The Fall of Lord Blackthorn

Indeed, the restlessness of the crowd continued to intensify. Though the trial itself had lasted less than a week, for a year not a soul could have stepped within Yew without hearing some mention of the events that had led up to this day. First had come the accusation by the destitute woman, who had recognized the accused when she had begged him for a coin outside The Slaughtered Lamb. Everyone who had been within the tavern that night could recall her screams, for the screams had not stopped, not even when the town guard had arrived and dragged her away. Only when they had brought her to the healer did she quiet, and only then because of the sedative.

The destitute woman—Nyomae was her name—was now among those who shared the podium with Blackthorn and the others, a beautiful woman when not covered with the grit of the forest floor or dressed in beggar's rags, as the guards had found her on that fateful night. She sat with her hands folded demurely across the lap of her elegant dress, her head bowed, long tresses of curly, brown hair hiding her face. In the time Blackthorn had known her, she had never smiled nor laughed, nor had she cried. The tears had ceased nearly a decade ago, so she claimed, nearly a decade after the night when she had thought she had seen the last of the man sitting next to her . . .

Manacled to his chair, he, too, sat with his head bowed and hands folded over his lap. He barely stirred as he waited for the announcement of his fate, the folds in his robes, sewn from the finest of brocade, still as if sculpted from marble, and matching his platinum hair, cropped close to the skull. Iron eyes, and the lines etched by his frown, might have suggested anger, even apathy towards the day's events, but tears rimmed his solemn features. Unlike the woman beside him, he shared his sorrow openly.

The accused had attempted to dismiss the incident at The Slaughtered Lamb on that night a year ago, greeting his compatriots with shakes of the hand and claps on the back, even though the beggar woman had ripped his shirt and the scratches from her fingernails still bled. That he had allowed himself to bleed, that he had neither sought aid nor healed himself with his magical abilities, those were the first indications that something was amiss. Still, the accused had bought his friends drinks, even laughed about the incident. Then, after many tankards of ale, one of his compatriots had repeated the name that had been screamed, and screamed again. "Windemere!" his friend had jested in a voice that mocked the woman's cries. "Windemere! The Slayer from the Sea! He blights the coast with blood! Windemere!" And the embers of guilt had flared in the eyes of the accused—only briefly, Blackthorn had been told, but enough to ignite the curiosity in one his compatriots.

The crowd cheered and both Nyomae and the one she had named Windemere raised their eyes to stare down at the entrance of the Britannian Supreme Court. The Lord Mayor of Yew, the highest hand of justice in the land, emerged from the dark halls, robed in green, the Scales of Justice embroidered gold upon his silver tabard. He halted just outside the door to squint against the sun, and those who followed him, each wearing the trappings of his or her own town, stopped and waited. And though the light briefly blinded them, they did not disrupt their leader's formation by taking time to pause when he continued on.

As the cheers by those who wished to see Windemere condemned swelled in volume, so did the silence among those who had supported him. And although the boy Blackthorn wished to greet the Lord Mayor with an enthusiastic smile and a cheer of his own, he remained still, staring straight ahead as the Lord Mayor passed him and took his place at the podium, a stand centered between Nyomae and Windemere. The other justices filled the last of the vacant seats, forming a half-circle around the accuser, the accused, and their judge. The Lord Mayor, a tall and elegant man, his hair dark as night, save where a single lock of white touched the middle of his brow, waited as Dryden stepped away from the boy and raised his hands. Silence slowly followed, and only when the breeze whispered did Dryden speak.

"In the name of the eight Virtues and the Three Principles on which they are founded, and in the name of our Sovereign, Lord British, I declare the Supreme Court of Britannia returned to session. May His Honor, Blackthorn, the Lord Mayor of Yew, the Supreme Justice of Britannia, oversee these proceedings with wisdom and virtue."

The boy Blackthorn watched as his father acknowledged the clerk's announcement with a nod. Hands languidly clasped at his waist, the Lord Mayor pivoted himself to address the accused.

"Councilor Windemere—" And then Windemere was on his feet.

"My name is Aegean," he stated, face now free of tears. "And as I have done so in the past, I humbly ask that this court respect my wishes to be addressed—"

It was the Lord Mayor's turn to interrupt, voice stern. "Thou hast gone by many names," he said. "‘Scourge of the Seas', ‘Bather of Blood', to name but two. However, on this day, in my Court, thou art Windemere, as named by this woman who sits next to thee."

"And as revealed by thee," the boy heard Windemere murmur, and indeed, it had been the Lord Mayor, one of the Councilor's companions at The Slaughtered Lamb that night a year ago, who had noticed the embers of guilt in the Councilor's eyes.

Why the Lord Mayor had chosen to pursue the matter had never been clear to the boy Blackthorn. Yes, the Lord Mayor and the Councilor had never been friends, but neither had they been enemies. Mutual respect had described their relationship, perhaps tainted by the usual distrust shared among government officials. Yet the Lord Mayor had visited Nyomae at the healers the next morning, and had listened to her tale. Slowly, gradually, he had begun the investigation into the Councilor's past, and slowly, gradually, the inconsistencies and the lies of one of Britannia's most highly respected men, had been unearthed.

The audience was cheering again, and the Lord Mayor quickly silenced them. "And thou, too, shalt be silent, Windemere, until thou art permitted to speak. For thou hast already had a chance to state thy pleas, and thy jury hast listened; a jury, I might add, like no other. Not once in Britannia's history has the Lord Mayor had to call the highest justices in the land to serve in his court, yet here they sit, as deemed by thine peers on the Great Council and as deemed by Lord British himself!"

And directly behind the jury, Windemere's colleagues, the members of the Great Council not confronted by the Lord Mayor, stirred restlessly at the mention of their name.

All of Britannia is here, thought the boy Blackthorn. The Great Council, the justices, the Lord Mayor. Only Lord British is missing.

"No one could have asked for a fairer, more just representation in this court," the Lord Mayor was saying. "So on this final day, thou shalt listen, Windemere, to what thy peers, thy jury, have had to say."

To his credit, the Councilor did not argue, merely returned to his seat, and once again folded his hands in his lap. The Lord Mayor unrolled a scroll and began to address the accused. "As thou hast admitted, thou art Windemere, smuggler and pirate, murderer and rapist, scoundrel and thief . . ."

Or so he had been—according to what the Lord Mayor read—nearly twenty years ago, before the boy Blackthorn's time. Yet Blackthorn, like all other boys his age, had heard the name in many a tale. Windemere, whose ship, The Sea's Shadow, once terrorized the shores and shipping lanes between Minoc and Moonglow. From an ancient, hidden fortress Windemere and his crew did set sail, and not a coastal village escaped their wrath during those years. Entire communities burned, and children populated the piles of dead found within the ashes. There were those who still claimed that the land in the northeast had died not from the drought, but from the blood spilled by Windemere and his crew.

