"Good hunting, Mentalist,” Loras muttered, as Kargan hurried off into the depths of the Hall. The Great Portal swung shut, leaving the smith outside. Loras had no intention of setting one foot inside Thorn's demesnes for the moment.

The evening breeze freshened, and the smith drew his red cloak closer around his body.

Long minutes passed. Loras heard the distant, shrill bark of a fox, and a terrified avian cacophony soon followed.

Good hunting for somebody, he thought with a faint smile. I trust my own delving will be as successful.

He knew he had always been a stronger Questor than Thorn, but he lacked practice in the arcane arts. Drima's warning came back to him:

"What makes you think you can beat Thorn?"

Loras had to acknowledge that her doubts might be justified. Righteous rage was a poor substitute for confident, practiced skills.

At last, the door swung open, spilling golden night into the dusk, and Loras beheld a man he had not seen for more than half a Secular lifetime. For a few moments, he did not recognise Thorn; time had not been kind to the Prelate. The flowing blond locks of youth had been replaced by a few, greasy, white tendrils plastered over a ruddy pate, and the once-wiry Questor now bore a distinct paunch and heavy jowls.

Nonetheless, the amber eyes and heavy brows were unmistakable. This was, indeed, Thorn Virias.

"Greetings, Loras,” the Prelate said, his mouth crinkling into a smile. “It is good to see you."

Loras bit back a vicious retort; he longed to launch a meaty fist into Thorn's flabby jaw, but he restrained himself.

"I wish I could say the same, Thorn,” Loras growled, “but I cannot. You betrayed not just me, but also our House and our Guild. I am here to demand that you resign your post and submit yourself to the High Dominie's scrutiny. I know all: how you placed the pillow in my hands and summoned Urel and Olaf; how you engineered my disgrace and the false shame under which I have laboured for the past decades. It is over, Thorn."