Alastair Archibald: Dark Priory

Kargan sat for a moment in silence, readying his mind. At last, he nodded.

"Place your right hand on Seeker, and give me your will,” he said.

Loras nodded and put his hand on the staff's brass-capped extremity.

Kargan began to chant, the runic syllables tumbling from his mouth in a cool, melodious tenor.

"Sha-ra-kak-oh-ma-do…” he began, ignoring the rivulets of sweat trickling down his face. The least tremor or hesitation could ruin the spell.

He sensed the personality within Loras’ soul; every memory, every fleeting expression, every factor that contributed to the man's being. Still chanting the complex sequence of runes, he pulled at the mind, feeling it pop into Seeker as he trilled the last three syllables.

He felt no pain or nausea: the spell was good. Now, there was no time to waste. Drawing strength from the smith's drained body; Kargan located the mental block and began to chant anew. This was no melodious incantation, but an insistent drone. The Magemaster hammered, chipped and slammed the magical clamp, pouring destructive strength into it for minute after long minute.

Come on; break, you bastard! Break!

With a huge access of relief, as if he had rid himself of a troublesome, unyielding tooth after weeks of relentless pain, he felt the magical structure crumble and shatter. Loras’ soul is free at last!

Don't sit around congratulating yourself-get him out of there! Kargan's ever-present mental guard screamed. Move, Mentalist!

With a mental push, something no Secular could ever understand, Kargan impelled the imprisoned psyche back to its body: he fell back in his chair, dropping Seeker to the stone floor. His vision blurring, he saw Loras lying back with a dull, fixed smile on his face. Had the smith's soul rejected its burden? Had the Magemaster failed?

"Master Loras, speak to me!” he croaked, panic rising within him like a bubble of sulphurous gas in a hot column of lava. “Are you there?"

Loras’ mouth moved, but no coherent speech emerged. Kargan felt the cold, slimy tentacles of pure horror running through him; he had failed, failed, failed The Magemaster lowered his head into his hands and mourned the loss of a good man.

"Mmstilere…"

Kargan looked up with a sudden jerk: this was more than an idiot's random mumbling. He looked closely into the smith's eyes; they were dull, but clearing, and they fastened upon his own. Loras coughed, blinked and sat up.

"I am still here,” the smith said with care, shaking his head as if to shoo away a wasp. The Magemaster almost cried with relief. “Did your spell succeed?"

Kargan shrugged. “There's only one way to tell."

Loras levered himself into a sitting position, but his eyes were now bright and focused. “Let me try something…” he muttered. For several moments, the smith sat on the mattress, his expression tense and pensive.

As Kargan waited with bated breath, Loras cried, “Japlya-redeteris!"

Nothing happened, and the smith's shoulders sagged.

"How did that feel?” Kargan asked, his voice soft and cautious.

Loras looked at the ceiling and shrugged. “I felt the power gathering, just as it always used to, and it drew my special Questor spell-language from me. I was trying to create a simple ball of light, but I failed. Whether that was because of a miscast, or because the block remains, I do not know."

Kargan rubbed his chin. “If you cast a simple runic spell, instead of one of those bizarre Questor concoctions, you'd know soon enough, Loras."

Every ‘normal’ spell carried a penalty for a miscast, ranging from a mild pang to the agonised death of the caster, depending on the power used. Only Questors, with their unique form of magic, seemed immune to such punishment.

"Do you remember the Minor Magic Light spell?"

"How could I ever forget it?” Loras rolled his eyes. “Magemaster Tomas hammered that spell into me day after day"

Kargan nodded. “Tomas was my Neophyte tutor. He was a very old man then, but strict.

"Try the Light spell, Master Loras. You'll soon know if you still have magic."

Loras’ lips moved in silence for a moment, and he nodded his head in a complex rhythm as he rehearsed the spell in his mind.

"Ap-chet-jak-tat-de-ran!"

The spell was simple enough, but the tricky cadence held several traps for the lazy or inattentive Student. Even before the gentle, formless glow appeared in the centre of the room, Kargan's critical ears knew the chant was perfect.

Loras’ eyes widened in disbelief, and Kargan clapped his hands in pure joy.

I've done it! The thought blazed in the Mentalist's head with an intensity that far outshone the spell's feeble glow.

"Welcome back, Questor Loras!” Kargan said, feeling a broad smile spreading across his face.

Loras snuffed out the spell, cried, “Puridemendyura-madat!", and gestured towards the small fireplace in the bedroom. The paper and kindling exploded from the grate, and Kargan ducked to avoid a flaming, splintered fragment of wood that flew over his head.

"We need to work a little on your control, Afelnor,” the Mentalist said in a parody of his Magemaster's tone. “But I believe you understand the basic principle."

"You did it, Magemaster Kargan! I am a Questor again!” Loras wheeled and grabbed the Mentalist in bear-like arms, crushing the breath from Kargan.

"I am Loras Firelord!"

The Magemaster saw bright motes dancing before his eyes, but the awful pressure on his ribs eased, and he drew a rasping breath. For once in his life, Kargan could not think of a thing to say.

The Questor regarded his scarred, shovel-like hands as if noticing them for the first time.

"You lack two important things, Questor Loras:” Kargan said softly, “a Guild Ring and a Mage Staff. Questor Grimm bears the former, but you know what to do about the latter."

Loras nodded. “Blade must be buried somewhere in the bowels of Arnor House. Even when the Conclave took my powers away, they could not destroy Blade, of course."

Kargan nodded: once forged by magic, such a weapon could never be destroyed while its creator lived. Wherever hidden, a Mage Staff could not be concealed from its rightful owner: if it would fly to his hand if called, or, if the path was blocked, it would teleport to him, bypassing any intervening obstructions.

Loras bit his lip and called, “Blade! Come to me!"

****

Thorn yawned and wandered down to the lower levels of the House. Today, he thought, he would look in on the two renegade mages, Magemaster Crohn and Questor Dalquist.

They should be softened up by now.

He had given Questor Xylox and Magemaster Faffel orders to allow the two prisoners no rest, and they had alternated watches for three days now. Sleepless and imprisoned in their iron-walled cells-pure iron being the only element capable of suppressing magic-Dalquist and Crohn should be groggy and confused now.

Thorn would ensure they were properly washed and dressed before they appeared before the Presidium, but he wanted them subdued and befuddled when they came to trial.

They should soon be ready for preliminary interrogation, he thought, as he descended the stone staircase from his private chamber. Kargan's the senior Mentalist; I'll appoint him to carry out the first interrogation.

The Prelate stepped into the Great Hall, to see Doorkeeper shambling towards the Scholasticate.

"Good morning, Doorkeeper!” he carolled, feeling in good humour.

Doorkeeper spun around like a frightened rabbit fearing that a weasel might be behind him.

"Good morning, yes, a very good morning to you, Lord Prelate!” he twittered. “All is well, as far as I know; still, there may be some naughty Students playing pranks during the holiday! You know what boys are like, Lord Prelate; always seeking some kind of mischief-"