Olaf shook his head. “Lord Geral was too close; a destructive spell might have splashed onto him,” he drawled. “Lord Thorn chose to use caution. Remember also how he pleaded for your life at your trial. Most eloquently, as I remember.'
The smith clenched his teeth; Olaf seemed quite incapable of putting himself in another man's shoes.
I am losing this battle, he thought. Fight, damn you! Fight!
'Wake up, Questor Olaf!” he cried. “If you had struck me with your staff, after discovering me trying to murder the Prelate, would I have remained conscious? Thorn was just ensuring that he had plenty of witnesses to my treachery!
'If Geral had died of natural causes, who do you think would have been elected to replace him?'
Loras did not wait for a reply. “You and I were senior to Thorn, and I had just been granted a commendation from High Lodge. You were a full member of the Presidium, and you must have known that I was recommended as Geral's replacement. I only had to wait, and Geral could barely have lasted another week. It made no sense for me to attack him.'
Olaf shrugged. “Perhaps, as Lord Thorn said at your trial, you acted out of misguided mercy, seeking to put an end to Lord Geral's suffering. I don't know.'
The vulgar contraction, ‘don't', told Loras he had disturbed Olaf a little, and this gave him new hope.
Push, push, PUSH!
'Was it not fortunate for Thorn to discover me standing over Geral?” he demanded. “It led directly to his becoming Prelate.'
Olaf leaned forward to look at the glass. “As far as I am concerned, you are just wasting sand, Loras,” he said. “All you have said is circumstantial. You said you were acting under a Geomantic spell. Lord Thorn was a Questor, not a witch.'
'His mother is,” Loras shot back. “As I now know, she is Prioress of the Sisters of Divine Mercy at Rendale. She has an inner coterie of fellow witches who aid her in her more devious and powerful spells. What was cast on me was the Geomantic equivalent of a Great Spell; all so Thorn could become Prelate.'
Olaf snorted. “One wonders why you were allowed to run around free after such a mighty Compulsion! If he betrayed you, why did Lord Thorn not slay you when he had the chance? I am unimpressed.'
Was ever a man born with such a lack of imagination? Loras raged, inside his head. What will it take to reach him?
'A Geomantic spell enters a mage's soul, and it may be revealed to all if he dies,” Loras growled. “That is why Thorn pleaded so eloquently for my life. Had I been killed, the spell would have been apparent to all.'
'Perhaps ten minutes’ worth of sand remains in this glass,” Olaf said, his tone cold. “I promised you thirty minutes in which to convince me. I will give you the remaining time, until the last grain falls, but all you have offered me is unsubstantiated anecdotes and innuendo. Do you have anything else to offer, or may we curtail our discussions now?
'You only prolong the inevitable, Loras. I would remind you that I am well within my rights to kill you in an instant.'
Inspiration flooded into Loras like a beacon, lighting up the dusty recesses of his mind.
'I can prove my accusations to you, Questor Olaf,” he said. “Kill me, and you will see the Geomantic spell rise from my body.'
Olaf's expression softened. “I misjudged you, Questor Loras. You are not evil, but mentally disturbed! I am sure that I can arrange for your sentence to be commuted to tenure in a charitable asylum. They will take care of you.'
Loras looked the older mage straight in the eye; he felt sure now that he had the proof Olaf demanded. The risk was great, but he knew he had gone too far to surrender now.
'I am not deranged, Olaf,” he said. “Many years ago, you used a spell you called the ‘Little Death'. I was never able to duplicate it, but, as I recall, it caused the death of an unresisting person within a few minutes. I ask you to invoke this spell again; you should see something… interesting.
'If you avert the magic when you see the effect, I need not die. I do not wish to die before my time is up.'
Olaf rubbed his forehead with his right hand.
'I have not cast this spell for over four decades, Loras; in any case, what is to stop you from showing me some fantastic Questor illusion?'
'I believe you will not see the truth of my words until I am on the very point of death,” he said. “Could I hide that from you?'
The old man shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “Are you resolute in this? Execution would be swifter and more merciful, and I am not certain I could abort the spell in time to save you.'
'I have been dead to the Guild for half a Secular lifetime,” Loras said. “My grandson was brought up here as the progeny of a traitor.
'I wish to live but, now that I know myself blameless of the crime for which I was convicted, I cannot allow a greater crime to go unpunished. Every sleepless night, every bad dream, every pang of guilt I have felt for the last forty years was caused by the weakness of a man I thought my blood brother. I now trust only one man, Olaf: you.'
'I may kill you, Loras,” Olaf said, his voice soft but intense. “I have cast no powerful Questor magic for many years.'
Loras laughed, stopping the sound before it became tinged with incipient hysteria.
'You were quite prepared to kill me only a few minutes ago, Olaf!” he cried. “Why are you so worried to do so now?'
Olaf shook his head. “I do not know.'
'You kicked me as I lay unconscious,” Loras said, looking straight into the grey eyes, “with your right foot. Your boot was unlaced.'
'I felt a personal betrayal at your action,” Olaf said, “I… how did you know about my bootlace? I nearly tripped over it as I walked down the stairs!'
Loras smiled. “A kind Brother Mage showed me the truth of what happened,” he said, a little pleased at Olaf's apparent confusion. “All I want is for you to know it, too.
'There, the sand in your glass has run out,” he said, pointing at the timer. “You are welcome to kill me in any way you wish.'
Olaf looked into Loras’ eyes, and the smith now saw the potent gaze of the Questor he had known so long ago. Without looking down, the senior mage picked up the glass and inverted it.
'If you wish to risk death so easily,” he said, “I will accommodate you. Is that what you want?'
Loras shook his head. “No, Questor Olaf; but I need you to believe me!'
Olaf sighed, and shook back his voluminous, brown sleeves. “Please lie back,” he said. “Are you ready?'
Loras nodded as his mind raged, What in Perdition are you doing, Afelnor?
Too late; the chant had begun. Loras felt his fingers and toes becoming numb.
'Ojimandelatimatomanerat… irandemanigotimanforanet.'
Cold, slimy fingers seemed to wander through Loras’ body unchecked, making him shiver. With a shock of sheer terror, the smith realised that he could not control the flow of life-force from him.
'Merimondimenosimarit…'
Loras Afelnor felt his inner essence plunging into oblivion, growing smaller and smaller. Now, it was the size of a marble; now, the size of a barleycorn; now, the size of a grain of sand…
He could neither see nor remember his own name: he was a mass of cold numbness, floating in a dark void.
An iridescent bird arose from him, threatening to tear the soul from his body… but it was so glorious!
So sweet to die like this…
With a thump, the nameless soul dropped back into his cooling cadaver.
The agony of returning to the mortal world tore a harsh cry from Loras’ mouth: every nerve burnt; every fibre screamed as feeling returned. Loras gasped, coughed and shivered. Death had seemed a release; almost pleasant.
Only life hurt.
'I believe you!” Olaf shouted, and Loras smiled, bereft of all his strength. “I saw it! I have no idea if Lord Thorn
