As a tall mage ran into the main chamber, Thorn leapt at his more muscular friend, trying to wrest the pillow from his hands. Young Afelnor responded with a solid backhand to his friend's face, sending him sprawling. As the tall, red-headed mage ran towards the fallen Questor, the young Thorn waved his hands.
"Save the Lord Prelate, not me! Questor Loras has gone mad!” the blond man cried, through split, bleeding lips. As Loras continued to smother the Prelate, the russet-haired mage swung his three-ringed staff at his lower back. The ensorcelled’ Loras dropped the pillow and turned to face his assailant, his expression one of pure, unalloyed rage.
"Iyastretona!” Thorn shrieked, and a black cloud formed around his fellow Questor's head. Loras coughed, took two steps towards the tall mage and slumped to the floor, fighting for breath.
By now, another mage had arrived: Kargan recognised him as the taciturn Questor Olaf, younger but as severe-looking as ever.
"What happened here?” the wide-eyed Olaf demanded.
"The Prelate!” Thorn screamed, running to Geral's bedside and putting his right ear to the stricken mage's chest.
After several moments, he nodded, uttering a sigh of relief Kargan thought to be somewhat theatrical. “Lord Geral still lives,” he said. “Well done, Manipulant Urel!"
With a start, Kargan recognised the handsome, red-haired man as the late, lamented Senior Magemaster who had been killed when Neophyte Erek lost his mind.
Oh, the sad ravages that the years visit upon us… Kargan thought, remembering the words of an ancient liturgical chant.
Your spell stopped Questor Loras in this evil deed,” Urel said, in an admiring tone that bordered on adulation.
"What happened here?” Olaf repeated.
"Questor Loras tried to kill Lord Prelate Geral,” Urel said in a hushed voice. “Questor Thorn raised the alarm and prevented him from… the Names know what."
Olaf shook his head, his expression grim. “Who would believe that a sworn Guild Questor could attempt such foul treachery?"
He kicked the fallen form of Loras, who moaned and coughed. “Get up, rat. You besmirch the ring you wear."
Loras rose to his knees, fighting for breath. “What is… what happened?” he gasped, his eyes blank.
"You are a damned, bloody traitor, who has betrayed his Prelate, his House and his Guild,” Olaf growled, his heavy brows descending over his grey eyes like rapacious birds of prey.
"I remember… the pillow…"
Loras’ face was ashen. “By the sweet Names, what have I done?” he cried, burying his head in his hands.
"That is enough.” In the hubbub of competing voices, it took Kargan a few seconds to realise who spoke these words, and he turned to face the smith.
"What?” The Magemaster felt too numb to make a more meaningful response. The anguished pain etched on the face of his companion was mirrored on the image of the proud, younger mage, and Kargan felt hot tears prickling at the margin of his eyes.
For half a century, Loras Afelnor had languished in the slough of despair engendered by a supposed act of evil. Now, that dread, half-remembered memory had been replaced by an equal pang of agony, brought on by the knowledge that he had been betrayed by a man he had loved as a brother.
"I said, ‘that is enough',” the smith snapped, as he saw his younger self pushed, manhandled and kicked out of the room by the three other mages. “I have no need to see more."
Kargan caught sight of a half-smile on Thorn's face, and the Magemaster realised that Loras must have seen it, too.
"I know the rest, Magemaster, and I have no need to see more. Get us out of here."
"Remember the smithy at the time we left, Master Loras,” Kargan said. “It will be as if no time had passed."
In less time than it took to think, the Mentalist found himself standing in the front room of Loras’ cottage, looking down at his motionless body. He directed the smith to sink into his own physical entity, conforming to the exact contours of the motionless body. He knew perfection of alignment was not absolutely essential, but that close correspondence to the body's position maximised the chances of success.
When he was satisfied with Loras’ spirit posture, he requested the same service of the smith as he slipped back into his own, unmoving mortal form. When the former Questor declared that the correspondence between the astral and bodily postures was adequate, Kargan realised that he could not access the memory of the conclusion of Bledel's spell from Seeker, still clasped in his corporeal self's right hand.
A frisson of doubt and fear fluttered through the Mentalist, but he crushed the sensation with an iron hand of discipline. He remembered the advice he had been given by his singing tutor, so long ago:
You do not need to remember the whole of the song, Neophyte; if you have learned it well, you only need to remember the first three or four words. Then, the rest will come tumbling out.
This was not as easy as remembering a song, since a mage spell was composed of apparently arbitrary runes, tones and cadences, each nuance vital for the incantation's success. However, Kargan had given many, many classes in the interpretation of spells over the course of his long life.
It starts with Chiat-Tekh-Urth with a rising tone; I know that, he thought, and that's followed by… what? Gath-Tren-Tekh? That's right; we're trying to create a sense of urgency, aren't we? Then there's solidity and homecoming, followed by permanence…
His mind ran through the feelings he had felt when he had first cast Bledel's powerful incantation, back in his cell in Arnor House. It was a small closing chant, but critical.
Yes, that's it, he thought. I can do this on my own, without a damned prompter!
The chant consisted of only twenty runes; a short run of syllables as Guild spells went, but Kargan's nerves jangled as he began to cast the closing enchantment. He knew that every lilt, every slur, every hesitation was critical to the closure, but he trusted to thirty years’ experience as a Magemaster, and a true voice untainted by the passage of the years.
By the time he reached the end of the brief chant, the Magemaster felt confident enough to add a hint of Elation to the ending spell-just a hint, of course; he did not wish to destabilise the main structure.
As the last rune spilled from his lips, Kargan knew he had succeeded. He welcomed the forgotten, dull aches and pains of his aging body as they began to introduce themselves, greeting his success.
"We are out,” he croaked, feeling as if his throat were full of glass shards. His head slumped towards his chest; he was utterly spent.
Loras leapt to his feet, flexed his ham-like fists and stretched, as Kargan slumped in his rude chair, devoid of anything but an inchoate fear that his recent actions might lead to the downfall of Arnor House or the entire Guild. Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to feel sorry at the prospect of the destruction of the diseased colossus.
"You said you could return my powers to me, Mentalist!” the former Questor said, his face like carved stone in its fixed intensity. “I request that you do so forthwith!"
"I couldn't fight a fly right now, Questor Loras,” Kargan confessed, his voice feeble and thin. “I'm travel-worn, tired, and I need to eat."
Loras sighed and shook his shaven head. “What has happened to the ardent fire of my beloved House's mages? Can you not understand the heat of my anger, Magemaster Kargan? I have fifty years of self-accusation to avenge, against a man I thought my steadfast friend! Thorn is the traitor, not me!"
Kargan sighed. “At this very moment, I couldn't care in the least for Guild politics, Mage Speech, protocol or lifelong vendettas, my over-muscled friend!” he cried, struggling to keep his eyes open. “I need a bath, some food and a bed in that order! If you can't manage that, I'll make do with a bloody bucket of cold water, a mouldy potato and a stretched-out rope, but I have finished with today! Is that quite understood?"