"I have consulted with the other members of the Conclave on the charges of cruelty levied against you,” Horin said. “Of course, they found the charges ludicrous. If a few charity Students suffer a little… well that is what the Questor Ordeal is about, is it not?"
"Exactly, Lord Horin,” Thorn replied, returning the Dominie's smile in equal measure. “I suffered during my own Ordeal, and I never once complained. The youth of today have no respect or stamina; they expect everything to be given to them. I presume these ridiculous charges will be dropped?"
Horin nodded and Thorn suppressed a chuckle.
"Indeed, Lord Thorn; put them from your mind. Loras Afelnor will also be exonerated from his earlier conviction for treason, as you requested. The latter charges, of course, will remain."
"Of course,” the younger man said, making a show of inspecting his cuticles. “Justice will be done, eh? When may I expect to be set free? I am needed in Arnor; I need to procure the services of at least two Magemasters, and I have another charity boy to consider for the Ordeal. It would be a shame to lose three Seventh Rank men to the headsman's axe, but I must accept the Conclave's impartial decision."
Horin's smile grew even wider, and his rheumy eyes seemed almost to sparkle.
"I regret that I cannot free you immediately,” he said. “There is one more little legal matter to consider-a trivial one, of course! — before you can be liberated. Do not trouble yourself over it, Lord Prelate. It is nothing, I am sure; just a traitor's last, desperate gambit. Think nothing of it."
Thorn frowned. “What is this legal matter?” he demanded. “I cannot afford to be kept from my duties by lawyerly pettifoggery!"
Now, Horin took his time to examine his fingernails. “Oh, it is just a pair of wild, nonsensical counter-charges by the other prisoners. A last, hopeless throw of the dice, I presume."
"Lord Horin, what are these counter-charges?” Thorn demanded, trying to keep his composure. “I demand that you tell me!"
Horin indicated the meal-tray with an immaculately-manicured, wrinkled index finger.
"Your repast is growing cold,” he said in a mild voice.
"I am not hungry,” Thorn said, his growing annoyance taking the edge off his appetite. “What are the charges?"
"Negligence, leading to the death of a senior House official, and conspiracy to pervert the passage of justice through the submission of false evidence,” Horin said. “The penalty for the latter charge is severe-too severe, some might say-but you need not worry. The charges are, of course, groundless."
Thorn's head whirled, and he sat back down. “What is all this nonsense?” he blustered.
"The boy who committed suicide,” Horin said, “taking Senior Magemaster Urel with him. The charges implicate you in this matter."
The Dominie's expression was no longer merry, and Thorn felt tendrils of worry play like a giant, palsied spider's legs on his stomach. He had thought the matter of Urel's death buried along with the mage.
"Of course, you need not worry, Lord Thorn,” Horin said in a smooth, soothing voice. “A Great Spell of Divination will soon find the truth of the matter, and you may then be on your way."
The fear-spider seemed to drive its mandibles deep into the Prelate's vitals, and Thorn fought to conceal the sudden trembling in his hands.
"I told you everything in this regard, Lord Dominie,” he said, his words all but drowned out by his pounding heartbeat. “Surely that will not be necessary? What is the word of a forsworn traitor against that of a House Prelate?"
"Two forsworn traitors,” Horin said, his voice as slick as the finest silk. “Questors Loras and Dalquist know only inadmissible hearsay, but Magemasters Crohn and Kargan have declared themselves willing to swear on oath that you are guilty of this crime. As befits their lower status, they will, naturally, undergo Divination first, so you need not worry. Their accusations will be revealed as lies, with unerring accuracy, so your testimony will surely not be required."
Thorn felt beads of sweat tickling the furrows in his forehead.
"They are wily dogs, Lord Dominie,” he said, wiping his brow with the back of his right hand. “They have proven themselves traitorous by their attack on me; what further proof is needed?"
"This is only a minor legal issue, Lord Prelate,” Horin said. “Both Crohn and Kargan are the scions of wealthy, powerful families. You appreciate that we need to apply the law's full rigour, ridiculous as it may seem, before justice may be seen to be done. Do not worry; I am sure the whole, sorry affair will be finished within a day or two. You will then be free to return to your beloved House while we then assess the overwhelming condemnatory evidence against the other prisoners."
Thorn wanted a stiff dose of potent liquor to steady his jangling nerves, but none was available to him.
"As a matter of casual interest,” he said, his mouth dry as desert sand, “what are the penalties for such charges?"
"If I remember rightly,” Horin replied, “the first charge, if confirmed, would merit the penalty of dismissal from the Presidium and from the position of Prelate, for the rest of your life. The second charge, of the ‘perversion of justice', carries the automatic penalty of death. In the case of a House Prelate being convicted of such an offence, the method of execution would be subject to a majority vote from the Conclave.
"If proved, of course, the method might be quite nasty."
Now, Thorn could say nothing. His mouth moved, but his dry throat made no sound other than a hoarse hiss.
Horin's brow wrinkled until the lines looked like undulating dunes. “Are you sick, Lord Thorn? Shall I call a Healer? You look quite unwell!
"Please, do not worry; the Divination spell cannot be deceived by a foolish liar. The truth will out!"
"You do not know them as I do,” Thorn whispered. “They will say anything to save themselves!"
His skin seemed to crawl over a crumbling framework of cold, fragile bones.
"They can say what they like, Lord Prelate. Fear not, for the spell can detect even the deepest-buried lie! Are you sure you do not need the services of a Healer? We have fifteen of them here."
"Does it… does it have to be death?” Thron asked.
Horin laughed. “So, you still feel loyalty towards your treacherous comrades!” he crowed. “A very meritorious sentiment. Yes: I am afraid their groundless charges will merit a slow and painful death for them, but that need not worry you."
Thorn licked his lips, trying to cudgel his mind into action, even though it felt like a mass of cold molasses.
"For me!” he croaked Horin's eyes widened and his jaw dropped, revealing a flawless set of teeth. “What do you mean, Lord Prelate?"
"I have always felt… a little guilty about poor Urel's death,” he said through thick, nerveless lips. “This may show on my conscience."
Horin sat on the bed, his face a mask of concern. “Ah, but you have little concept of High Lodge Great Spells, Lord Thorn.” His words fell like cold ashes into the Prelate's ears. “Only facts will emerge from the Divinatory spell. Feelings of guilt and worry are quite immaterial.
"Are you sure there is nothing you wish to tell me?"
"I may, perhaps, have allowed the zeal for my duty to blind me to certain Guild procedures,” he mumbled, looking at his feet. “It is often difficult…"
His voice failed him and he shook his head, not in negation but in helplessness.
"I see,” Horin said, his expression bleak. “I am afraid the Laws are quite explicit about such matters; they know little of mitigating factors concerning a mage's position with the Guild.
"Are you admitting that there may be some truth in these accusations?"
Thorn nodded. “A little, perhaps,” he croaked, desperate for a strong drink.
Horin sighed, running bony fingers through his hair. “I may be able to help you,” he said. “However, you must answer my next questions with absolute truth if I am to have any chance of success. Do you understand?"