After his long exile in the grimy hamlet of Lower Frunstock, he felt again the wide-eyed wonder he had experienced on his first visit to the Guild's spiritual home, as a mere stripling of nineteen.
This is a place of justice and honour, he told himself. They will consider all the evidence before reaching a decision" You are not here to admire the scenery,” Olaf admonished Loras, tugging the former Questor's chain. “Come on."
For such an old man, Olaf was no slow-coach, hustling his charges towards the huge edifice at considerable speed. Loras stumbled several times, since his ankle-fetters restricted his progress, and he could see that Kargan was no less encumbered than he.
As the two prisoners and their warder reached the outer gate, two armoured guards moved to block the entrance with crossed halberds.
"I am Questor Olaf, Acting Prelate of Arnor House.” The Questor held out his left hand to show his Guild Ring. “I bring two prisoners for trial."
"You were expected two hours ago, Questor,” the older of the two guards complained, a man of perhaps thirty summers. “What kept you?"
"Watch your manners!” Olaf snapped. “Do not seek to question me; remember who pays your wages."
"Sorry, Lord Mage,” the sentry replied, in an almost bored voice. “Please use the East Turret entrance. It's just over-"
"I know where it is, watchman. I first came here before your grandparents first drew breath! I'm not in my dotage yet. Do you wish me to report your insolence to the Dominie?"
The Questor's voice cracked like a whip, and the guard's face reddened.
"My sincerest apologies, Lord Mage,” he said, his spine stiffening as he raised the vicious weapon to the vertical, his companion following suit.
Olaf grunted, stepping between the guards and through the gate with his head held high, while Kargan and Loras stumbled behind him.
Loras was not out of breath by the time the group approached the East Turret; his time as a Mage Questor and his long tenure as a blacksmith had left him with a robust constitution. However, he noted Kargan's grey face and heaving chest, and he called out to Olaf, “Please, slow down, Lord Mage! Will you deliver a pair of corpses to the Conclave?"
"Be quiet, prisoner,” Olaf said, but he did relent a little, allowing a few moments’ pause for Kargan to catch his breath before they carried on.
As they stood before a black door with a small, square opening at head-height, the Questor pounded his staff three times on the flagstones. In an instant, Loras saw an eye appear at the opening.
"Your business?” a muffled voice demanded.
"Questor Olaf, Arnor House. Two prisoners for trial."
"You have the watchword?” The eye was replaced by an ear.
Olaf leant forward to whisper into the square opening.
After a few moments of utter silence, Loras heard a series of clacks, bangs, and squeaks behind the door, which swung open silently. Olaf led his charges through the entrance, to reveal a spiral stone staircase. The watchman behind the door was nowhere to be seen, as Olaf led his prisoners up the steep stairs, their staves clattering against the curving walls as they climbed.
After passing two further doors, where unseen guardians demanded further passwords, Loras felt relieved to find himself standing in a large, dimly-lit chamber; it seemed the arduous journey was at an end, at least for the time being.
He noted basic but serviceable beds lining the room, with jugs of water and bowls of food on a large metal table in its centre. All the furniture was bolted to the stone floor, and all the vessels and utensils were chained to the table.
"Greetings, Brother Mages."
"Welcome, fellow prisoners."
Starting at two almost simultaneous voices from the darkness, Loras squinted through the gloom to see Magemaster Crohn lying on one of the beds in the far corner. A long chain led from the manacle on his right hand to a large bolt in the floor beneath the central table. The smith's eyes followed a second chain from the bolt to another bed, on which sat Questor Dalquist.
While Olaf knelt, fastening Loras’ and Kargan's fetters to the restraining stud in the floor, the two new prisoners greeted their fellow mages with polite nods.
Groaning as he straightened up, Olaf said, “This room is under observation. Any attempt to discuss matters relating to the forthcoming trial will result in you all being confined to single punishment cells. I trust this will not be necessary."
"I understand, Questor Olaf,” Loras said. “I will restrict myself to pleasantries."
"Of course, Lord Mage,” Kargan responded, settling onto one of the empty beds with a loud thump.
"Now, I must report to the Lord Dominie,” Olaf said, wincing as he rose to his full height. “For your own good, I beg you to observe the rules."
With that, he disappeared into the darkness. After a pair of loud, metallic clanks, all was quiet.
After minutes of silence, Dalquist proffered, “At least the food looks good."
Loras regarded the bread, cheese, fruit, and meat on the table with distaste. A distant part of him registered hunger, but he felt nothing but a strong desire for the trial to begin. Sighing, he sat down onto the bed nearest to him.
"I cannot eat at this time,” he said, mindful of the unseen, listening guardians. “I just want this damned trial to be over."
"I agree,” Crohn responded, his tone dull and lifeless.
"I couldn't eat a mouthful,” a laconic Dalquist said.
After waiting for a response from Kargan, Loras turned to see the Mentalist lying prostrate on his bed, his eyes shut. In a few moments, he heard the mage begin to snore.
Good idea, Kargan, he thought.
"I need some sleep, gentlemen.” With that, he lowered his head onto the rough pillow and closed his eyes, seeking some quietus within his inner turmoil.
****
Loras realised he had fallen asleep only when he felt a rough, impersonal hand shaking his shoulder. Jerking his eyelids open, he emitted a rough, incoherent grunt as his head spun. After a few moments, his gaze focussed on a pair of grey eyes.
"It is time, prisoner,” the Questor said, his voice little more than a whisper.
Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs from it, Loras sat up and nodded. He shook down his scarlet robes in an attempt to clear the dust of the journey, while Olaf disappeared beneath the metal table with its untouched goodies. The smith registered the sounds of his bonds being unfastened with little more than mild interest.
He rose to his feet, snatching up his staff as the aged Questor emerged from his task. “I am ready, Lord Mage,” he said, fixing the older mage's eyes with a frank, intense gaze.
At last, the dim corridors gave way to wider, brighter passageways, down which Olaf led him until he stood before a pair of golden doors. Outside the portal, he saw a pair of tall, black-robed mages, their seven-ringed staves held out in challenge. Hoods obscured their features, and Loras found the two men eerie in the similarity of their stances, like a pair of dark statues.
"Give the watchword, Brother Mage,” they growled, their bass voices coming so closely together that Loras could not tell who had spoken first.
Olaf stepped forward and rose on tiptoe to whisper into the nearest guard's cowl; he was almost six feet tall at full stretch, but the watchman had to lean down to hear the muttered password.
The mage-sentry grunted and nodded at his companion. Both men stood away from the doors, which swung open on silent hinges. Olaf took a ring of keys from his belt and unfastened Loras’ fetters, letting them fall to the marble floor with a reverberating clatter.
As he unlocked the last manacle, the old Questor whispered into the smith's ear, “You are on your own now, Brother Bile. Good luck.” Without waiting for a response from his former friend, he turned his back and strode away.