The Dominie was like a queen ant, incapable of independent thought or action, amidst a swarm of faceless, nameless, controlling workers; a nonentity with a fancy title. Here, safe in Arnor House, Thorn was the absolute ruler of his destiny. A whole community of thaumaturges waited for his least command, depending on him for its needs, but they did not rule his life. If he wanted solitude, he was left in peace. He need not fear assassination or insurrection, here in his comfortable refuge. Thorn imagined that Horin must sleep fitfully at best, fearing treachery or murder from some ambitious individual under his nominal command. Thorn knew he never wanted to bear such a burden, and he also knew Lizaveta would never rest until he was.

The Prelate took a bottle of his favourite brandy from a commodious drawer in his desk, and poured a large quantity of the golden, fiery beverage into a silver goblet. Cupping the chalice in both hands, he raised it to his nostrils and drew the liquor's potent vapours into his lungs, relishing the brandy's, heady aroma. All he needed to do was to take a long draught of the warming, befuddling beverage, and he would be able to forget his troubles.

Here's to you, Loras Afelnor. The thought popped unbidden into his head as he lifted the goblet to his waiting lips. Disturbed, he placed it on the table without sampling the inviting liquid.

Why do you still trouble me, Loras? Leave me alone! Your trial ended long ago, while mine continues. I am as much a victim of my mother as you were, but my punishment never ends. Let me be!

Thorn sighed, knowing he could not blame poor, disgraced Loras for the guilt that plagued him so.