"Put your arms around my neck, Magemaster,” he said, “and trust me-both of you."

Kargan nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He did as Loras bade him, as the smith began a guttural, droning, Questor chant that seemed to come from the centre of his chest: “Ominaomadiya-redessamu…"

As a deep-blue coruscation began to play around him, Kargan heard Drima muttering. He could not make out the words, but her expression made her meaning clear. The Magemaster suppressed a pang of envy at the love between Drima and her husband, an emotion he would never experience.

"…rumandatana-getiyu…” The walls of the smithy blurred, and the very air seemed to take on a soupy, heavy consistency.

"…simonumat'ur-gamnusim…"

Kargan felt a moment of panic as the walls, ceiling and floor disappeared, to be replaced by a black void filled with blue motes. He knew he was moving, but without any sense of direction.

"…amatumonimasadata!"

Kargan's stomach lurched as he felt sudden discontinuity and deceleration, and he found his feet again on firm ground.

The Magemaster closed his eyes and gulped, seized by momentary nausea. When he opened them again, he saw the stark, forbidding face of Arnor House. Even in the golden, evening light, he saw only corruption and senescence in the ancient fortress’ blurred outlines. Releasing the Questor, Kargan staggered and suppressed a sudden upsurge of hot, acrid bile within him. He swallowed, fighting his protesting body's demands.

"We are… home, Magemaster Kargan,” Loras said, seemingly none the worse for the dizzying journey. “I believe you hold the key."

Kargan, his head spinning, held up his left hand with its blue-gold Guild ring. He stared at it for a few moments: the band which showed his love and dedication to a corrupted House; the band which denied him a normal life.

"I am ready, Questor Loras,” he muttered, moving his left palm towards the black, oaken portal. The door swung open in a smooth, silent arc, and saw the hunched figure of Doorkeeper rushing towards the entrance.