"And then he died,” Drima replied, her voice cold and brittle. “He and Shura died in a cart you built-"

Loras seemed to slump, as if life had left him, and his face turned putty-grey. He slapped a hand to his mouth, and he turned away from his wife.

"Loras, I'm sorry!” Drima's face lost its ruby cast, and her voice softened. “That was completely unfair of me; of course the accident wasn't your fault. But can't you see how much I care about you? We've lost our son and daughter-in-law, and I couldn't face it if I lost you, too."

"What about Grimm?” Loras asked. “I felt the same sorrow and loss you did when we sent him away to Arnor; you know I did. But he was not suited to smithy life, and you could only teach him so much of less physical activities. Yes, I felt hope that the lad might grow to expunge my… my guilt, but that was never why I sent him to Arnor."

"You deceived me, Loras.” Drima cupped her right hand under the smith's chin and turned his face towards her own. “I knew enough of your past by then: your mutterings during all those nightmares told me all I needed to know. I went along with your lies because I felt your pain. But you deceived me, nonetheless."

Loras wrenched his head away from her guiding hand, and the empathic Kargan felt his pain like a knife-thrust through his own vitals.

The smith's voice trembled as he spoke: “I know, Drima, and I feel shame for that; a shame greater than I ever felt for what… for what I thought I had done. I have no right to ask this, but I beg you to believe that this is not for me and my pride alone. This is for all the Students, Neophytes, Adepts and Mages whose lives will be perverted and turned by Thorn's influence; but, most of all, it is for the sake of our grandson.