He is my best friend in all the world… I am sure we can-
"Yes, Mother, I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf. Does it have to be tonight, though?"
Again, the strange, mime-like interval while his unseen interlocutor spoke. If the Questor's pained face was any guide, Lizaveta's reply had been far from conciliatory.
"Loras is my friend. If only-
"Yes; yes, Mother, I understand,” he said, his perspiration-beaded face a mask of abject misery. “Of course-I know this is all for my benefit-yes…"
The crystal's glow subsided, and the young Questor's avatar jerked his hands from its surface as if it were scalding-hot. Looking furtively around him, almost as if he sensed the future phantoms observing him, he wrapped the globe in its green shroud and replaced it in the drawer. Dream-Thorn drew a rapid sequence of shallow, nervous breaths, clenched his fists and shook his head as if dismissing a cloud of flies. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a final, deep draught of air.
"I'm sorry, my friend,” he muttered, before striding to the door and wrenching it open.
Loras stood; his jaw agape and his eyes wide.
"Come on, Master Loras!” Kargan snapped. “We must follow him to wherever he's going."
"I know where Thorn is going,” the former Questor said in a hollow voice, “Prelate Geral's chamber."
"Are you convinced, Master Loras?” Kargan asked/
Loras sighed. “Almost, Brother Mage; but I must learn the full story. You started to show me this, so let us see the end."
"We can get there before Thorn does,” Kargan declared. “We just need to run through this back wall, through the-"
Kargan realised that Loras was already gone, and he raced through the intervening walls to the Prelate's turret, flinching as he passed through the insubstantial barriers. He ran straight through the images of a Necromancer fingering a small beast's entrails, and a House servant oiling the panelling in an ornate room Kargan had never seen, before he caught up with the smith on the stairs of the turret.
Loras stood just outside the Prelate's chamber door, his brows lowered.
"Come on,” Kargan urged him. “You've come this far, Master Loras; don't stop now!"
Loras wrung his hands and grimaced, and Kargan took the lead, racing through the oaken door as if it were no more substantial than fog.
The Prelate's office lacked all unnecessary adornment. Regimented racks of books and papers lined the walls, and the spotless room's desk and chairs were pushed against the outside wall.
"I do not remember this at all!"
Kargan turned to see that Loras had joined him, just in front of the door to Geral's bedchamber. According to House lore, this room was sacrosanct, and the Magemaster hesitated.
This time, Loras provided the impetus: “Let us finish it, Brother Mage! I do not wish to see this, but I must!"
Kargan nodded, summoning up all his determination, and the two thaumaturges took the final step towards the resolution of the ancient affair.
The large room bore nothing but a large bed and a simple night-stand. In the bed lay a wizened man with a face the colour and texture of crumpled parchment, his expression blank. Dull, feverish, sunken eyes stared from the putty-white face, but they seemed sightless, his gaze roaming without purpose around the Spartan confines of the chamber.
By the bed stood the younger Loras, his own expression no more animated than the stricken Geral's. Although he stood over the bed, he made no move towards the pathetic, bed-ridden old man. He stood like a pasty statue, bereft of volition or emotion, his arms extended but immobile. It was almost as if he were standing watch over the Prelate.
"Do you remember this, Master Loras?” Kargan demanded.
The former Questor shook his head, mute and uncomprehending.
Thorn marched into the chamber, walking straight through Kargan. He strode straight up to the young Loras, who did not react in the least to his fellow mage's presence. The future Prelate circled his brother mage like a prowling tiger. Of the two Questors, only Thorn seemed in full possession of his senses.
His face was beaded with sweat, and his hands trembled as he walked around the frozen image of his friend. He extended a hesitant, shaking index finger and pushed Loras in the chest. The heavily-built mage swayed a little, but he returned to his unseeing vigil.
The blond Questor picked up a large pillow from beside Geral's head and placed it in his brother sorcerer's hands. He muttered a phrase that Kargan could not hear and pressed between Loras’ shoulder-blades. As if he were a mannequin being posed in a shop window display, Loras leaned over and allowed his hands to be moved into position over Geral's blank, feverish face. The pillow touched the Prelate's nose but did not obstruct his fitful breathing.
This time, the Mentalist heard Thorn's muttered words: “It is merciful, Loras. Lord Geral's suffering will soon be at an end."
