Thorn nodded. “Now that I am free of my mother's influence, I am happy to do that,” he said.
"Secondly,” Loras continued, “I demand that my grandson, Grimm Afelnor, be accorded the respect due to a relative of an honoured Guildbrother. His obligation to the House for his tuition shall be set at nought, and he shall be free to choose his own path in this world."
"He already has the means to defray his financial obligation,” Thorn said, with an airy gesture. “He is independently wealthy as a result of his Quests, and yet he chooses not to do so."
Loras blinked twice. On the only occasion he had met Grimm since the boy had come to Arnor House, his grandson had been dressed in the simple robes of a poor mage.
"Is this true?” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.
"Feel free to use your Sight on me at any time,” the Prelate said. “You know it is true. Questor Grimm is a very valuable asset to me and to the Guild. Questors of the Seventh Rank are rare birds, as you know."
"Grimm has reached the Seventh Rank?” Loras gasped, his eyes wide. “Why, he is not yet eighteen years of age!"
"He was elevated to the Seventh Rank on the basis of my personal recommendation to Lord Horin, after two very successful and important Quests."
Loras shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
"Two Quests?” Loras’ voice was little more than a hoarse squeak. It had taken him four arduous expeditions to achieve the same accolade, and he had been reckoned a remarkable prodigy. Thorn had only gained the seventh gold ring on his staff after seven Quests.
His heart swelled with pride and admiration for his grandson, and he found himself unable to speak further. Thorn had been good to the boy, despite his grandfather's manufactured disgrace and the Prelate's complicity in it.
"I value Questor Grimm,” Thorn said, with a warm smile. “Times have been lean here at Arnor House, and we have only three Questors young enough to carry out the Guild's work. I regard his success as a credit to the Guild and to the House; paying Scholasticate intake has increased by one-half since High Lodge announced his Acclamation. Thanks to the accession of Questor Grimm and his friend, Questor Dalquist, this House has become a fashionable place to send one's offspring for education, for the first time since our heyday.
"We Questors have a certain glamour and cachet."
Loras felt moisture prickling at the margins of his eyes, and he found himself warming to his old friend.
You always were a charmer, Thorn, he thought, before bringing himself up short. Thorn was susceptible to his mother's influence and must be considered unreliable.
"I thank you for your faith in my kin, Prelate Thorn,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level. “Nonetheless, I still demand that you stand down from your post in favour of a less… vulnerable mage."
Thorn sighed. “I have erred, Loras,” he admitted, smiling. “However, I declare my vulnerability at an end. I have left Questor Grimm in no doubt that my mother's detestable influence is to be eliminated, and I have the most implicit trust in him. From now on, I wish only to do my sworn duty."
Loras scanned the Prelate's aura once more, finding only the signatures of innocent sincerity.
Something is wrong, he thought. What is it?
The thought rattled around in the smith-Questor's mind, like an angry wasp trapped in a bottle. Then it hit him: Thorn's smile was just a little too friendly, and a minute bead of sweat twinkled on the Prelate's cheek.
He could never fool me when we were Students, he thought. He is lying.
No! This was impossible: a man's aura did not lie!
My aura lies, he thought, shock running through him like an icy torrent.
It was a tentative diagnosis; the tell-tale signs of a young man's guilt might not be the same in his older self. How to be sure? Could Loras force Thorn to lie?
Loras smiled, recalling an incident in his old Scholasticate days. “I am pleased to hear that you are free from domination,” he said, his voice as smooth as the finest silk. “I am sorry that I might have thought ill of you, old friend. Old age can make a man suspicious and grudging.
"When old Magemaster Brinn-may he rest in peace-thought you cheated in that Signatures examination,” he said, laughing. “I never doubted you, but I felt very grateful when that bully, Usur Melditch, owned up to copying your paper."
Thorn's answering laugh was deep and rich. “Of course, Brinn knew at once that I was telling the truth,” he said. “How can a Student lie to a Magemaster?"
Loras nodded, his smile unwavering.
"Geomancy, Thorn."
The Prelate's smile disappeared as quickly as summer mist in the heat of the morning sun.
"I saw Usur's notes after he was dismissed, Thorn,” Loras continued. “I said nothing, because I was glad to see him dismissed. You had the trick of hiding your true aura even then, did you not? As you do now. I imagine you learned that trick at your mother's knee: a Geomantic spell that no Guild Mage could ever detect."
Thorn's ruddy face turned pale, and he blustered as he had in his youth, covering his embarrassment with a jolly laugh. “You always made more of a simple matter than it was worth, Loras,” he said.
"So I helped to get rid of a bully. All I wanted to do was-"
"You got rid of a rival as well, old friend,” Loras said, taking a firm grip on Blade, welcoming its long-lost, warm intimacy. “I saw no guilt or deception in your aura then, either."
At last, the Prelate nodded slowly.
"You are right, Loras.” he said. “I am at your mercy. May I at least explain myself?"
"Please do, Thorn."
The Prelate closed his eyes for a moment and then jerked them open after his lips had mumbled only a few syllables.
"If that was intended as a spell, I am not impressed,” Loras said, secure in his strength. “You will have to do better than that.
"You are forsworn, and I call upon you to resign."
"You were always stronger than me, Loras,” Thorn said. “Can you even comprehend how that felt to me? My bitch mother always pushed me one way; the Scholasticate, the other, I hardly knew who I was from one day to the other."
Loras snorted. “I will approach the Dominie myself,” he said. “You are-"
The door to the chamber swung open with a bang, and Loras jerked his head around to see a young, pale, feverish-looking boy, his eyes wide and wild. The rough, black robes of a newly-crowned mage or Adept seemed almost to swamp his rake-thin figure, and he bore no Mage Staff or ring. The boy's eyes seemed depthless, as if they were a window into the depths of his soul, but Loras saw no trace of emotion, reason or humanity.
A thick string of drool hung from the left side of the young man's mouth, running down to his chest.
"This is Questor Chag,” Thorn said. “He is a Questor in all but name. He is my Questor, and he-"
Loras leapt to his feet with all the speed and athleticism he could manage, but he heard a mad, keening cackle behind him. His nerves seemed to stretch and snap and, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he dropped to the floor.
"Questor Chag is now my personal bodyguard, Loras,” Thorn crooned. “Do you really think you can take him?"
Loras shook his head. The vacuous-looking boy's sudden, vicious burst had surprised him, but his automatic Questor defences had not been breached. Ignoring Thorn, he turned to the drooling, wild-eyed boy. He rose to his feet, ignoring his protesting joints, and faced the blank-faced youth.
"Do you like to dance, Chag?” he said. “Do you like to read? Do you like anything at all?"
"I live to serve Lord Thorn,” the boy said, and the dead coldness of his tone sent shivers through Loras’ spine. “You are an obstacle."
"I'm sorry, Loras,” the Prelate said. “Experience versus youth, fanaticism and vigour: which will win, I wonder?"
"This boy is as much a victim as I was,” Loras said, shuddering as a hate-filled bolt of power hit him.