Alastair Archibald: Dark Priory

He drew several tremulous breaths, and he extended his trembling right hand, its palm upwards. The small ring dropped into it, and Loras closed his fingers around his long-denied birthright.

As the wide-eyed members of the Conclave looked on, Loras felt as if his supportive, former co-defendants’ gazes were also burning into his back.

"Please, Brother Mage. A Guild Mage is naked without his ring. Put it on."

The ring looked far too small to fit on any of his thick, calloused digits, but Loras knew this would change. He offered it to the bare third finger on his left hand, and the ring convulsed and grew, sliding onto the digit as if had been made for him.

The magic, gold and blue annulus conformed to the dimensions of Loras’ calloused, smithy-worn finger in an instant, suffusing him with a pride he had not felt since his staff had rebounded from the Breaking Stone at Arnor House, so many decades ago.

Loras stared at his hand, turning it so that the ring caught the sun's light and gleamed. He felt almost reborn, and he longed to take Drima, his devoted wife, into his strong arms and share in her long, unshaken faith in him. Even in his darkest days, she had stood beside him, giving him the will to carry on through decades of self-condemnation, shame and regret. Now, it felt as if his life had been suspended all that time, and it had now begun anew.

He felt warm joy suffusing him. Now, I can show myself to the world as a true mage. I can greet Grimm as an equal, and we can toast each other's successes… I do not have to be ashamed of my past any more.

"Thank you, Lord Dominie and gentlemen of the Conclave,” he said, regaining his starchy, formal, Questor's voice. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have given me my life back."

He stepped back from the table and executed an immaculate bow, and a sallow, saturnine-faced member of the Conclave began to applaud. In a few moments, other mages joined in, and, at last, even Prosecutor Rithel contributed a few, half-hearted claps.

"Welcome back, Brother Mage,” Horin said, as the reborn Questor turned and walked back towards his smiling comrades, his head spinning.

The Dominie's gavel banged once more, and the applause stuttered to a halt. “I declare this session of the Conclave closed,” he said. “You are free men, and I extend the hospitality of High Lodge to you for as long as you wish to remain here."

"Thank you, Lord Chairman,” Crohn said in a stiff, stilted voice. “My Students’ education suffers in my absence, and I wish to return to Arnor House as soon as possible."

"So do I,” Kargan declared, his eyes misty. “We have been gone for too long. Anarchy may be breaking out in the Scholasticate even now."

Horin shook his head. “You are dedicated and honourable men, but you need not fear for your Students, Neophytes and Adepts. Each of four teaching Houses has seconded a Magemaster to fulfil your invaluable roles. The Arnor Scholasticate is in good hands.

"Come, now, gentlemen. The last few weeks must have imposed considerable strain on you. I am sure a few days of relaxation will revitalise you for when you return to Arnor House. Your positions and seniorities within your Scholasticate are confirmed."

"Relaxation… it seems such a frivolous concept,” Crohn said, frowning. “However, I accept your offer with gratitude."

"I wish to wait for my grandson's arrival here,” Loras declared, his chest puffed out with pride.

After a few moments’ silence, Kargan said, “I want a drink-very large, very cold and very potent."

Loras laughed, long and loud. The sound was unfamiliar to his ears, and he revelled in the strange, comforting feeling it gave him.

Trust a Seventh Rank Mentalist to read my thoughts, he thought, shaking with long-suppressed humour.

"I… I would not… object,” he gasped, trying to regain his stern demeanour.

"Nor I, Brother Mage,” Dalquist said. “The last few months have been difficult, and I, for one, wouldn't object to a little recuperation before I return to the rigours of a Questor's life. What do you say, Magemaster Crohn?"

"Oh, very well.” Crohn sighed. “Perhaps my enthusiasm for my calling has waned a little of late; a modicum of alcohol and some good food might renew my zeal."

"Then that is decided,” Horin said, his smile fading. “I would gladly join you, but the Conclave now has other pressing matters to discuss."

The Dominie stood and banged his staff on the floor three times, and the double doors to the chamber swung open to reveal an ashen-faced Olaf, bearing a heavy load of iron shackles.

"The fetters will not be required, Questor Olaf,” Horin said. “These men are Guild Mages. The Conclave thanks you for your inestimable and meritorious support during this difficult period. You fulfilled your onerous duties in accordance with the highest dictates of Guild protocol; you will receive a special mention in the Deeds of the Questors."

Olaf's jaw dropped, and the weighty, cumbersome chains clattered to the floor.

Loras approached his old friend, smiling.

"Is it true, Loras?” he whispered.

"It is, Brother Mage,” the younger Questor replied, showing the gleaming ring on his left hand. “I am no longer Loras the Smith, but Loras Firelord, Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank."

Olaf's lips moved without sound for a few seconds, and then he lunged at Loras, throwing his arms around the smith's burly back, his hands hammering on Loras’ shoulder blades.

"Well done, Brother Bile!” he crowed, having regained his full voice. “I expected… I do not know what I expected, but this was no part of it."

"These reprobates have prevailed upon me to join them in the ingestion of a few beverages, Questor Olaf,” Crohn intoned, his expression suggesting that he had accepted only with the greatest regret. “Would you care to accompany us?"

Blinking and wiping the back of his left hand over his eyes, Olaf nodded and released his hold on Loras.

The five mages strode out of the chamber with their heads high, and the doors clicked shut behind them. Loras felt as if the sound marked the closing of one long, dark chapter in his life and the beginning of another, promising a new, exciting, glorious future.

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Grimm sat next to General Quelgrum, holding on tight as the wagon shimmied and jounced on the rough road, the four horses pulling the vehicle at a considerable speed. Every bounce shot hot twinges of pain through his damaged body, but he tolerated them as best he could.

"Well, it's no ATV, or chopper, Lord Baron,” Quelgrum said, raising his voice over the clamour of the wheels and hooves, “but it should get us to High Lodge in good time.” The old soldier seemed in excellent spirits.

"I understood the part about High Lodge, General, but not the rest,” Grimm replied. “What are Aitivees and choppers? I presume they're Technological artefacts of some kind."

Quelgrum nodded. “An ATV is an All-Terrain Vehicle: a machine with rolling tracks or large wheels that can handle swamps, deserts or rocky outcrops. We used one to bring you to our base by the hydroelectric dam at Glabra."

Grimm remembered the noisy, battered, chaotic-looking conveyance well. Quelgrum's name for the vehicle seemed a little extravagant, but the mage had to admit that it had handled the desert sand well, and at some speed.

"And a ‘chopper’ is…"

"A machine like the air vehicle Pilot Foster used to take you from Haven,” the General explained, and Grimm remembered the whipping, chopping sound the machine's spinning wings had made as it traversed the sky.

"It's a good name,” he declared. “Thank you, General. At least I know a little more about Technology now."