Loras wiped his brow with a steady hand.

"Nonetheless,” he continued, in a calm voice, “there is a canker at the heart of the Guild, a sickness that must be eradicated before it infects all my former brethren and my beloved grandson. I must face Thorn and compel him to confess to the Lord Dominie… or kill him."

Drima looked close to tears, her face reddening with emotion. “But why you, Loras? Can't you just tell the Dominie the truth of the matter and let him resolve the issue?"

"The Presidium,” the smith said, “is unlikely to accept the word of a convicted turncoat."

"Suppose you do have to fight Thorn,” Drima said, her hands on her hips. “You are still a strong man, but you've cast no magic for three decades. What makes you think you can beat him? Even if you do, your precious Presidium will surely have you killed. What makes you think you'll even get through the House door alive?"

"I do not know.” Loras shrugged. “I have mulled over the possibilities ever since I saw the truth of the matter with my own eyes. I want you to believe that I would let the past die if my disgrace were the only consideration.

"But Grimm is in Thorn's power, as are scores of innocent young Students and Neophytes. I cannot sit back and do nothing. I must confront Thorn, for their sakes."

Drima wheeled to face Kargan. “You got Loras into this!” she screamed, ruddy-faced and angry, with such force that the Mentalist backed away from her. “Can't you make him see sense?"

Does she mean, ‘can I dissuade Questor Loras from this risky course of action?’ he wondered. I could-just a few little runic syllables might suffice-but I won't.

He sighed; he knew he could never face himself in a mirror again if he tried to tamper with the Questor's mind; Loras was a Brother Mage who had been grievously wronged. Arnor House itself was in the control of a traitor, and two dedicated men, Crohn and Dalquist, were even now in his hands.