"And during this time, thou didst thy best to keep thy identity, if not thy name, hidden," the Lord Mayor said, as he looked up from his scroll. "Those of thy crew who chose to abandon thee never traveled far, did they? And thou didst leave no survivors after thy raids . . . save for one, this woman who sits beside thee. In this one instance, thou mayest speak. Why didst thou spare her, Windemere? Thy jury wishes to hear it from thee."

Sun, stillness, and silence hovered over the court. How long it was before the shadow of a cloud slipped over the crowd, the boy Blackthorn could never say. He, like the justices, the Great Council, the townsfolk, and all of those who had traveled to Yew to witness the final days of the trial, already knew the answer, but Windemere had yet to admit it. Not that he needed to. He could remain silent forever, should he chose.

Yet when the sunlight over the courtyard dimmed, Windemere spoke, voice quiet and humble.

"I spared her because of what I saw her do, because of what my actions made her do. She slit the throat of her only daughter, a girl no more than ten, to spare her the savageries that I had granted of her to my men."

And, at last, a sob escaped the woman Nyomae. As she cried, the crowd released a collective breath, one of affirmation from those who had condemned Windemere, one of reluctant acceptance from those who still forgave him.

"Thou didst reveal thy face to Nyomae that night, and thou didst spare her life," the Lord Mayor said solemnly. "Many months later, fishermen discovered the wreck of thy ship upon the reefs within Lost Hope Bay. They also found what was left of thy crew, and most had not died by the sea."

The Lord Mayor laid the scroll on the podium. He did not need it now. "A few years later, a stranger arrived on the docks of Skara Brae, a man by the name of Aegean. He was a charismatic man, handsome and young. A born leader, many claimed, and, indeed, within a few short years, after helping the community in ways too numerous to count, he became active in the city's government. He studied the magical arts. He spread the word of the eight virtues. He also married, and raised a family."

The boy Blackthorn allowed his attention to briefly shift from the Lord Mayor to where the air hung darkest in the crowd. There among a conglomeration of Windemere's supporters, most of who had sailed from Skara Brae, stood Windmere's family. His wife, regally garbed in black, his daughters, portraits of their mother, and his sons, replicas of their father, save one, the tall, thin one with a hawkish nose, and silver hair down to his waist. Rumors abounded about that one: That he was unstable, rebellious, and perhaps growing into the man his father had once been. Certainly, of the defiant glares his family cast at the podium, his drove the deepest and never wavered from the heart of the Lord Mayor, who continued to speak of the accused.

"In time, the man who called himself Aegean became a leader of Skara Brae. He earned the respect of his peers and of those in positions of higher authority. Several years ago, the leaders of Skara Brae elected him to represent the city on the Great Council. All in all, he was a humble man, spiritual and compassionate, just and courageous, honorable and willing to sacrifice himself for others. Yet, as it turned out, he was not an honest man. He hid secrets from his family, friends, and colleagues through lies and deceit about his past." The Lord Mayor's voice rose in volume. "And these secrets would have remained hidden had the man not, while visiting the Lord Mayor of Yew on official business, inadvertently met the woman whose life he had once spared!"

He faced the Councilor, ignoring the rising murmur of the crowd. "Thou didst commit the foulest of deeds in thy youth, Windemere, atrocities and evils the darkest to have been witnessed since before the Age of the Avatar. Yes, thou didst attempt to redeem thyself. Thou didst strive toward virtue and good, yet had it not been for the whimsy of fate, thou wouldst have kept the deeds of thy past a secret to all, even to thy family. Thy redemption was founded on deception, and, along with the deeds of thy past, upon this thou art judged."

The seven justices rose from their seats, and the fervor of the crowd crashed into the podium like waves pounding against a cliff. The boy Blackthorn quickly quelled his own rush of eagerness, which bubbled and frothed like an untapped fountain. Here on the podium, so the Lord Mayor claimed, emotions were to be suppressed, even on a day such as this. However, with the exception of Dryden, the Lord Mayor, and himself, the others on the podium showed no such restraint. Nyomae continued to weep. Windemere had raised his head, apathy replaced with defiance. Many of the justices stirred restlessly on their feet, acutely aware of the holes being bored into their backs by the frigid stares of the Great Council.

"Councilor Windemere," the Lord Mayor announced, and folded his hands behind his back as he always did when pronouncing judgment. "'Tis with great regret that a jury of thy peers has deemed thee guilty of thy alleged crimes. 'Tis with further sadness that we sentence thee to death, and that thy execution shall be held within the fortnight." He paused, as if drinking in the stunned silence. "In the name of the eight Virtues and the Three Principles on which they were founded, and in the name of our Sovereign, Lord British, I declare this trial of the Supreme Court of Britannia ended."

The single rap of the Lord Mayor's gavel unleashed chaos. The Great Council, including those who had condemned Windemere from the beginning, lashed out at the justices with angered tongues. The justices, in turn, lashed back, and soon several councilors and justices stood nose-to-nose, sweat and saliva frothing upon their lips, words and breath merging together in a torrent of accusations and shouts. The air flurried with gesticulations. "He is to die?" one councilor yelled, a hunched man, his fist quivering with fury. "That was not the deal! That was not what the Council decreed!"

The crowd mimicked the behavior on the podium. Those who had allied themselves over Windemere's guilt now argued over his punishment. The ranks supporting Windemere swelled and gathered around his family, and they pushed forward to the podium like a plow through a field, its blade Windemere's wife, who screamed and pointed at Nyomae. "And what of her? She who murdered her own daughter? Does she not deserve death, too?"

Soon the sun glinted off the pikes of the Britannian Guard as they swarmed into the fray, separating contenders who had resorted to blows, knocking back others, and dragging still others off the grounds. Three of the guards took up position around the boy Blackthorn and Dryden, and three more around the Lord Mayor, Nyomae, and Windemere. The boy Blackthorn barely noticed, enraptured with the mob below. Dryden was shouting something at him, but he could not hear, not over the cacophony of curses and cries. As he watched, Yew's blacksmith split the lip of a foreigner who, in turn, broke the blacksmith's nose. Both men went down, blood drenching the earth, limbs entangled in a storm. The Lord Mayor observed the unruliness as well, and though he frowned, the boy Blackthorn knew his father well enough to read the satisfaction in his eyes.

The boy Blackthorn stirred when Dryden shoved him forward, and then was surprised to see that at some point, the guards had managed to slip Windemere and Nyomae from the podium, and now they were attempting to escort the Lord Mayor, Dryden, and himself into the halls below. He allowed his legs to move, to stumble after those ahead of them, but that was all. His senses were still fixated on the masses, each person a blur of gesticulations and shouts—all but one, a boy his age, Windemere's son, the one with silvery-white hair. He, like the boy Blackthorn, moved not on his own accord, but with the storm around him. Unlike Blackthorn, whose focus had drifted from person to person, brawl to brawl, the gaze of Windemere's son remained locked on one individual, eyes slit with rage and hatred.

That individual was the boy Blackthorn.

