Alastair Archibald: Dark Priory

"You have done me a great service, Questor Loras. A reckoning is due, I promise you; on several counts. You have my support."

As the Dominie raised his gavel and pounded it on the small wooden bowl, Loras felt happier than he had in many years. He felt sure his innocence would at last be proved, and he knew that Grimm should be returning soon from his successful Quest. He would return to Lower Frunstock in glory, and he would deliver his beloved Drima from the hot squalor of the forge. The future seemed full of hope, after decades of misery.

He stood up and moved back to his appointed position facing the table. The lights dimmed as the Conclave members began to file into the chamber, until he could no longer see his accusers.

I may know nothing at all about fine vintages or wine labels, he thought, but I know vinegar when I taste it. Perhaps, after all this time, I will soon be able to taste something else.

Bang-bang!

"The Conclave is called to order,” Horin declared. “I have some details of the defendant's proposed accusation against Lord Prelate Thorn, and I declare it in order. However, I must advise the Conclave and the defendant that I see this approach as dubious at best, since it seems to rely heavily on hearsay and innuendo. It is recommended that the defendant's testimony be treated with the utmost caution in this regard.

"Prosecutor Rithel; the floor is yours."

"Thank you, Lord Chairman,” the Prosecutor said, in an oleaginous voice. “Questor Loras; you have made a most grievous and disturbing accusation against a valued member of the Guild Presidium. How can you possibly substantiate such a ridiculous charge against a respectable, selfless, hard-working Mage?"

Loras drew a deep breath; he would hold up his end of his bargain with the Dominie.

It only remained to see if Horin would do the same.

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Thorn sat in a comfortable chair upholstered in lush, crimson velvet. He leafed through a copy of one of the oldest and most important works in the Guild library: ‘Out of the Darkness', by Peltian Melluor, the founder and first Dominie of High Lodge, absorbed by its inspiring story.

The book told of the early wars between rival Thaumaturgic Houses, Arnor House amongst them, and the rise to prominence of the first Questors. In those far-off days, such mages were used as weapons in the strictest sense, and several nascent Houses were destroyed by Questors from more powerful establishments.

Thaumaturgy as a craft was splintered and disparate, without direction or guidance. Into the midst of this strife walked Peltian, a middle-aged Questor tired of his trade of death. An inspiring orator, he garnered support for his campaign of unification from several dissatisfied mages. Peltian founded his own House at Zhure, where now stood the imposing bastion of High Lodge; it had borne the name of ‘Harmony House'.

At first, Harmony was too small to bother the larger, more warlike establishments, but the steady exodus of unhappy mages to Peltian's side soon made it a force with which to be reckoned. By the time Peltian declared war on all other Houses in the region, it was too late; Harmony was the most powerful House of all, and when he invited the local Prelates to parley, they had little choice in the matter.

Peltian's slogan had been “Unity or death.” The other Houses, bled white from continual battles, soon accepted the first option as the only realistic choice. At that historic meeting, the formation of the Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges was announced.

What a man Peltian must have been, Thorn thought, putting down the book and yawning. Not like that pallid mother's boy, Horin. One little bit of bluff, and he collapsed like a house of cards in a hurricane; I wonder he has lived as long as he has. How did our glorious Guild come to such a pass? How did High Lodge become so weak and pampered? Peltian had the services of eleven powerful proto-Questors at his command; Horin has none, except from the Houses.

Thorn had read his own, well-worn copy of Peltian's book many, many times in his life, and he always managed to find new sources of inspiration in it. The most important pearl of wisdom he had garnered was that the Dominie's position was not safe; Peltian had survived five attempts on his life in his first year of tenure.

I am happy as a Prelate and a member of the Guild Presidium, he thought. I have the ear of a weak and persuadable Dominie, and that is all I want. There is no need to get involved with the cut and thrust of High Lodge politics. I have Horin just where I want him.

Smiling, Thorn picked up the book again and read on, devouring the details of the Guild founder's ruthless war against external and internal enemies and the building of High Lodge. He had just reached the point of the first formation of the Presidium, made up of elected representatives from each House in the fledgling Guild, when he started at a peremptory knock on the cell door.

It must be time for luncheon, he thought, licking his lips. Good; I am famished!

"Enter,” he drawled in a casual monotone.

The man in the doorway bore a tray, but he was no servant. Thorn stood up to greet the Lord Dominie of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges.

"I bid you welcome, Lord Dominie,” he said, executing a perfunctory bow. “I trust you bring interesting news."

Horin closed the door behind him and put the tray of sweetmeats and delicacies on Thorn's bed.

"I do indeed, Lord Prelate,” he said, his lined face wearing a broad smile. “I think you will be surprised."

I doubt it, the Prelate thought. After all, I paid for this verdict.

"I have consulted with the other members of the Conclave on the charges of cruelty levied against you,” Horin said. “Of course, they found the charges ludicrous. If a few charity Students suffer a little… well that is what the Questor Ordeal is about, is it not?"

"Exactly, Lord Horin,” Thorn replied, returning the Dominie's smile in equal measure. “I suffered during my own Ordeal, and I never once complained. The youth of today have no respect or stamina; they expect everything to be given to them. I presume these ridiculous charges will be dropped?"

Horin nodded and Thorn suppressed a chuckle.

"Indeed, Lord Thorn; put them from your mind. Loras Afelnor will also be exonerated from his earlier conviction for treason, as you requested. The latter charges, of course, will remain."

"Of course,” the younger man said, making a show of inspecting his cuticles. “Justice will be done, eh? When may I expect to be set free? I am needed in Arnor; I need to procure the services of at least two Magemasters, and I have another charity boy to consider for the Ordeal. It would be a shame to lose three Seventh Rank men to the headsman's axe, but I must accept the Conclave's impartial decision."

Horin's smile grew even wider, and his rheumy eyes seemed almost to sparkle.

"I regret that I cannot free you immediately,” he said. “There is one more little legal matter to consider-a trivial one, of course! — before you can be liberated. Do not trouble yourself over it, Lord Prelate. It is nothing, I am sure; just a traitor's last, desperate gambit. Think nothing of it."

Thorn frowned. “What is this legal matter?” he demanded. “I cannot afford to be kept from my duties by lawyerly pettifoggery!"

Now, Horin took his time to examine his fingernails. “Oh, it is just a pair of wild, nonsensical counter-charges by the other prisoners. A last, hopeless throw of the dice, I presume."

"Lord Horin, what are these counter-charges?” Thorn demanded, trying to keep his composure. “I demand that you tell me!"