The previous night's storm was spent, and cheerful, orange rays of sun played on the flagstones outside the House. The building was quiet apart from the rustling, creaking form of Doorkeeper shuffling through the hall from the scullery.

Doorkeeper, keeping his promise to the boy, Afelnor, carried Grimm's package up the winding staircase to Lord Thorn's chamber at first light. The child was still asleep, and Doorkeeper had seen no reason to disturb him. He ascended the steps with some trepidation, as he always found the prospect of an early morning meeting with the Prelate a daunting affair. As Doorkeeper approached the chamber door, a deep, apparently bored voice sounded: "Enter, Doorkeeper."

The old mage was humbled as ever by this evidence of the Prelate's magical power, not realising that the carillon of creaking joints and incomprehensible muttering that always accompanied his progress was signal enough to announce his approach. The aged major-domo opened the door and bowed courteously. The chamber was small but well-appointed, with sumptuous tapestries hanging from every wall. In the centre of the room was a tall, beautifully carved mahogany throne with a marble table before it, bearing scrolls, books and potions in untidy abandon and a green scrying-crystal mounted on a chased silver base.

On the throne sat a portly man with thin wisps of white hair plastered across a high, shining pate. The dark eyes that fixed Doorkeeper's gaze were a little dull, and more than a little bloodshot, but there was no denying the power in the Prelate's visage.