The image of the young Loras nodded slowly, his gaze still blank, and Thorn backed away to the door. As he stepped into the Prelate's office, he reached out to grasp a heavy bell-rope by the desk and began to tug it in a sudden frenzy.
Kargan stood by, feeling sour pangs of frustration at his utter inability to prevent the tableau from unfolding as it had so long ago. Thorn swung open the door to the spiral turret staircase and re-entered the bedchamber as the Magemaster heard the sounds of panicked feet racing up the stairs.
"Clerestory ambulatory prejudice."
Thorn's whispered phrase seemed meaningless, but its effect on the mesmerised Questor was dramatic. Loras’ formerly placid face contorted and his hands pressed the pillow down on the Prelate's face.
As a tall mage ran into the main chamber, Thorn leapt at his more muscular friend, trying to wrest the pillow from his hands. Young Afelnor responded with a solid backhand to his friend's face, sending him sprawling. As the tall, red-headed mage ran towards the fallen Questor, the young Thorn waved his hands.
"Save the Lord Prelate, not me! Questor Loras has gone mad!” the blond man cried, through split, bleeding lips. As Loras continued to smother the Prelate, the russet-haired mage swung his three-ringed staff at his lower back. The ensorcelled’ Loras dropped the pillow and turned to face his assailant, his expression one of pure, unalloyed rage.
"Iyastretona!” Thorn shrieked, and a black cloud formed around his fellow Questor's head. Loras coughed, took two steps towards the tall mage and slumped to the floor, fighting for breath.
By now, another mage had arrived: Kargan recognised him as the taciturn Questor Olaf, younger but as severe-looking as ever.
"What happened here?” the wide-eyed Olaf demanded.
"The Prelate!” Thorn screamed, running to Geral's bedside and putting his right ear to the stricken mage's chest.
After several moments, he nodded, uttering a sigh of relief Kargan thought to be somewhat theatrical. “Lord Geral still lives,” he said. “Well done, Manipulant Urel!"
With a start, Kargan recognised the handsome, red-haired man as the late, lamented Senior Magemaster who had been killed when Neophyte Erek lost his mind.
Oh, the sad ravages that the years visit upon us… Kargan thought, remembering the words of an ancient liturgical chant.
Your spell stopped Questor Loras in this evil deed,” Urel said, in an admiring tone that bordered on adulation.
"What happened here?” Olaf repeated.
"Questor Loras tried to kill Lord Prelate Geral,” Urel said in a hushed voice. “Questor Thorn raised the alarm and prevented him from… the Names know what."
Olaf shook his head, his expression grim. “Who would believe that a sworn Guild Questor could attempt such foul treachery?"
He kicked the fallen form of Loras, who moaned and coughed. “Get up, rat. You besmirch the ring you wear."
Loras rose to his knees, fighting for breath. “What is… what happened?” he gasped, his eyes blank.
"You are a damned, bloody traitor, who has betrayed his Prelate, his House and his Guild,” Olaf growled, his heavy brows descending over his grey eyes like rapacious birds of prey.
"I remember… the pillow…"
Loras’ face was ashen. “By the sweet Names, what have I done?” he cried, burying his head in his hands.
"That is enough.” In the hubbub of competing voices, it took Kargan a few seconds to realise who spoke these words, and he turned to face the smith.
"What?” The Magemaster felt too numb to make a more meaningful response. The anguished pain etched on the face of his companion was mirrored on the image of the proud, younger mage, and Kargan felt hot tears prickling at the margin of his eyes.
For half a century, Loras Afelnor had languished in the slough of despair engendered by a supposed act of evil. Now, that dread, half-remembered memory had been replaced by an equal pang of agony, brought on by the knowledge that he had been betrayed by a man he had loved as a brother.
"I said, ‘that is enough',” the smith snapped, as he saw his younger self pushed, manhandled and kicked out of the room by the three other mages. “I have no need to see more."
Kargan caught sight of a half-smile on Thorn's face, and the Magemaster realised that Loras must have seen it, too.
"I know the rest, Magemaster, and I have no need to see more. Get us out of here."
"Remember the smithy at the time we left, Master Loras,” Kargan said. “It will be as if no time had passed."
