Alastair Archibald: Dark Priory

Loras had to lean on his staff in order to remain upright, his head whirling and giddy.

"Breathe, Questor Loras,” Kargan whispered into the Questor's left ear, and Loras realised he had been holding his breath. With his heart pounding fit to break his ribs, he complied with the Magemaster's advice.

The remainder of the letter was a litany of self-accusation and admission, giving details of Thorn's dealings with his mother and his various deceptions and acts of cruelty, culminating in the creation of the poor, mindless, insane Questor Chag, his personal bodyguard. It specifically exonerated the defendants, stating that they were justified in the actions they had taken.

"It is therefore with shame that I declare myself unfit to hold the post of House Prelate, and I throw myself on the Conclave's bounteous mercy,” the Dominie read.

The silence in the chamber was heavy, cloying and oppressive, but Loras felt unable to speak.

"Gentlemen of the Conclave,” Horin intoned, as the stillness became almost unbearable. “Prelate Thorn gave me this letter in person, and it bears his seal. He has agreed to testify before the Conclave, but he has asked that a mitigating plea of force majeure be entered on his behalf."

"Really, Lord Chairman…” Rithel began, but his voice was weak and dull, and it faltered to a halt before he had raised a formal objection.

"You all heard Questor Thorn's former testimony,” Horin said. “Did he seem insane or unhinged at any time?"

No answer came.

"On the basis of this free and full confession, I move that the defendants’ pleas of extenuating circumstances be accepted, and that they be set at liberty, with commendations for brave and resolute action against an insidious threat to our Craft and our Order. Under Guild Law, the motion must be passed unanimously. I therefore urge each member of the Conclave to examine his conscience before answering."

Coldness seemed to seep into Loras’ very soul, and he felt as if the walls were closing in on him, threatening to crush him.

"Well, gentlemen?” Horin chided, his soft entreaty sounding like a thunderclap to the Questor's sensitive ears. “Will you accept this new motion, or not?"

"Accepted, Lord Chairman!"

Loras could not identify the lone voice, but he sent silent thanks to the brave man who responded first. This initial declaration seemed to spur the other members, setting off an avalanche of acceptances, merging and blurring into a collage of sound:

"I agree."

"Not guilty!"

"I concur."

At last, the hubbub ended, and Horin said, “Your decision, Prosecutor Rithel?"

After a long pause, Rithel spoke in a hesitant voice: “May I address the Conclave and the defendants directly, Lord Chairman?"

"You may."

The Prosecutor stepped forward from the shadows, and Loras saw him for the first time. Rithel was a tall, rail-thin man, his expression impenetrable and dark. Long, grey tendrils of hair swathed his deeply-lined face, and his robe was an unadorned, black tent, cinched at the waist by a simple length of cord.

"This has been a long and difficult case,” Rithel declared, his eyes fixed on his feet. “It did not seem so at first; mutiny against an ordained Prelate is an abomination that cannot be tolerated, and the defendants’ guilt seemed beyond reasonable doubt… indeed, beyond any doubt. Even after this new evidence, I still regard the defendants’ actions as reprehensible in the extreme. They should have brought any concerns to the attention of the Presidium, instead of taking matters into their own hands-"

"Prelate Thorn is a member of the Presidium-"Questor Dalquist interrupted, his face flushed and his mouth twisted.

Rithel banged his seven-ringed staff on the stone floor. “Silence!” he shouted. “I have not yet finished!"

"My apologies, Lord Chairman,” the young Questor muttered.

Rithel grunted. “Nonetheless,” he continued, “I acknowledge a measure of implausibility in the concept of a large group of respected mages deciding to rebel in such a public manner at the same time. I regarded Questor Loras’ guilt as explicit, due to his prior conviction, but I am not now so sure. It is easier to believe in one mage's treachery than in that of four. However, I still cannot accept that it is right to take matters into one's own hands-"

"Time is pressing,” Horin chided. “Do you accept the motion or not? Your decision, please, Prosecutor Rithel."

After a long pause, Rithel said with evident reluctance, “I… I accept the motion! I feel so betrayed and… dirty at this revelation of Prelate Thorn's treachery. Yet another damned, low-born Questor-"

Bang-bang-bang-bang!

"Thank you, Prosecutor Rithel; that will be quite enough! Your declaration suffices!” Horin cried.

"Gentlemen-Brother Mages-I declare you Not Guilty, and I offer the Conclave's apologies for the tribulations you have undergone. I declare you free men, and I honour your courage in overthrowing a cruel tyrant and a self-avowed apostate, who threatened our whole way of life. You have done well, and your meritorious acts will be recorded in the annals of the Guild.

"Questor Loras is declared innocent, and he is discharged without the least stain on his character for any former act. He regains his full status as a Questor of the Seventh Rank, his cognomen, ‘Firelord', his former accolades in the Deeds of the Questors and his seniority. Is there any dissension?

"No?"

Bang-bang.

"The defendants are excused."

The darkness fled away, and Loras saw the whole Conclave exposed in the glorious light of a new morning, its golden rays flooding through the wide bay windows of the chamber. Rithel shook his head in apparent disbelief, but he did not speak.

Kargan was the first one to react, throwing his arms around Loras’ shoulders.

"We did it!” he crowed, slapping the astounded Questor on the back.

"The Chairman of the Conclave records a minor censure against Mentalist Kargan, for the unauthorised casting of a Schedule Nine spell,” Horin droned, “and sentences the said mage to one month of close confinement and loss of seniority for the said period. Since the said mage has already undergone six weeks of imprisonment, this sentence is declared discharged."

"Thank you, Lord Dominie,” Kargan whispered, still clinging onto the stunned Questor.

I am free, Loras thought, shaking his head in disbelief.

He could no longer think; he could not look at anyone on the crowded room. He could not speak. He was full.

"Loras Firelord!” The Dominie's voice cracked like a whip, jerking the Questor out of his confused reverie. “I wish to address you in person. Please approach the bench."

Loras was old by Secular standards, although still young for a Guild Mage; however, he felt feeble and ancient as Kargan released him with a whispered, “Welcome back, Firelord."

He trudged towards the grim-faced Dominie as if his feet were encased in lead, his breathing swift and shallow.

"You are improperly dressed, Questor Loras!” Horin snapped, a half-smile belying the censorious tone of his voice. “Where is your Guild Ring?"

Loras shrugged, incapable of speech. Grimm has it, may the Names bless him, he thought, but his mouth and tongue seemed to have turned to stone.

"This belonged to Lord Thorn,” Horin said, extending his hand to reveal a small gold-blue ring. “He wants you to take it, and to bring honour to it, where he has brought only shame."

The stoical smith, the impassionate and mighty Questor, the stern grandfather, broke down into hot, long-denied tears before his senior. It did not last long; no more than five tears trickled down his burning cheeks before he shook them away, as if denying them.

I am a Questor! he reminded himself, glorying in the prestige of the title.