So fierce was the stare that the boy Blackthorn lost his footing on the last of the steps, and he spilled off beyond the border formed by the Britannian Guard, into the ocean of jostling bodies. Shouts, cries, and screams tore at his ears. Arms and robes flailed around him, perspiration rained on him. Still, he did not panic, did not cry for help, merely smiled and allowed himself to flow with the crowd, to calmly float in a circle as he drifted upon the hostility that raged in the hearts and spirits of his fellow Britannians.

He allowed himself to circle downward into the crowd.

Allowed himself to circle . . .

To circle downward into . . .

He nearly cried out for his father, but a hand reassuringly settled upon his shoulder. He recognized the grip and briefly glanced at Dryden who was not the individual that Blackthorn remembered from a few minutes ago. The man had aged, the lines about his eyes and mouth sterner and deeper, and he wore the garb that Blackthorn's father should have been wearing, that of the Lord Mayor of Yew, the Supreme Justice of Britannia. Yet this place was not Yew. The buildings here were constructed of stonework, the roofs of slate tiles, the streets of cobblestone. Above the chimneys to the south rose the masts of ships, and to the east, the towers of a magnificent castle.

The city was Britain, of course, and he no longer a boy. A man now, and, at last, the present crashed back into him. Dryden, perhaps sensing the sudden relaxation in Blackthorn, released him. Something else touched him where Dryden's hand had been. Even though he wore armor, he felt the tip of the scepter as if it pressed directly against his skin: cool, heavy, and metallic. His flesh tingled, and his blood surged with warmth. A second time, against the other shoulder. When his senses cleared, he heard the voice of his king.

"With this scepter I anoint thee a Lord of Britannia, the Leader of Her Black Company, the Commander of Her Guard, and the First Hand to Her King. Rise, Lord Blackthorn, so that thy fellow citizens may look upon thee--he who has pledged his life to serve them, their laws, and the virtues upon which all have been founded."

Blackthorn rose along with the adulations of Britannia's citizens. Some had ridden from as far as the Drylands to participate in the Summer Solstice, this season's gathering of the Great Council, and Britannia's greatest festival. Banners from each of the eight cities flapped in time with the strum of mandolins, the whistle of flutes, and the tap of tambourines. The sun glinted off the armor of a band of fighters from Jhelom, and traced the lances of a cavalry from Trinsic. Magi and even a druid clustered around the pavilions and wagons, searching for exotic regents and books, many of which could be found beneath the tents of tinkers who hawked their wares to any passerby, be he shepherd or ranger. Butcher and baker, smith and tanner, sailor and wanderer, they all walked the streets of Britain this day. Though all were here for the festival, many had arrived solely to witness the anointing of Lord Blackthorn, the only man to have ever received the Shield of Valor. Now, in addition to the Shield, Blackthorn also possessed the title of First Hand to the King, he who Lord British and the Great Council could declare as Regent of Britannia. And with that official ceremony over, the celebrations truly began.

The shadows had lengthened considerably by the time Blackthorn managed to slip away from the congratulatory proceedings. He had lost count of how many hands he had shaken with fellow lords and the number of wrists he had kissed for the ladies. He had not, however, lost track of the number of dark stares served to him by certain members of the Great Council, and of those, from one in particular. That one, fortunately, was not in sight at the moment, so Blackthorn took the opportunity to flee through the back flaps of the tent. Had the other been watching, he probably would have regarded Blackthorn's exit as a sign of weakness. And perhaps it was.

Alone in an alley that reeked of the ale dripping from a mountain of overturned casks, Blackthorn wiped the perspiration from his brow with a dark cloth. Above, the sun hung heavy, even at this late hour. Rain had been sparse throughout Britannia this year, and with it, the farmer's crop and the exchange of coin—as it had been for years. Hardly dark times for Britannia's farmers, but enough that Blackthorn felt concern, though Lord British seemed unperturbed. After all, Lord British and his land had survived far, far worse.

The flaps of the tent rustled. "So this where I find thee, Lord Blackthorn. Here among tavern refuse and the stench of ale. As I might have expected."

A moment later, he found himself in the awkward embrace of a woman clothed in the uniform of the Royal Guard. His first instinct, to push her away, he decided to ignore, and permitted himself to return the embrace. "'Tis good to see thee, Shaana," he murmured into her length of raven hair.

She laughed, pushed him away, and regarded him with the quirk of a smile that only she could wear. "As if we haven't dueled every night since thy arrival, then drank and talked through to the morn. I have yet to see a solid hour's sleep since the Black Company galloped through Castle Britannia's gates." Her eyes, brown as a doe's, twinkled mischievously. "Yet of all the women who have congratulated thee on thy most glorious of days, I have yet to receive a kiss." She removed a glove and held out her hand.

With a resolute sigh, he took her fingers in his own and lifted her hand, but her grip slipped quickly and tightly to his wrist. Before he knew what was happening, she yanked him forward and down so that her lips touched his. The kiss was quick, gentle, one of friendship, yet the smile she wore, her teeth resting lightly on her lower lip, was one of shyness, and she traced the length of his beard with her finger. "I never told thee how much I missed thee, and how much I miss the childhood we shared in Yew. Thou wert my first and my best of friends, Blackthorn. Please tell me it shall always remain so."

"Of course," Blackthorn replied, who now held her tightly, partly because he did not wish her to step away and see how flushed he was. "Thou art always with me, Shaana, whether thou knowest or not. When difficult decisions need to be made, I often wonder what thou wouldst do."

She squeezed him tighter. "Good. I am glad to hear it. By the way, thou art losing thy touch." She laughed, sliding away from his embrace to reveal the dagger her gloved hand held at his side. "I have never seen thy guard down before."

He returned the laugh, and then with the flick of his wrist, playfully slapped the dagger away with his sword—she had failed to notice him take the hilt in his hand while they had kissed. The dagger dropped neatly into his palm. "I must have been preoccupied," he said.

"I have noticed how thou dost stare at the knight, Geraci," she said, peevishly, but with a smile. "She is a lovely one, is she not?" Then her smile faltered. "But thou truly dost tend to be preoccupied at times, especially when we speak of the past." Her hand touched his. "It has been a long time since the trial, and the events thereafter."

Anger briefly welled within Blackthorn. He had done everything he could to put those events and the feelings they evoked behind him, and now she had drudged them up. No, 'twas not her fault. "These proceedings, the disagreements with the Great Council, this ceremony. That man . . ." He sighed. "'Tis all too familiar."

"Familiar, but not the same, not the same at all. Thy father would have been proud."

The outrage, the fears, the distrust surfaced again, a distinct voice this time, screaming, crying to be freed. Shaana watched him with concern, knowing full well how he might react, but Blackthorn suppressed the cries. As that awful voice subsided, so did the feelings. "Thou art right, of course," he said. "This is different. A different time, a different matter. I shall not make the same mistakes as he." Not with her nearby. Shaana had a way of quelling that voice within him, even after they had first parted ways before his mother's yew tree.

Shaana spoke. "Come, then. Let us return to the tent. Methinks thou dost need another drink or two, especially if thou art to be my partner in the dances later."

