"Eat well, Brother Bile,” he said, his expression twisting into what might just have been a half-smile. “Eat while the meal is still hot. You must be at your most eloquent during the trial. I will be there, and I wish to hear no accusations of brutality or mistreatment of my prisoners."
"You will hear none from me, Questor Olaf,” Loras declared, delivering a full smile. “Thank you very much, old friend."
Olaf grunted, and he dipped his shoulders just a little as he backed out of the room, locking the door behind him.
Loras fell on his breakfast like a starving man, devouring the eggs, the meat and the bread with a new-found enthusiasm, knowing that all his problems would soon be solved, one way or another.
Grimm, Drima, Crohn, Kargan, he thought as he consumed the meal. I dedicate this meal, and any others I will eat until my death, to you.
I will win this fight, he vowed. I will regain my Guild Ring and my rank, and I will acknowledge you, Grimm, my beloved grandson, as a Brother Mage, within these very halls.
Drawing Blade to him, he regarded the staff with fondness.
"Now we are together again, Blade,” he whispered, “nobody can beat us. All I want to do is to greet Grimm and Drima, with you at my side, as a full Guild Mage; and I shall."
He fell back on the bed and drifted into a blissful reverie; his fate was in the hands of others, and anxiety would serve no purpose.
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Chapter 23: Hoping
Despite shaving every day for forty years, Loras had allowed his beard to grow for the last few days; a beard was almost as much a sign of a Guild Mage as the staff and the ring. He had exchanged his moth-eaten, faded robes for the fine, red vestments Olaf had given him, and he had burnished and polished Blade until it gleamed.
He scratched at a shallow, itching indentation around his ring finger and gave a rueful smile.
It will all be over soon, he thought, slumping onto his thin mattress. Either I will come back exonerated, with a Guild Ring on my finger, or I will be carried back to Lower Frunstock in a wooden box. Either way, I will be free at last.
His mind turned again to his Drima, who must be worrying herself sick back at the forge.
It is far harder on Drima than on me, he chided himself. If only I could write her a letter, telling her how much I love her… I must win through, for her sake as much as for mine. Mentalist Kargan will surely provide strong evidence, as long as the Conclave believes his spell is true, and not some kind of illusion. Mentalist Crohn and Questor Dalquist will be convincing witnesses… unless the Conclave thinks I perverted their memories with some twisted Questor magic.
Thorn can be very a very convincing man when he puts his mind to it.
His mind twisted and spun in bewildering circles, his thoughts leading nowhere. Loras just wished for an end to this uncertainty and waiting. After several hours of nervous, unproductive inner torture, he felt a blessed, cool rush of relief on hearing a firm rap at the door and the crisp sound of the key being turned in the lock.
Olaf stood in the open doorway, and he uttered the words Loras had longed to hear: “It is time to leave, Brother Bile. Prelate Thorn, Questor Dalquist and Magemaster Crohn have already departed, accompanied by Questor Xylox."
Loras nodded, and rose to his feet, feeling a moment of dismay at the sight of heavy iron shackles in Olaf's hands.
"A necessary precaution, I am afraid,” the acting Prelate said, in an apologetic tone. “The other defendants, including Lord Thorn, are similarly restrained, I assure you. The manacles will be removed when we reach the Hearing Hall at High Lodge, for there will be a Cordon of Suppression erected around it. No magic will be possible inside it."
Loras whistled; the spell, he knew, was a potent and costly one, requiring the cooperation of many mages. A moment of panic seized him: Kargan's spell might be his only chance of proving his case.
"No magic, you say?” he said, feeling a cold river run down his spine. “Part of my defence requires a demonstration of magic."
Olaf shrugged. “It is a Specialist spell,” he said, rolling his eyes. “What know Questors of such thaumaturgy? I will be sure to bring your concerns to the Dominie's attention before the trial commences.
"Your hands, please, Master Loras?"
Loras sighed and extended his hands, taking a tight grip on Blade; once the metal cuffs were upon him, the staff might no longer obey his mental commands.
As a Student, he had learned from a copy of a pre-Fall book that iron was the most ‘stable', most ‘tightly bound’ of metals; that it was in the ‘lowest energy state'. Although the ancient phrases meant little to him then, and he found them no more comprehensible now, he understood that this ancient knowledge was tied up with why iron disrupted magical fields. Loras had worked so long with the metal as a smith that he appreciated its special, almost magical qualities. The nearest thing to magic he had achieved during his long exile had been the transformation of dull pig-iron into gleaming, resilient steel. He felt as much pride in this art as any Seventh Rank Mage Alchemist might find in the transformation of lead into gold.
With a loud click, the latch slipped home, first on one wrist and then the other, a solid bar holding his hands apart. In a few moments, Olaf fastened a second pair of shackles, linked to the centre of the bar by a strong chain, to his ankles.
"Are you ready, Master Loras?” asked Olaf.
Loras cast his eyes around the small, bare cell and then nodded.
"I am ready, Questor Olaf."
"Follow me,” the older mage said. “You must not attempt to communicate with the other defendant during the journey. Any attempted exchange of information may prejudice your case. At the first sign of collusion, I will not hesitate to gag both of you, and I will watch you closely. Is that understood?"
Loras nodded as he followed Olaf from the cell. He doubted he would have much to say to his fellow prisoners in any case; his heart felt too full.
On leaving his grim prison cell, he felt almost the same wonder he had on first seeing the Great Hall as a seven-year-old boy. The celestial dome, with its myriad twinkling lights, the opulent blue-and-gold honeycomb of the floor and the soft, ethereal music served to remind him of what Thorn's treachery had cost him, and he felt a brief stab of self-pity. With the ruthless self-control of a Mage Questor, he crushed the nascent emotion into nothingness as he followed Olaf to the open portal.
I would never have met Drima if I had remained a Questor, he told himself, squinting, as the setting sun shot bright rays into his eyes, and I would never have had the joy of seeing Grimm as a Mage Questor.
As he clanked his way towards a small, covered wagon, he knew Grimm would have wanted to be present, had the boy known of the trial. Nonetheless, he felt pride in the knowledge that his grandson was abroad in the world on some important Quest.
Encumbered as he was by his clumsy shackles and his lifeless staff, it took Loras several attempts to climb into the wagon. He sat on a rough, wooden bench to the right of the vehicle, and he smiled warmly at Mentalist Kargan, who sat opposite him. As Olaf bent to lock the chain to the vehicle's floor, Kargan returned a rueful grimace, proffering a friendly wink before the older Questor straightened up and took his own place beside Loras.
"Move on, driver,” Olaf shouted. “You know your orders. Make all speed, and do not stop unless I order it."
"I know the rules, Lord Mage,” a peevish voice replied from beyond the canvas screen as the wagon jerked forward, with such violence that Loras almost tumbled to the wagon floor. “You don’ ‘ave to bang it home all the blessed time."
"Mind your manners, driver,” Olaf snapped. “Remember to whom you are talking."