"I was just thinking, Master Loras,” he said. “At this very moment, I'm sitting in my cell in the Scholasticate, talking to an inanimate piece of wood in the hope it will come to life, and give meaning to my existence…"
Kargan brushed a bead of moisture from his left eye. “It didn't work."
He would have said more, had the door not opened at that moment. Both mages turned to see the dishevelled figure of Thorn entering the room. His long, blond hair and beard lay in disarray, and Kargan saw dark rings like bruises around the Questor's eyes.
The younger Thorn walked through him and sat on his bed, cradling his head in his hands; he was, of course, quite oblivious to the presence of these ghosts of the future. After a moment's pause, he extracted a bottle from under the bed, pulled the cork and took a long draught of the ruddy beverage.
Loras. gasped “What on earth is the matter with him?"
"I suspect he already knows what is to happen. He's just giving himself a dose of Gallorleyan courage before he acts."
"Thorn always did like a drink,” Loras said, “but I never saw him drink to such excess."
The prodigious amount of alcohol seemed to have had little effect on the younger Thorn. “Here's to you, old friend,” he muttered, raising the bottle to his unseen Brother Mage before downing its remaining contents at a single swallow.
He bared his teeth and drew in a sharp breath as the fiery liquid took hold, dashing the empty bottle against the stone wall and smashing it into a hundred glittering shards. His gaze was dull and fixed on the blue-gold Guild Ring on his wedding finger, twisting and turning it with his right-hand middle finger and thumb. After long moments of listless introspection, he looked up as if startled. Thorn rose to his feet and headed for the small desk near the far wall.
Both Kargan and Loras stood in rapt fascination as the scene unfolded before them.
Thorn took a small, green baize bundle from the desk drawer and brushed fragments of glass from the desk. He opened up the bundle to reveal a glowing, pulsing green orb, a twin to the one Kargan had seen in Lizaveta's chamber in High Lodge. With almost reverent care, he spread the baize out on the table and placed the globe at its centre, positioning his clawed hands on the luminescent crystal.
He stood in silence for several moments, nodding from time to time. At last, he spoke.
"Is this really necessary, Mother?” he said, his voice almost like that of a child in its plaintive, whining tone. “I mean, why Loras? He is my best friend in all the world… I am sure we can-
"Yes, Mother, I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf. Does it have to be tonight, though?"
Again, the strange, mime-like interval while his unseen interlocutor spoke. If the Questor's pained face was any guide, Lizaveta's reply had been far from conciliatory.
"Loras is my friend. If only-
"Yes; yes, Mother, I understand,” he said, his perspiration-beaded face a mask of abject misery. “Of course-I know this is all for my benefit-yes…"
The crystal's glow subsided, and the young Questor's avatar jerked his hands from its surface as if it were scalding-hot. Looking furtively around him, almost as if he sensed the future phantoms observing him, he wrapped the globe in its green shroud and replaced it in the drawer. Dream-Thorn drew a rapid sequence of shallow, nervous breaths, clenched his fists and shook his head as if dismissing a cloud of flies. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a final, deep draught of air.
"I'm sorry, my friend,” he muttered, before striding to the door and wrenching it open.
Loras stood; his jaw agape and his eyes wide.
"Come on, Master Loras!” Kargan snapped. “We must follow him to wherever he's going."
"I know where Thorn is going,” the former Questor said in a hollow voice, “Prelate Geral's chamber."
"Are you convinced, Master Loras?” Kargan asked/
Loras sighed. “Almost, Brother Mage; but I must learn the full story. You started to show me this, so let us see the end."
"We can get there before Thorn does,” Kargan declared. “We just need to run through this back wall, through the-"
Kargan realised that Loras was already gone, and he raced through the intervening walls to the Prelate's turret, flinching as he passed through the insubstantial barriers. He ran straight through the images of a Necromancer fingering a small beast's entrails, and a House servant oiling the panelling in an ornate room Kargan had never seen, before he caught up with the smith on the stairs of the turret.
Loras stood just outside the Prelate's chamber door, his brows lowered.
"Come on,” Kargan urged him. “You've come this far, Master Loras; don't stop now!"
Loras wrung his hands and grimaced, and Kargan took the lead, racing through the oaken door as if it were no more substantial than fog.
The Prelate's office lacked all unnecessary adornment. Regimented racks of books and papers lined the walls, and the spotless room's desk and chairs were pushed against the outside wall.
"I do not remember this at all!"
Kargan turned to see that Loras had joined him, just in front of the door to Geral's bedchamber. According to House lore, this room was sacrosanct, and the Magemaster hesitated.
This time, Loras provided the impetus: “Let us finish it, Brother Mage! I do not wish to see this, but I must!"
Kargan nodded, summoning up all his determination, and the two thaumaturges took the final step towards the resolution of the ancient affair.
The large room bore nothing but a large bed and a simple night-stand. In the bed lay a wizened man with a face the colour and texture of crumpled parchment, his expression blank. Dull, feverish, sunken eyes stared from the putty-white face, but they seemed sightless, his gaze roaming without purpose around the Spartan confines of the chamber.
By the bed stood the younger Loras, his own expression no more animated than the stricken Geral's. Although he stood over the bed, he made no move towards the pathetic, bed-ridden old man. He stood like a pasty statue, bereft of volition or emotion, his arms extended but immobile. It was almost as if he were standing watch over the Prelate.
"Do you remember this, Master Loras?” Kargan demanded.
The former Questor shook his head, mute and uncomprehending.
Thorn marched into the chamber, walking straight through Kargan. He strode straight up to the young Loras, who did not react in the least to his fellow mage's presence. The future Prelate circled his brother mage like a prowling tiger. Of the two Questors, only Thorn seemed in full possession of his senses.
His face was beaded with sweat, and his hands trembled as he walked around the frozen image of his friend. He extended a hesitant, shaking index finger and pushed Loras in the chest. The heavily-built mage swayed a little, but he returned to his unseeing vigil.
The blond Questor picked up a large pillow from beside Geral's head and placed it in his brother sorcerer's hands. He muttered a phrase that Kargan could not hear and pressed between Loras’ shoulder-blades. As if he were a mannequin being posed in a shop window display, Loras leaned over and allowed his hands to be moved into position over Geral's blank, feverish face. The pillow touched the Prelate's nose but did not obstruct his fitful breathing.
This time, the Mentalist heard Thorn's muttered words: “It is merciful, Loras. Lord Geral's suffering will soon be at an end."
The image of the young Loras nodded slowly, his gaze still blank, and Thorn backed away to the door. As he stepped into the Prelate's office, he reached out to grasp a heavy bell-rope by the desk and began to tug it in a sudden frenzy.
Kargan stood by, feeling sour pangs of frustration at his utter inability to prevent the tableau from unfolding as it had so long ago. Thorn swung open the door to the spiral turret staircase and re-entered the bedchamber as the Magemaster heard the sounds of panicked feet racing up the stairs.
"Clerestory ambulatory prejudice."
Thorn's whispered phrase seemed meaningless, but its effect on the mesmerised Questor was dramatic. Loras’ formerly placid face contorted and his hands pressed the pillow down on the Prelate's face.