"I do not think Captain Geoffrey would approve of his finest knight dancing with me. I know how he feels about me. He has never forgiven me for leaving the Royal Guard."

"Thou art being absurd. Thou wert his finest student." Shaana tossed her hair in a huff. "Besides, if it truly bothers thee, thou canst always order him to like thee. Thou art now the leader of Britannia's military, including those of us in the Royal Guard. Now, are we going to rejoin the others? Thou wilt be missed." She turned to leave.

"Art thou not forgetting something?" he asked. He held up her dagger.

She snatched it from his hand. "Bah! We are still at a draw in our duels."

"Only because thou hadst a distinct advantage back when we were younger," Blackthorn reminded her. "I was the student, and thou wert the master."

The quirk of a smile returned. "As I am still, and thou wouldst do well never to forget that." She leaned over to his ear and whispered, "And never forget this as well: I love thee, my dear friend Blackthorn. I shall always be here for thee." With that, she marched back into the tent.

Blackthorn allowed a few minutes to elapse before he, too, ducked into the celebration. No one needed to see him and Shaana emerge from an isolated alley together; the rumors abounded already. Yet no sooner had he taken two steps into the tent did a group of his own men guffaw, lift their mugs in his direction, and fill the tent with a bawdy cheer.

A mirthless chuckle caught Blackthorn's ear, and his breath caught in his throat."'Tis quite the lot thou dost have under thy command," his father, dressed in the garb of the Lord Mayor, said.

Blackthorn wiped away the sweat that suddenly blanketed his brow. No, not his father. Damn this heat and his lack of sleep. Judge Dryden, the man who had spoken, continued to chuckle. "Quite the lot, indeed. Dancers and drinkers. An unruly bunch, to say the least."

"They are disciplined," Blackthorn said.

Dryden sipped from his goblet. "For the right price, of course. Some for coin, others for freedom, a few for their lives, no doubt."

Blackthorn took the goblet from Dryden's lips. "And many for the cause." He returned the goblet to a server's tray, and grabbed another for himself.

"Yes, yes, of course," Dryden murmured, as his eyes followed the course of his drink. "One of whom is still missing."

"Nosfentre of Jhelom," Blackthorn acknowledged, unable to conceal his disappointment. "A valorous man. His ship, the Ararat, was supposed to dock this morning, but has yet to arrive."

"A pity he is not here. I would feel more confident about this venture had we more men like him and thy friend, Captain Suturb."

"Hast thou seen him?" Blackthorn asked.

"He is keeping an eye on the one thou didst wish to watch this night," Dryden remarked.

"Excellent."

"Suturb is a fine man, as is Captain Veribed from Trinsic and Moragwain from Moonglow. The others . . ." He glanced with distaste at one group who arm-wrestled with the brothers, Noin and Roin, of the Royal Guard. "The others, well, they have performed adequately, considering their background. I never would have imagined that this rabble could have been disciplined to perform such an admirable service to their kingdom. Thou shouldst be commended for thine efforts, Lord Blackthorn."

"And what of thee? Thy part in this was no small matter. Without the support of thee and the other justices, I doubt Lord British would have gone against the will of the Great Council."

What happened next sent shivers down Blackthorn's spine. He had heard the Judge snicker before, even chuckle, but never had Blackthorn seen him throw back his head and cackle as he did now. "The Council!" he cried, briefly drawing the attention of others. "The Council!" he said, more softly. Tears ran from his eyes and he had to wipe them before he could speak. "They can sit and write laws all day, but the Virtues help them should they actually need to enforce them. I would go up against the Great Council on any given day, but then, I believe thou didst know that when thou didst seek my aid, no?"

Blackthorn said nothing, merely swirled the contents of his goblet.

"I thought as much," Dryden said with a thick, hideous grin. "Thou didst always strive to be a warrior, a fighter, and thou hast succeeded admirably, but in here—" He thumped his heart—"in here, thou art, and always will be, a politician, my friend. After all, 'tis thee who now has the privilege to sit at British's side, should he so chose. Again, I ask thee to reconsider this idea of galloping across the countryside for the next year. Why wait a year when Lord British can invoke thy Regency now? An opportunity wasted is not an opportunity at all."

Blackthorn solemnly shook his head. "I cannot stay here. The Black Company rides for Trinsic within the week, and I shall be with them. I must first ensure that the Black Company can perform abroad before I feel comfortable commanding them from afar. As thou hast said, they are an unruly bunch."

"Then perhaps thou shalt take thy place as Regent when thou dost return," Dryden grinned.

"Perhaps."

Dryden thumped his chest again. "Thy heart will ensure it." He quickly grabbed a second goblet from a passing tray, and clinked it against Blackthorn's. "Thy father would have been proud, Blackthorn."

"Yes," Blackthorn whispered, stealing a glance at Shaana, who was now pitting her arm against one of the Black Company. "Yes, so I have heard." He finished his drink with a single gulp, then excused himself from the Judge, who continued to chuckle.

Within the next few days, Blackthorn, British, and the Great Council would listen to seven wizards deliver their accounts about their separate journeys into the world beneath this one, an unearthly realm created when British and the Great Council ripped the Codex of Ultimate Wisdom from the Great Stygian Abyss. Blackthorn did not expect any good news from a place born of such violence, especially now that the eighth wizard, Sutek, was missing. Like the knight, Nosfentre, he, too, had been expected to dock with the Ararat. Such tidings did not bode well. "The comets are alight this night," Blackthorn whispered to himself, his father's favorite adage.

Standing alone, thinking of his father while witnessing the bond between Lord British and the Companions, a bond that had borne them through the worst of Britannia's ages, despair and isolation swilled nauseatingly within Blackthorn's stomach, morosely settling with the overabundance of wine. He managed not to stumble when he walked to the exit of the tent, but exhausted from Shaana's insistence that he accompany her in dance after dance, he was forced to pause. He allowed time for a deep breath, then stepped outside . . . into a cavernous dome of shattered marble.

Blackthorn's breath halted along with the din of the celebration. His steps ceased as well, not on the grass of Britain's green, but on the ruins of an ancient floor, tiles of black and white uprooted in crevices that stemmed like a starburst from a crater in the chamber's center. Columns leaned broken from the circular wall, and between the columns hung tapestries, flayed and burnt like dead skin.

Shadows swarmed in this place, the children of three glowing jewels, or what seemed like jewels, each the size and shape of a dagger's blade, and serrated as well. They floated above the depression in the center of chamber, a pit darker than night, and within each translucent surface, a spectral face did glimmer and wave, as if heated from the bowels of an unseen furnace. He recognized those faces, yet could not place them, for his mind seemed to have spun a hole in itself, a place he could not touch, a place swirling deeper and deeper with the hostility, panic, and prevarications that he had thought conquered long ago. And from within that abyss arose the sounds of screaming—or perhaps of laughter. . . . He could not be certain. He knew only that the horrible chorus originated from those faces, that of a man, a woman, and . . . and of something neither machine nor man.