In less time than it took to think, the Mentalist found himself standing in the front room of Loras’ cottage, looking down at his motionless body. He directed the smith to sink into his own physical entity, conforming to the exact contours of the motionless body. He knew perfection of alignment was not absolutely essential, but that close correspondence to the body's position maximised the chances of success.
When he was satisfied with Loras’ spirit posture, he requested the same service of the smith as he slipped back into his own, unmoving mortal form. When the former Questor declared that the correspondence between the astral and bodily postures was adequate, Kargan realised that he could not access the memory of the conclusion of Bledel's spell from Seeker, still clasped in his corporeal self's right hand.
A frisson of doubt and fear fluttered through the Mentalist, but he crushed the sensation with an iron hand of discipline. He remembered the advice he had been given by his singing tutor, so long ago:
You do not need to remember the whole of the song, Neophyte; if you have learned it well, you only need to remember the first three or four words. Then, the rest will come tumbling out.
This was not as easy as remembering a song, since a mage spell was composed of apparently arbitrary runes, tones and cadences, each nuance vital for the incantation's success. However, Kargan had given many, many classes in the interpretation of spells over the course of his long life.
It starts with Chiat-Tekh-Urth with a rising tone; I know that, he thought, and that's followed by… what? Gath-Tren-Tekh? That's right; we're trying to create a sense of urgency, aren't we? Then there's solidity and homecoming, followed by permanence…
His mind ran through the feelings he had felt when he had first cast Bledel's powerful incantation, back in his cell in Arnor House. It was a small closing chant, but critical.
Yes, that's it, he thought. I can do this on my own, without a damned prompter!
The chant consisted of only twenty runes; a short run of syllables as Guild spells went, but Kargan's nerves jangled as he began to cast the closing enchantment. He knew that every lilt, every slur, every hesitation was critical to the closure, but he trusted to thirty years’ experience as a Magemaster, and a true voice untainted by the passage of the years.
By the time he reached the end of the brief chant, the Magemaster felt confident enough to add a hint of Elation to the ending spell-just a hint, of course; he did not wish to destabilise the main structure.
As the last rune spilled from his lips, Kargan knew he had succeeded. He welcomed the forgotten, dull aches and pains of his aging body as they began to introduce themselves, greeting his success.
"We are out,” he croaked, feeling as if his throat were full of glass shards. His head slumped towards his chest; he was utterly spent.
Loras leapt to his feet, flexed his ham-like fists and stretched, as Kargan slumped in his rude chair, devoid of anything but an inchoate fear that his recent actions might lead to the downfall of Arnor House or the entire Guild. Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to feel sorry at the prospect of the destruction of the diseased colossus.
"You said you could return my powers to me, Mentalist!” the former Questor said, his face like carved stone in its fixed intensity. “I request that you do so forthwith!"
"I couldn't fight a fly right now, Questor Loras,” Kargan confessed, his voice feeble and thin. “I'm travel-worn, tired, and I need to eat."
Loras sighed and shook his shaven head. “What has happened to the ardent fire of my beloved House's mages? Can you not understand the heat of my anger, Magemaster Kargan? I have fifty years of self-accusation to avenge, against a man I thought my steadfast friend! Thorn is the traitor, not me!"
Kargan sighed. “At this very moment, I couldn't care in the least for Guild politics, Mage Speech, protocol or lifelong vendettas, my over-muscled friend!” he cried, struggling to keep his eyes open. “I need a bath, some food and a bed in that order! If you can't manage that, I'll make do with a bloody bucket of cold water, a mouldy potato and a stretched-out rope, but I have finished with today! Is that quite understood?"
Drima flung the crude door open and entered the room. “Are you all right, Loras?"
The bronzed, shaven-headed man rose to his feet and hugged his wife.
"Magemaster Kargan has shown me everything, Drima!” he cried, his eyes moist. “I did not try to kill Prelate Geral at all! It was Thorn and his mother, not me!"
"I always knew that,” she said, patting her husband on his left shoulder. Her eyes were bright and moist. “You are an angry man at times, but you were never evil. This mage has given you back your self-respect! Rejoice in that, and put your bloody revenge behind you for the moment! Just look at the Magemaster, will you? He's almost dead in his seat!"
Kargan regarded the bright, kaleidoscopic colours, playing on his retinas, with a measure of dispassionate interest before he tumbled forward. He smiled, not knowing why, and his vision faded before his head hit the hard stone hearth.
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