"Enter,” the dark-clad mages chorused.
Loras nodded and stepped inside the doorway, with an air of confidence greater than he felt. As the doors clicked shut behind him, he walked through a dense bead curtain, which emitted a shimmering hiss as he did so.
The chamber in which he now found himself seemed without windows, and it was lit by two bright globes of green mage-light. The lights floated between him and whatever else might be in the room, and he saw nothing beyond them.
Bang-bang!
"Name?” a sharp, high-pitched voice barked from the darkness.
"Loras Afelnor,” he replied in a firm, loud tone. “May I know the details of the charges-"
"You will remain silent except to answer direct questions, prisoner!” the unseen inquisitor snapped. “Answer ‘Yes’ or ‘No', unless further information is required. You will confine your answers strictly to the question asked. You are to address us as ‘Honoured Justice.’ Is that understood, prisoner?"
"Yes, Honoured Justice."
"Your name?"
"Loras Afelnor, Honoured Justice."
"What is your place of residence, prisoner?"
"The village of Lower Frunstock, Honoured Justice."
Loras heard a scratching sound, like that of a chicken's claws scrabbling for food in a barnyard.
"Did you once hold the title of Mage Questor of the Seventh Rank in Arnor House of the Ancient and Honourable Guild of Magic-users, Sorcerers and Thaumaturges, with the Guild cognomen ‘The Firelord'?"
"I did, Honoured Justice."
Scratch, scratch.
"Were you dismissed from the Guild in dishonour, after committing an act of the gravest, foulest treason?"
Loras frowned. If he were to answer in the affirmative, this might be taken as an acknowledgement of guilt. Were he to give a negative response, it might be taken that he denied being dismissed from the Guild; an act of perjury. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and he shook his head in frustration.
"A physical motion cannot be accepted as testimony!” the hateful Voice screamed. “Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no', prisoner."
"Your question is in two parts, Honoured Justice,” Loras protested fighting rising anger. “I cannot, in conscience, answer it with a single word."
"You deny you were dismissed from the Guild?” The shrieking Voice scorched him with its intensity.
"No, Honoured Justice."
"Do you, then, deny committing an act of high treason?"
Loras felt an acrid burning in the pit of his stomach, and he began to wish he had eaten earlier. He knew he had committed treason, but he had been possessed by another will at the time.
The question is unfair!
"May I answer the question in my own words, Honoured Justice?"
"You may not, prisoner! Did you attempt to murder Prelate Geral-yes or no?"
"Wait, Rithel."
It was a soft voice, but Loras’ sensitive ears heard the words clearly enough. “I declare a point of personal privilege; I wish to address the prisoner directly."
"Of course, Lord Dominie,” the Voice muttered, now deferent and soft.
"Master Afelnor,” the unseen Dominie said. “I gather your objection revolves around the question of intent. Is that correct?"
"Yes, Lord… Honoured Justice."
"We can dispense with honorifics for the moment.” The Dominie's soft baritone sounded comforting after Rithel's hectoring scream. “In your own words, what led to your expulsion from the Guild?"
Loras drew a deep breath, and he vowed to choose his words with care. “My hands pressed a pillow onto Prelate Geral's face in an attempt to kill him,” he said.
He heard a series of gasps from the unseen Conclave, but he continued. “The will behind them was not mine. I was ensorcelled by a devotee of the Geomantic art, and my will was not my own."
After a further flurry of gasps, he heard a voice bearing the distinctive, harsh accent of the Challorean region: “Do you claim that you, a Seventh Rank Questor, were subdued by a mere witch?"
"Why did you not mention this at your first trial?” a second voice demanded.
"A seven-ring Questor admits to being the puppet of a mere witch?"
His head spinning, Loras said, in a feeble voice, “She was very strong… I did not know. Even after the trial, I did not know. She was no ordinary witch…"
He felt a cool rush of relief as the invisible Dominie came again to his aid.
"Gentlemen, I know something of this woman, and I am in a position to declare that she is possessed of remarkable strength for a witch, as the prisoner testifies. The Conclave accepts the possibility that the prisoner's acts may have been forced by Geomantic influence.
"So stipulated."
The smith's head reeled anew. Has the Dominie fallen foul of Lizaveta? he wondered.
"Really, Lord Dominie,” Rithel protested. “Are we to believe…"
"I said, ‘so stipulated', Prosecutor. Are there any formal objections from the prosecution?"
"But a Questor, Lord Dominie…” the Callorean inquisitor moaned.
"Come to order!” the Dominie's voice cracked like a whip. “I possess confidential information which confirms in some detail the power of the aforementioned Geomantic agent. It is stipulated that the prisoner's defence is permissible in principle."
"Agreed, Lord Dominie. So stipulated."
Loras knew he had won at least this point.
"Brother Rithel,” the Dominie continued. “Please continue, remembering the aforementioned stipulation; and get on with it!"
Loras heard a long period of chicken-scratching after this imperious command.
"By your command, Lord Dominie,” the Voice responded, with either a resigned sigh or a venomous hiss; Loras could not tell which.
"Under the sentence of your first trial, were you forbidden to set foot on Guild land for the remainder of your life, on pain of death?"
"Yes, Honoured Justice.” This much could not be denied, but Loras quailed inside at what he knew must be coming next.
"Do you deny breaking this condition of your sentence on the eleventh day of this month, by entering Arnor House?"
Loras gulped.
"No, Honoured Justice,” he said. He could make no other response to this direct question.
"The Prosecutor moves that the prisoner has breached the terms of his sentence, regardless of other considerations,” Rithel crowed. “There can be only one punishment for this-the sentence of death; so moved."
Loras held his breath: he had, indeed, transgressed the conditions of his sentence.
"So moved,” boomed a distant voice, which he had not heard before, with the sing-song accent of the Grivense people.
"I agree.” This time, a Gallorleyan man, from his accented vowels.
"So moved,” another inquisitor echoed, and Loras bowed his head.
I am sorry, Drima, he thought. May the Names bless you, Grimm.
"I invoke a point of order,” the Dominie drawled, sounding almost bored. “We note this breach of conditions of a former sentence, but we also note that all witnesses have not been heard: final sentence cannot be passed at this stage."
This time, Loras knew Rithel's initial response was no mere frustrated sigh; the man's hatred for him was plain.
"Accepted, Lord Dominie; however, this member wishes to stipulate the prisoner's response as a clear record of admission of prior guilt."
After a long pause, the Dominie answered, “So stipulated,” and Loras fought to keep his shoulders straight.
The unseen pen scratched on its paper, sending a cold shiver up the smith's back.
"Lord Dominie,” a voice at the very edge of Loras’ awareness whispered. “Time grows late. May I remind you of our evening game of Birritch? I move that we adjourn for today."
The former Questor felt cold hands of shock running sinuous fingers along his spine.
This is a bloody farce! he thought, trying not to panic. My life depends on a group of men whose main worry is about a damned card game!