Other voices joined them, laughing at him, shrieking at him: Those of his father, Dryden, Nyomae, the Great Council, Lord British . . .

No!

He fought the screams, the laughs, whatever they were, tried to thrust them out of his way. When he realized he could not, that they were far too powerful, he tried to run from them, run as he had when he was a boy, often hand in hand with Shaana, through the trees outside of Yew. Still the voices, the laughter, continued to pursue him through the deep forest he knew to be his mind. A final voice joined the pursuit, a piercing cackle, a hollow wail, and with horror, he recognized it as his own. 'Twas hopeless, he then realized, but the part of him that was the boy . . .

Run! he called out. Run!

The voices abruptly ceased.

He opened his eyes, which he had not realized had been closed. The jewels no longer glowed, were no longer there at all; in their place, an ornate frame of gold surrounded the slick surface of glass. From within the glass, another room stretched forth, a simple room with desk and chair, a chest of drawers, and a bed upon which a figure robed in black was hunched, weeping into its hands, the crown of Britannia upon its brow. Ages passed before the figure seemed to sense Blackthorn. It ceased weeping, giggled, wiped the tears from its eyes, and looked up at him. Only then did Blackthorn realize that it was a mirror in which he stared, for the reflection that wore that insane grin was his own.

He removed her hand, giving him enough time to compose his thoughts. "How long hast thou been here?"

"A mere moment or two. I saw thee leave, and thou didst have the same expression that thou didst wear a few hours after we had sneaked into The Slaughtered Lamb that one night." She laughed. "Dost thou remember the night we first tried drink? The innkeeper had to carry us out of the wine cellar the following morning."

"Yes." He actually smiled. "Yes, I remember."

"Good. I certainly do not." She laughed again, a pleasant sound, not like the laughter he had heard . . . Heard where? And what laughter was he thinking of? He could not remember. "I left the tent a moment after thou didst, and I found thee here, just a few steps outside the tent," Shaana said. "Thou didst not answer my first call."

"I was . . . in thought." At least, that was what he wanted to believe. Something had happened to him just now. He had been somewhere, hadn't he? He reached into his mind where a memory flitted just out of reach . . .

Run!

No. Probably just the wine. Too much wine. "I should retire for the evening," he whispered, more to himself than her.

"Thou dost disappoint me, my Lord," she said, teasingly. She then gazed up at him, her mischievous look turning to one of concern. "Perhaps thou art right. Thou hast had a long day, but be certain to pay thy respects to Lord British." She gave him a small embrace. "And be certain to see me before thou dost leave."

"Of course," he said. "I always seek thy guidance."

She left him alone, upon Britain's green. He walked to its center where the trickle of the green's fountain subdued the sounds of the celebration. From the basin he scooped water over his face, then stared at his reflection, his solemn frown illuminated by the stars and the twin moons. An overpowering fear gripped him, a ridiculous fear that his reflection would leer back at him with a hideous, insane grin. He quickly brought his fists down into the water, ripping the reflection apart.

"Lord Blackthorn."

He whirled to confront a tall, slender mage garbed in the uniform of the Great Council. The Councilor approached Blackthorn, gait smooth and slow, footsteps synchronous with the tap of his serpentine staff, his length of silvery-white hair, which dripped down to his waist, glittering with molten moonlight.

"And what does the Councilor from New Magincia wish of me?" Blackthorn asked, his voice, as well as the rest of his body, going rigid. This was the one man he had hoped to avoid all evening. He had confronted him enough over the past year, and the years before that. Fortunately, he knew that he was not alone in this particular confrontation. Beyond the fountain, a shadow shifted. Blackthorn recognized the form of Captain Suturb, who he had assigned to tail the Councilor this night.

The shepherd's crook, the symbol of New Magincia, flashed where it hung against the Councilor's chest when he stepped into a pool of moonlight. His eyes, however, remained midnight pools as he peered at Blackthorn over his hawkish nose. "What do I wish of thee?" He tilted his head to the side. "Why, only to rectify the rudeness that I have shown thee this evening." He spoke slowly, as if to heighten the impact of each word. "I have yet to congratulate thee, Lord Blackthorn, Bearer of the Shield of Valor, First Hand to Britannia's King." His lips parted, ever so slowly, in a smile. "Thy father would have been—"

"My father is dead, Councilor Windemere," Blackthorn finished, acidly, "as is thine. Shall we let their spirits rest this night?"

The son of the man who had been condemned by Blackthorn's father said nothing, merely bowed with a languid sweep of his arm, then obliged Blackthorn's desire to see him leave, the echo of his footsteps and the tap of his staff trailing behind.

"Damn thee," Blackthorn whispered. He did not know to whom it was he spoke: the father or son.

When he reached the crest of the hill, Lord Blackthorn drew his steed to a halt and called for his followers to do the same. Castle Britannia loomed before the Black Company, its towers frosted pillars of snow and moonlight, so tall that the windows lit beneath their eaves seemed like the brethren of the stars above. Blackthorn's eyes traversed those towers, up and up, and then beyond, into the sky, where he stared, as he had stared every night since the omens had appeared.

The comets, three of them, silent and still, each the twin of the other, feasted upon the brightest of stars this night, the wandering beacons of Compassion, Honesty, and Valor. Despite the glow of their tails, the night around the comets seemed particularly deep, as if the sky poured itself into brilliant fissures.

A solemn horn sounded from the gatehouse, reclaiming Blackthorn's attention. Shouts called back and forth between the Black Company and the towers, then the creak of winches preceded the rasp of ancient chains. Wood groaned. The drawbridge settled to the earth with a muffled boom, sending up a flurry of snow and with it, the musty scent of damp oak and steel.

Within the courtyard of the castle, the presence of the stable girl, a pretty child with wide eyes, surprised Blackthorn. "Treanna," he said, "'tis late for one so young to be awake, much less out at night."

She curtsied as best she could with one hand holding a torch. Snow drifted about her dress. "I heard thou wert arriving this night, my Lord, so I awaited thee." As she spoke, her gaze strayed to the black Valorian charger on which he rode. Blackthorn suppressed a chuckle. It had not been Blackthorn for whom she had waited.

"His name is Virtue," Blackthorn said.

"I remember," she whispered, then quoted: "''Tis upon Virtue that Blackthorn shall ride forth to oppress villainy and chaos.'"

Blackthorn dismounted, and handed the reins to the girl, who timidly took them. He patted the charger's neck. "He is thine for as long as I am here," Blackthorn said. A warm smile dimpled the girl's cheeks. "Dost thou know where I might find Captain Geoffrey at this hour?" Blackthorn asked. "I am surprised he was not here to meet us. I sent him and the Great Council notice of my arrival."

Treanna frowned in puzzlement. "The Captain of the Royal Guard is gone, my Lord."

"Gone?"

The girl stepped back from the severity of his tone, and Virtue quietly whinnied. Treanna stammered to answer, but another stepped forward, a tall soldier who strode out of the shadows. "He left yesterday, my Lord. With old friends."

