to his feet, his eyes wide. Loras saw an unfamiliar, young man with a seven-ringed staff step through the opening, with Magemasters Crohn and Kargan just behind him. Chag uttered a guttural growl, raising his hands. As the insane youth diverted his attention from Loras, the smith saw his moment.
'Aghamaner-setset!” he screamed, feeling the incomparable, long-forgotten joy of thaumaturgic release as he launched an impromptu spell of lassitude at the boy. “Orgimaringem'ist framintes!'
Chag spun towards him, his mouth slack as his knees began to buckle, and Thorn flung his head back, beginning to chant.
Still holding the spell on the tumbling boy, revelling in the stream of magical power flowing from him, Loras took a strong, two-handed grip on Blade and swung it at Thorn's chest. Blue motes flew as the two staves, Loras’ and Thorn's, smashed into each other, but the smith had the advantage of greater momentum.
The Prelate gave an eerie, high-pitched squeal as he flew back to thud into the wall with a wet sound like a plank hitting a freshly-plastered wall. He sank to the floor and lay still.
'Greetings… gentlemen,” Loras gasped, grimacing at the strain of maintaining his spell on the dormant Chag. “Would one of you please restrain this poor boy? I am a little out of practice, and this lad is a touch excitable.'
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Chapter 10: Sand of Time
Loras raised his right hand and rapped on the oak door. Hearing no response, he clenched his fist and pounded harder.
'What is it?” a peevish, slurred voice demanded.
'It is Brother Bile, Questor Olaf!” he called. “I need to talk-'
The door flew open, and Loras beheld a stooped, dishevelled man. An unruly shock of greasy, white hair hung either side of a lined countenance, as if Olaf wore a map of his long life on his face.
'Loras?” the ancient mage croaked, staring at the smith-Questor with wide, grey, rheumy eyes. “What in Perdition are you doing here? To set foot on Guild property means your death!'
'I know, Questor Olaf,” Loras said, forcing himself to remember that this crabbed, wizened old man was his esteemed former colleague and friend. “However, you would not condemn a man before hearing his defence, would you?'
'I heard your defence many years ago,” Olaf growled. “You confessed. You had your trial, and you were convicted. What more is there to say?'
'I placed the pillow over Prelate Geral's face; I admit it,” Loras said.
'You could hardly deny it!” the older man snapped. “I saw it with my own eyes!'
'I was ensorcelled by Geomancy, Olaf. The act was mine, but the will-the intent-was not. I am guilty neither of high treason nor of attempted murder.'
'So you say,” Olaf said, with a snort. “Why should I believe you?'
'Will you at least hear me out?” Loras pleaded. “If there is one man in this House I trust, it is you. If you will listen to me, and you remain unconvinced, I will not resist. Nonetheless, if there is even a chance that a miscarriage of justice has occurred, is it not your duty to consider the evidence?'
'No,” Olaf replied. “It is the duty of a duly-assembled Conclave to determine guilt or innocence.'
Loras sighed. “Olaf Demonscourge. For the sake of the fraternal bond we once shared, will you not at least listen? That is not too much to ask, is it?'
'We were friends,” Olaf admitted. “However, you were always closer to Lord Thorn. I suggest that you throw yourself on his mercy; you mean nothing to me now. The Loras Afelnor I once knew is long dead.'
'I choose you, Olaf, for reasons that should become clear.'
Long moments passed as the older Questor scanned the smith from head to toes, as if seeing him for the first time.
'I grant you thirty minutes to plead your case,” Olaf said. “No more.'
'Agreed,” Loras replied. “Must we discuss the matter in the corridor?'
Olaf grunted and stepped away from the door.
'Very well; come in,'
Loras beheld a chaotic jumble of books, scrolls, alembics and bizarre curios littering every surface. A single candle lit the room, throwing fugitive shadows across the floor.
Olaf must be a wealthy man after all those Quests, the smith thought as he stepped through the doorway. Why does he choose to live in such squalor?
'Sit there,” Olaf said in a stiff, flat voice, pointing to a chair with faded, cracked, leather upholstery opposite a moth-eaten bed with a thin mattress. “Mind my treasures; some of them are irreplaceable.'
Placing his feet with care, Loras did as he was bidden, and Olaf sat on the bed, which creaked alarmingly. The older Questor rummaged through a pile of items at his feet for a few moments, and came up with a sand-glass. Inverting the glass, he placed it atop a precarious pile of papers and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest.
'What have you to say that has not already been said, Loras?'
Loras knew his life, and those of his companions-in-crime, might rest on his argument. He thought of Drima, waiting back at the smithy, anxious and helpless in her ignorance of his fate. He had never been an eloquent man, but he knew his arguments must be convincing if he were to prevail, for the sake of those he loved and respected.
'Feel free to examine my aura at any time, Olaf,” he said. “You will see I tell the truth.'
'Mage Sight is not infallible,” the older mage said. “You have had many years to rehearse your story; for all I know, you may well believe it yourself.'
'Was I a weak Questor, Olaf?” Loras asked, trying another tack, trying not to think of the sand trickling into the bottom of the glass. “Was I careless, flighty or impulsive?'
'No,” the shrivelled man replied, shrugging. “I was more than satisfied with your conduct on our Quests together. Your self-control in times of crisis was admirable.'
'Prelate Geral was dying,” Loras said. “He was a delirious wraith of a man, was he not?'
Olaf nodded. “Agreed. You took advantage of that fact, hoping that his death would be considered natural. Unfortunately for you, Lord Thorn discovered your treachery.'
'Let us suppose for a moment, that you, as a Seventh Rank Questor, considered it desirable to dispose of such a man,” Loras said. “Surrounded by powerful mages, how would you have chosen to carry out your evil act and avoid discovery? Would you have placed a pillow over his face to suffocate him, a task that might take many minutes?'
'That is irrelevant,” Olaf said. “What is undeniable is that you chose that method of murder.'
Were you born with the brain of an ox, Olaf, or did you have to work at it? Can't you think for yourself?
Fighting to regain his composure, Loras said, “If I had wanted Geral dead, I could have achieved it in many ways. He was in no condition to resist any magic I might cast. Weak and mindless as Lord Geral was, I could have achieved it from the sanctuary of my own cell in the space of a heartbeat. Is it reasonable that I would have dared to choose such a clumsy, Secular method?'
'But you did!” Olaf said. “I saw you! Whatever your reason, the facts are undeniable. I cannot pretend to know why you chose that particular method of dispatch, but the fact remains that you did!'
'I laboured under a powerful spell, Olaf!” Loras cried. “I have already admitted the act, but can you not admit my behaviour was, at least, bizarre for a Seventh Rank Questor-a feared Weapon of the Guild?'
'Perhaps,” agreed the old man, “but I do not profess to understand the mind of a damned traitor!” He spat the last word out with venom. “Is this the main thrust of your so-called ‘proof''?'
Loras clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to find some argument that would sway his old friend.
'You saw how Thorn stopped me,” he said. “He first tried to wrest the pillow from my grasp-a foolish move, since I was far stronger than he-and then struck me across the chest with his staff. I should have been hurled across the room, senseless or dead, but I remained on my feet. Then, he chose a showy, time-consuming method of subduing me, instead of blowing me into a thousand motes.'
