Alastair Archibald: Dark Priory

Horin leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands and rocking back and forth.

At last, the Dominie spoke.

"If-and only if-you plead guilty to these counter-charges, without reservation,” he said, “I may be able to plead Personal Privilege, to restrict your sentence to irrevocable banishment from Guild lands. Otherwise, the sentence will be slow, painful death. The matter will be out of my hands."

Silence hung in the air, like an anvil suspended over Thorn's head by a single thread. At last, he said, “What must I do?"

"Confession is your only hope,” Horin replied. “You must write a full confession, exculpating the other prisoners of the charges against them, before the next meeting of the Conclave. The next interview is scheduled to be with Magemaster Crohn, tomorrow morning. If there is no letter from you by then, the Great Spell will be called, and I will be helpless to aid you. I can offer the Conclave strong guidance, but I cannot use a Point of Personal Privilege to order the exclude of valid evidence. If the Spell found Magemaster Crohn innocent, I can assure you, the rest of the Conclave would seek your blood with a vengeance.

"Two of them, including Prosecutor Rithel, are ex-Arnor men who respected Senior Magemaster Urel."

Thorn felt his teeth grinding, but he saw no way out of this bind.

"If I write such a statement,” he croaked, “will you assure me that the Conclave will not impose the death sentence?"

"No,” Horin admitted. “However, I assure you that the maximum sentence will be a quick, painless death. I will press for banishment, and the Conclave is likely to accept my recommendation.

"The choice is yours. Confess, and you may live. That is all I can offer you"

Thorn had faced many problems since he had first helped to disgrace Loras Afelnor, but all had been solved by the cachet of his rank or the relative importance of Arnor House; or by blaming someone else. However, this problem seemed intractable; it was an issue he had not foreseen.

It seemed he had no choice, if he wanted to live.

"I'll write your damned confession, Horin,” then, throwing etiquette to the winds, “and be damned to you and all the bloody Guild lawyers. You're all the same, valuing petty details over significance."

"I will return in an hour to collect your confession,” Horin said, who seemed quite unfazed by Thorn's outburst. “You may have no outside contact during that time; if you try to attract the guard's attention, he will ignore you. Enjoy your meal, Prelate Thorn.

"Make sure it is not your last."

With that, Horin was gone, the cell door clanging with awful finality, and Thorn felt more alone than he had in his entire life.

Mother, help me, he thought before cursing himself for a fool. He could not contact Lizaveta from this iron box, and she might well be dead by now, assuming that Loras’ whelp of a grandson had succeeded in his Quest. She was the only person who might have helped him out of his predicament, and she was lost to him.

All my dreams, all my hopes, ruined. A life-long career, washed away in a moment of imbecilic rashness. I should never have made an enemy of that vapid idiot, Horin; that was a bad mistake.

He knew that he had only a single ally in the world: his insane pseudo-Questor bodyguard, Chag Jura.

That boy has so much power… he almost brought Loras to his knees. If I could only free him, no group of superannuated, pampered High Lodge mages could hope to stand against the two of us. There has to be a way to reach him!

No, there are more important matters to handle now, Thorn. This damned letter will not wait. We will deal with Master Horin later.

Thorn took a sheet of fine vellum, a quill and a small bottle of ink from the small cabinet beside his bed. He picked up Peltian's autobiography put it on his lap, laid the expensive page over it, dipped the quill in the ink and began to write, in a fluent, cursive hand: 'I, Thorn Virias, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Iron-willed, Prelate of Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, do make the following statement of my own free will:'

He poised the quill above the page, hesitating a few moments before continuing.

'With full knowledge of the gravity of my crime, I acknowledge complete culpability and negligence in the death of a House representative: to wit, Urel Shelit, Mage Illusionist of the Seventh Rank, called the Dreamweaver…'

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For the first time since his incarceration in High Lodge, Loras Afelnor stood before the Conclave in the company of his fellow defendants, Crohn, Kargan and Dalquist. As he stood facing the wall of darkness, behind which sat his accusers, Loras felt a warm glow of companionship with the men he had come to regard as his friends.

Whatever happens here, gentlemen, thank you for your support, he thought, as the gavel banged and Prosecutor Rithel began his familiar, tedious opening speech.

On his previous appearance in court, Loras gave the testimony he had discussed with Lord Horin, but he knew Rithel had been unconvinced, and several other members of the Conclave had seemed far from swayed by his arguments. Doubtless, his reputation as the disgraced Oathbreaker must have spoken against him. He trusted Horin to be as good as his word and introduce the ‘new evidence’ he had ‘discovered'.

"We are here today to pass judgment on these defendants concerning charges of unlawful mutiny and the attempted overthrow of a House Prelate: to wit, Lord Thorn Virias, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Iron-willed, honoured Prelate and Acclaimed Master of Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges,” the harsh-voiced Prosecutor intoned. “Each charge carries a maximum sentence of death. How say you, Manipulator Crohn Bowe, called the Mindstealer? Address your plea to the Chairman."

Crohn cleared his throat, and Loras heard him take a deep breath. “Not Guilty, Lord Dominie, by reason of extenuating circumstances."

Loras breathed a sigh of relief. A ‘Guilty’ plea would have condemned all of them.

Rithel made the same demand of each of the accused in turn, and he received the same answer from each. Loras was the last to speak, and he fought to keep his voice level.

The Prosecutor grunted. “Gentlemen of the Conclave, it is my intention to demand the severest possible sentence for each of the accused. I therefore propose to present a full summary of the evidence against these men."

"Seconded."

"A moment, Prosecutor Rithel,” Horin drawled, and Loras’ heart felt as if it had vaulted into his throat. “I have here a piece of paper which casts new light on the case. I move that it be read to the Conclave."

The motion was quickly seconded and passed.

"I, Thorn Virias, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank,” Horin read, “called the Iron-willed, Prelate of Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, do make the following statement of my own free will: With full knowledge of the gravity of my crime, I acknowledge complete culpability and negligence in the death of a House representative: to wit, one Urel Shelit, Mage Illusionist of the Seventh Rank, called the ‘Dream-weaver.’”

Loras’ eyes opened to their full extent, and his jaw dropped for a moment. This was not what he had expected to hear!

"In addition, I admit to conspiring against a brother mage: to wit, Loras Afelnor, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank, called the Firelord. I declare the said Questor Loras innocent of the attempted murder of Lord Prelate Geral Fursh, called the Tempest.

"Loras was beguiled and deceived by a powerful Geomantic spell cast by one not of this Guild: to wit, my mother, Prioress Lizaveta, Superior of Rendale Priory. I was party to this deception, in full measure, dominated as I was by the overpowering will of my evil mother."