Old friends, indeed. The Companions of the Avatar were taking matters into their own hands, it seemed. He had, of course, expected this, so it made little difference. Still, it complicated matters. One could not have one's Captain of the Royal Guard defying orders at whim. Blackthorn would need to deal with it, one way or another.

"I thank thee for the information, Captain Suturb," Blackthorn said to the soldier, "and 'tis good to see thee."

"Welcome back, my friend," Suturb smiled, and grasped Blackthorn's hand. Torchlight shimmered off his golden hair, and highlighted the scars upon his cheeks and brows, injuries that the Captain had taken while fighting at Blackthorn's side. "We have been separated for far too long," Suturb said. "I should have been at thy side for the past few months. 'Tis the way it has always been, ever since we first met within these walls, all those years ago."

"I needed thee here," Blackthorn said. "Someone in the Black Company had to oversee our operations in Britain." And it was the closest that Suturb would ever come to serving in the Royal Guard. Though the Captain would not admit it, serving the Royal Guard had always been his dream. He had been devastated the day when the knight, Geoffrey, had told him that his skills with the sword would always be lacking. 'Twas why Suturb had joined Blackthorn when he had abandoned his training in Guard.

Blackthorn addressed his men. "Thou art to assist Treanna in stabling thy mounts, then report to the Great Hall. Speak with Margaret, the upper kitchen chef. She should be awaiting thee with hot meals and warm mead, and she will direct thee to thy quarters." They acknowledged his command with their call: "By book and by blade!" With that, he gave them their leave.

He and Suturb left the Black Company and the stable girl in the courtyard and entered the main hall of Castle Britannia. Darkness lingered here, toying with the torches bracketed upon the great pillars, scuttling along the web of arches that formed the ceiling. Behind Blackthorn and Suturb, the doors closed, uttering first a moan of cool wind, then a resounding clap. Armor clinked, then silenced when the guard who had shut the door returned to his post.

Suturb stopped. "Art thou certain that thou dost wish to face the Council alone?" he asked.

"I do not relish the idea," Blackthorn said, "but it must be so."

"Mages," Suturb nearly spat. "I have never trusted them. Be wary." With that, he excused himself.

Ahead, the braziers of the main foyer beckoned, but even they, as great as they were, paled this night, and the fountain, normally vociferous in its welcome, merely whispered. Blackthorn strode through the foyer as briskly as he could, his reflection a ghostly apparition in the marble tile, then suddenly stopped. The foyer, nearly a cavern in itself, with pillars twice as tall as he and tapestries that could shelter a cottage—it reminded him of another chamber, a place shrouded in shadows, a mirror, and screams . . .

Dread chilled his blood, followed by fear when next he did hear voices, violent murmurs arguing amongst themselves. And he no longer stood in the foyer, but in an elegant hall. A brief wave of disorientation and panic swelled—then he realized that he had simply ascended to the second floor of the castle. He did not remember climbing the stairs or weaving his way through the halls to arrive here. Not that it mattered. The brief lapses in memory no longer bothered him. They brought no harm, just a bit of confusion—'twas a way for his overactive mind to rest when it could. He did not sleep much these days, had not for a long, long time. Dreams kept him awake.

The voices continued to be the sole occupants of the desolate hall. Blackthorn followed their echoes to a set of double doors thrown wide, spilling both light and debates into the desolate halls. "There is no need to invoke the clause." Blackthorn stiffened as he recognized the voice. "It might only be a matter of weeks before His Majesty's expedition returns from the Underworld. In the meantime, the representatives of the people, those they elected, can lead."

"And by representatives, thou dost mean us, of course," someone scoffed. "Now that our leader is missing, 'tis the Council's chance to take the throne, is it, Windemere?"

"I mean nothing of the sort, Felespar," Windemere answered, acidly. "If Lord British had not entrusted the Council to oversee the rule of Britannia, then he would have invoked the clause before his departure. Clearly, His Majesty believed we were capable of governing in his absence."

A woman next, solemn and quiet: Fiona of Minoc. "His Majesty tried to invoke the clause. 'Twas Blackthorn who insisted it should not be so. He believed His Majesty would return in a few weeks. Surely, if he and Lord British had foreseen this—"

"Foreseen? Dost thou honestly believe our Lords did not understand the risks of this venture? Dost thou truly think they did not foresee the possibility of this outcome? Yet they chose to forsake the clause, and allowed us to govern in British's stead."

"Within the limits of our jurisdiction," a fourth voice said, wise and aged, that of Hassad, the Councilor from Skara Brae. "As always, we may oversee, even write and sign and overturn, the laws of our own localities. We may even settle disputes and sign agreements between cities without the consent of his Majesty, but as for matters that affect the whole of Britannia, we require the consent of our monarch. 'Tis the law, Windemere, as agreed and signed by our predecessors."

A boom, as if someone had hit his fist against a table. "Laws can be changed," Windemere said.

"But not without the consent of His Majesty, or, in his absence, that of his appointed Regent," Blackthorn announced, striding into the chamber. "To do otherwise is to constitute revolt, and with the recent departure of our good Captain Geoffrey, I, for one, have had enough mutiny this night."

The prolonged silence that greeted his entrance came as no surprise. He had not expected a warm welcome from the Great Council, especially since he had arrived on his own accord, not through their summons. The councilors sat around the great table, brows and frowns creased. Annon, old and grave, acknowledged his entrance with barely a nod, as did the women, Fiona and Malifora. Felespar chuckled quietly; his neighbor, Goeth, appeared perplexed, as if uncertain of what to make of this event. Sindar showed no reaction: As usual, he dozed contentedly in his chair. Hassad's smile, however, was broad and genuine.

Windemere, the only councilor on his feet, was the first to speak. "Thou art not the Regent yet, Blackthorn, and I would hardly consider Captain Geoffrey's efforts to lead a search party as a mutiny. 'Tis his duty to protect His Majesty, Lord British."

"His duty is to oversee the Royal Guard, they who are stationed here to protect Castle Britannia and those within its halls, especially the members of the Great Council," Blackthorn responded, striding to the head of the table, opposite of where Windemere stood. "That I made to clear to him."

"We gave him leave—" Windemere began.

"I ordered him to await my arrival," Blackthorn said, harshly. "Regent or not, with Lord British's absence, I am Britannia's military commander, and that includes Captain Geoffrey and the Royal Guard." He leaned forward, hands firmly planted on the table, and peered at each councilor in turn, words slow and deliberate. "Captain Geoffrey defied his superior. The fact that the Council gave him permission to do so does not justify the indiscretion."

The silver-haired councilor would not be intimidated. "The Captain was well aware of his insubordination, but he believed his disobedience a worthy sacrifice if it meant searching for Lord British." He threw his arms wide. "Art thou seriously suggesting that we should not have recognized his honorable action? I can think of no greater injustice."

Blackthorn was about to respond, but it was Hassad who spoke. "The matter will be settled later, gentlemen." Hassad's eyes could not see, but somehow he managed to deliver a penetrating stare to both Blackthorn and the Councilor. "There are more important issues at stake. Our monarch is missing, and we must decide what is to be done."

