'Under the requirements of Law 1.6.12, we now invite the accused to offer his defence, if any, of the charges against him.'
'I offer no defence at this time, Lord Prosecutor.'
'Under the requirements of Law 1.6.14, I petition the Conclave for permission to offer mitigation against these charges!” Thorn cried, and Loras’ heart surged with love for his loyal friend…
Loras sat upright, his eyes staring and unseeing; his mouth gaping and unspeaking.
This Conclave is illegal! he thought, his heart pounding as the shocking awareness blazed inside his head. If need be, I will demand that Law 1.6 be read in full! I am entitled to hear the charges against me. I am entitled to present a defence. I am entitled to have another speak in my defence. They cannot deny me that!
We will see who can quote Laws and who cannot, he vowed to himself. I will demand that my trial, and that of my fellow prisoners, be conducted in full accordance with Guild Law, and I will be heard, if I have to scream my demands from the depths of the deepest dungeon.
If you want to condemn me, you will have to work at it, my friends. If you think you can browbeat a Seventh Rank Questor into submission, you are making a grave error.
With that, he sank back on his bed and drifted into dreamless sleep with a faint smile of hope stitched across his mouth.
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Chapter 29: Return to the World
Grimm ran through a golden, billowing field, hand in hand with a laughing, smiling Drexelica. His heart felt so full he half-expected it to burst from his chest at any moment, to fly away from him into the cloudless, sapphire sky.
'Stop, Grimm!” Drex gasped. “Stop!'
He came to a halt and looked down at his lover. “What's the matter, Drex?'
'Nothing,” she said. “Just this…'
Standing on tiptoe, she planted a sweet, warm kiss on his lips, and he took her into his arms, giving himself over to the moment. Paramount among his swelling emotions was a glow of deep gratitude: how good it felt to be running free in this scene of bucolic beauty, feeling the soft breeze ruffling his hair; how pleasant to be free from all worry and responsibility; how blissful to be alone in this glorious field with the woman he loved!
'Are you awake, Questor Grimm?” Her voice was soft and inviting, and he savoured its heady melody.
'I don't know,” he admitted, gazing into her large, dreamy eyes, “and I don't care. I don't want to be anywhere else or with anyone else. We are all that matters in this world right now. The Guild and the House can go to Perdition for all I care.'
'Just relax,” Drex said in a breathy whisper. “You will be all right…'
The meadow began to spin gently around him, and he laughed, turning with it and holding Drex at arms’ length so that her legs flew out behind her. Faster and faster he spun, until he could feel Drex's fingers begin to slip from his grasp. With growing panic numbing his bones, he realised he could not stop this mad, accelerating dance, and lost his hold on his beloved's hands. She flew away into the darkening sky, her arms and legs flailing as she disappeared into the distance, laughing as she did so.
Still he rotated, feeling the corn growing and ensnaring his ankles. The sky was now a deep black, blacker than the darkest night, but the field was still lit in a glorious, golden light.
The corn reached the level of his chest, winding around his torso and constricting his breathing.
I can't… BREATHE! Help me… help me, somebody…
He saw a widening, white line descend from the ebon sky, reaching to the distant horizon, and he heard a booming voice that shook the ground.
'Your doom… your doom… your doom…'
The voice had a metronomic, hypnotic cadence, and Grimm felt himself drifting towards the glaring chasm, fighting for breath, his sight dimming.
'The day's travails are behind you, but the struggle begins anew!'
The words of his former tutor, Magemaster Crohn, spoken as Grimm awoke after his Outbreak, burst into his head: a loud, staccato shout.
Grimm drew a desperate, whooping breath and jerked his eyes open, clenching his fists in blind panic.
Yourdoomyourdoomyourdoom… He realised that this ominous chant was the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He saw nothing for a moment, as various pains clamoured for his attention, each fighting for supremacy. Grimm drew another deep breath, which he found a little easier this time, despite the tightness in his chest, and full awareness came to him.
He was looking into the drawn, worried face of Sister Mercia, looming over him under an improvised canopy of sticks and broad leaves.
This is the real world, he told himself, a sharp pang of realisation spearing his heart. The world where Drex hates me, where there is pain, suffering and duty.
He squeezed his eyes closed, as if he could blot out the harsh reality of the mortal world, and he felt a single hot, bitter tear run down his right cheek.
'How are you feeling, Questor Grimm?'
Grimm sighed and opened his eyes again. “I hurt, Sister,” he said in a dull monotone. “I suppose that is a good sign. It's what life is all about, isn't it?'
Mercia smiled. “I was a little worried about you, Lord Mage. You drifted away from us for a while. You have been unconscious for a day and a half.'
'And now I am back.” The dull words fell from his mouth like lead pellets.
He tried to sit up, but Mercia's small hand pushed him back onto the grass with gentle persuasion.
'Please don't try to move, Lord Mage. Your neck and lower spine may be damaged. Do they hurt?'
'No more than the rest of my body, Sister.'
'I can administer Trina fumes, Questor Grimm. They should ease the pain.'
Mercia held out a small pouch he recognised only too well.
'No!” This time, Grimm overpowered his nurse and jerked himself into a sitting position, his eyes blazing. He had struggled under the iron grip of an all-consuming hunger for that herb and its antagonistic companion, Virion, too long to risk re-addiction now.
Mercia flinched and scurried backwards from the fury of his shout, but he held his hands out to her, his palms downwards in a placatory gesture.
Not daring to look her in the eye, he said, “I'm sorry, Sister. That pouch belongs to me. If you don't mind, I'd like it back.'
'Why?” Mercia's voice was the barest of whispers.
'To remind me,” he told her, his tone rueful as he raised his head back up. “To remind me of what it is to be alive.'
Her frightened expression giving way to one of puzzlement, she extended the bag again, her fingers limp. Grimm nodded and drew it away from her and placed it back around his neck, feeling a certain comfort in the familiar sensation of the rough pouch lying against his chest.
'Thank you, Sister.'