"Stories of his absence have begun to spread," said Fiona. "The crew with whom I sailed whispered that daemons had slain their King. A ranger here in Britain spoke of seeing His Majesty's ghost amongst the trees of Spiritwood."

Felespar snorted. "Rumors, nothing more."

"Perhaps," Annon, the Councilor of Britain, said, "but rumors breed uncertainty and with uncertainty comes fear, both of which plague our realm more so than ever before. The final wasting of the northeast, the sudden surge of maelstroms within our shipping lanes." Windemere scowled at this. His family had stayed true to its roots, and now more or less controlled the seas: This time, ironically, by protecting all the known sea routes from rogue ships and pirates. Not a port could be visited without encountering Windemere's ships; if anything, Windemere's fleet constituted Britannia's navy. 'Twas said that even the great serpents and squids of the sea fled before the sight of one of Windemere's ships. But there was nothing even a navy could do against maelstroms, especially ones that appeared at random.

Annon continued listing Britannia's woes. "And with the increase of bandit and troll attacks along the roads, merchants are less willing to travel, and less willing to trade. The shopkeepers and farmers here in Britain have suffered. As a result, so have the laborers. Everyone is facing hard times. I have seen men turn on each other in the streets, witnessed children robbing beggars." He sighed gravely. "If such problems have arisen here—in our realm's center of trade—then I can only imagine what hardships lie elsewhere. There is much to be concerned about."

"Britannia is in a fragile state," agreed Fiona, "and many believe the loss of its monarch could be the final blow."

Windemere spoke forcefully. "And what dost thou believe? That we cannot survive without a monarch? Absurd! Britannia has not been a monarchy in decades, not since the founding of the Great Council."

Felespar chuckled. "If that is so, then tell me, Windemere, who is it that the lords and ladies of our land swear their fealty to? The Crown or the Council? We may not be a monarchy in the traditional sense, but sense means little in the game of power. As for the rule of Britannia: Folks speak of their king, not their councilors, and they will seek a new king when the old is lost."

"This, they already do." Blackthorn turned in surprise at the voice of Sindar, the Councilor of Trinsic, who studied them through heavy eyelids. "The fighters of Jhelom and the paladins of my own city have talked of positioning Lord Malone of Serpent's Hold as the successor to the throne."

"Lord Malone, yes." Goeth bobbed his head as if in agreement, but Blackthorn could not be certain whether the gesture—or even the words—had been a conscious effort. "Much support there is for him." The aged Council's shoulders twitched.

"Others speak of backing Sir Simon," Sindar added. His laconic gaze settled on Windemere as he said this, then he closed his eyes, and leaned back in his seat, expression serene.

"Lord Simon, yes," Goeth murmured. "Support for him, too." The rest of his speech was unintelligible, and trickled off into silence. Trust the fighters of Jhelom, Blackthorn remembered Felespar saying, to insult the mages of the Council by electing one who is crazed.

Malifora, the gypsy soothsayer from Moonglow, interrupted his thoughts, her voice melodious and sorrowful. "The fractures have appeared. Unless we take action, they will continue to grow, and the jewel that is Britannia will shatter." Her words, as always, bore the aura of finality.

Windemere shook his head forcefully. "That, I will not believe. Give the citizens of Britannia a chance to see that the Great Council, their own representatives, can govern on its own, and they will see reason, I am certain of it."

"Reason?" Felespar laughed in disgust. "Really, thou dost give them too much credit. People are creatures of habit, and hence, tradition, and the tradition of Britannia's government is a ruling monarch, and has been for centuries. Thou canst not simply erase that from the hearts and minds of the people. Should we decide to dispose of the monarch, those we represent will simply try to replace him. The answer is simple, Windemere: Invoke the clause of the Regent. Blackthorn shall rule in Lord British's stead, as was deemed by His Majesty on the day of the Summer Solstice, and we will not need to worry about petty rebellions."

Fury ignited within Windemere, and the shadows around the Councilor, those cast by the seated forms of Annon, Malifora, and Goeth, suddenly seemed to grow deeper in the blaze that was his anger. "And what makes thee think that the citizens of Britannia will unite behind Blackthorn?" he nearly shouted. "There are those that oppose his rule, as well!" He leaned over the trembling shoulders of Goeth, his voice now quiet and with purpose. "I ask this: Why choose Blackthorn over Lord Malone?" He then addressed Annon. "Or Lord Michael of the Empeth Abbey, for that matter?" And at last, he confronted Malifora, whose crystalline eyes were cold. "Or Lord Shalineth of the Lycaeum?" He slammed the tip of his serpentine staff on the floor. "Even if Blackthorn is chosen, there will be rebellion."

"Enough of this!" Blackthorn's command thundered across the chamber, and perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed to him that the torches flared when he spoke, and the shadows within the room recoiled. "Thou dost speak as if I am not here, and I did not ride all the way from Yew to be dismissed. Nor did I ride here to listen to thee squabble over who is to rule Britannia. That is not a question. 'Tis Lord British who rules Britannia, and no one else. Not I, and not this Council, not until we know what has happened to our king."

Windemere was the first to recover from Blackthorn's outburst. "And what is it that thou dost suggest we do? We cannot simply sit back and wait for our king to return from the Underworld."

"But we can decree that he still lives and hence is still the rightful ruler of Britannia. In the meantime, the Companions will continue their search, the Great Council will invoke the clause of Regent, and I will assume Lord British's responsibilities while he is absent."

Windemere drew his breath to retaliate, but the hiss that echoed across the chamber was Blackthorn drawing his sword. The jewels upon its golden hilt burst with light as he hurled it across the room. Blade and hilt spun like an opulent disc, parallel to the table, before the sword dropped and clattered harmlessly to the floor at the hem of Windemere's robes. The Councilor stared at it.

With Windemere's response effectively cut off, Blackthorn continued. "Should I assume the Regency, it will be the Great Council alone that will provide the rules of law. If thou dost write a law, I will sign it. I will not question it; I will not veto it. I swear that I will hold no power over thee." He indicated the blade he had just thrown. "My sword, as they say, will be thine." Again, he leaned forward, hands planted firmly on the great table. "But make no mistake, no matter what is decided, 'tis Lord British who still rules this land. If I even hear of someone acting on his desire to replace His Majesty, I will brand him a traitor, and I will have the Black Company hunt him down."

With that, he left, but not before tossing his empty scabbard across the table so that it could join the sword that lay gleaming at Windemere's feet.

More than an hour had passed since Blackthorn had left the chamber of the Council, or so he judged by the moons. He seemed to have fallen asleep as soon as he had left, and awoke to find himself standing here by one of the snow-covered cannons, the key in his hand.

He slowly unfolded his fingers. The key glimmered with gold, the Great Earth Serpent engraved in silver on one side of its handle, the symbol of the Codex upon the other. Lord British had entrusted him with it. No one else knew of it. He only knew of one other that existed. That one, he believed, now dwelled in the Underworld, lost with its owner.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he closed his fingers around the key, and concealed it in the pouch at his belt. Two figures shuffled up the parapet toward him, both wrapped tightly in furs, breath frosting in plumes from their hoods. Felespar guided Hassad by the crook of the blind mage's elbow until they stood next to Blackthorn. "I thought we might find thee here," Hassad said. "I must admit, I have not been up here before. Is the view lovely?"

Felespar grinned. "Not when it is dark, you old fool." He addressed Blackthorn. "I believe thou didst leave something behind."

With hands shivering from the cold, Hassad held up the scabbard that Blackthorn had tossed at Windemere. The jewels upon the golden hilt glinted. "Of course," Blackthorn said, "I had almost forgotten." Felespar laughed at this while Blackthorn took the sword. A brief gleam of moonlight shown as he slid the blade from the scabbard, inspected it, then slapped it back into place. "Did the Council make a decision?"

Felespar chortled. "I did not realize thou hadst left us with a decision to make." He tapped Blackthorn's sword with his staff. "Thou didst make it very clear as to what thou didst believe ought to be done."

"The choice was still thine," said Blackthorn. He buckled the scabbard to his belt, next to the pouch in which the entrusted key rested. "Assuming a choice has been made."

Hassad nodded. "The Great Council shall issue a decree to the general populace that His Majesty, Lord British, is believed to be alive, and hence, is still the rightful ruler of Britannia. Lord Blackthorn, as Regent, shall assume the responsibilities of the crown during His Majesty's absence."

"And was this a unanimous decision by the Council?" Blackthorn asked.

Felespar's response was one of amusement. "Windemere's signature is not on the decree that invokes thy Regency, as is his right. Still, it does not matter. The rest of the Council voted in thy favor. He could not convince that fool Goeth, Sindar, and Malifora to act against thee. Not this time."

Blackthorn's fist hit a merlon hard enough that the corner crumbled, showering pebbles upon his boots. "This decree is not about me," he fumed. "'Tis about keeping Britannia from disintegrating into panic."

"For the time being," said Hassad. "The decree does not answer who will assume the monarchy should we discover that Lord British has—"

"Lord British lives," Blackthorn said, too harshly for his own taste, so he calmed himself. "I am certain of it. Only the greatest of evils could harm His Majesty."

"Yes," whispered Hassad, turning his face to the sky. The comets cast a pale sheen over his sightless eyes. "That is what frightens me."

Felespar wrapped himself tighter in his cloak as a breeze scattered snow. "It has grown colder," he muttered, wiping away the flakes that had already accumulated in his beard, "and I am tired. If we are finished here, Hassad, I suggest that we take our leave."

"Very well." The Councilor from Skara Brae reached up and laid his free hand on Blackthorn's shoulder. "I wish to express my condolences. I know that the knight, Shaana, was thy friend."

Blackthorn gripped the Councilor's hand with affection. He did not face the councilors as he spoke, choosing to stare off into the night. "'Twas Captain Geoffrey who wished to accompany His Majesty on his journey. I ordered the Captain to remain behind since I thought that if the journey did end in disaster, Britannia could not afford to lose both British and Geoffrey. Instead, I sent Shaana." He bowed his head. "Now all three are gone." The wind nipped icily at his cheek where he was startled to discover a tear lined his jaw—fortunately, on the side that did not face the councilors. He swallowed and spoke with sudden resolve. "When he returns, the knight, Geoffrey, shall be suspended from his duties, if not completely stripped of his rank and all privileges as Captain of the Royal Guard. Let everyone know that I will not tolerate insubordination, not during a time when we must be united."

Hassad nodded sadly as he slipped his hand from Blackthorn's shoulder. Felespar said nothing. Moments later, Blackthorn, once again, stood alone. He wiped away the sliver of ice that had been his tear. Then he removed the key from his belt. He gripped it resolutely in his hand.

From this section of the parapet, a bridge spanned over the courtyard and chambers of Castle Britannia. Over this arch he walked, cape billowing in the wind, boots crushing ice and snow, to a door set in the highest tower of the castle. The door rose above him, as did the sinewy form of the Great Earth Serpent, set in steel upon the door's oaken boards. No handle, no latch, no hinges, only the symbol of the Codex where a lock might be. On this, Blackthorn placed the tip of the key. It slid inward, turned. The door clicked, swung open. He was not the first to be here tonight. Another set of footprints not yet covered by the snowfall led up to the door. He ignored them, and stepped inside the personal chamber of Lord British.

For the first time that evening, warmth washed over him, shed by the blaze that crackled softly within the chamber's hearth. He took a step onto the ornate carpet spread lengthwise from the door, and stopped. The weight of the world felt oddly lighter here, and he took a moment to revel in it. Behind him, the door shut on its own accord, unwilling to allow the winter in. The whisper of the wind ceased, replaced by the voice of the fire, and the steady tick of a grandfather clock.

He approached the king's bed, a canopied affair with four ornate posts, mahogany headboards, and a wealth of heavy blankets neatly tucked and folded, as if patiently awaiting the return of their occupant. Blackthorn walked along the side of the bed, tracing the edges of the fabric with his fingers, marveling at its softness. At one time in his life he had had a bed he could call his own. How many years ago had that been? Not since he had fled Yew.

He reached over the bed and from its pillows he lifted the crown of Lord British. Before he had departed, Lord British had sent Blackthorn a message that indicated that the crown jewel could be found here. Now Blackthorn held the crown aloft, turning it. He had always wondered how it would feel. Like the hearth, it radiated warmth, pulsed with light. Jewels within gold scintillated, reflecting the chamber's gilded lamps and candelabra.

Crown held in outstretched arms, Blackthorn slowly crossed the floor to stand before the full-length mirror set in the corner of the chamber. He laughed ruefully at the man who greeted him from within the glass, taller than most, shoulders and neck broad, black beard neatly trimmed upon a stout jaw. A handsome man, or so others told him, with wavy hair thick and dark as coal, skin like a fine coat of bronze, and piercing eyes. He saw none of that. Just pale flesh, a solemn frown, and sorrow. All flayed by the lines of age. As he watched, the man lifted the crown above his head, as if ready to place it upon his brow.

"It suits thee, does it not?" a voice said. Blackthorn whirled around, crown gripped in one hand, the other going to his sword.

The elderly gentleman who sat hunched over Lord British's desk did not bother to look up. Instead, he dipped his quill in the inkwell, and continued to work on the parchment upon which he had been writing, one of many scattered across the desk, the nearby shelves, and floor. Blackthorn glanced in distaste at the mess. "I should not be surprised that I have found thee here." He relaxed his grip on the sword.

The old man shrugged. "Thou art not the only one to whom Lord British entrusted a key." As he wrote, the old man's length of thick, gray, knotted hair whispered over the parchment, and toyed with spots of ink. "His Majesty felt that someone ought to assume the position of scribe with Remoh gone." That mat of hair also obscured the man's face, but Blackthorn imagined a ruthless smile lingered upon the elder's lips as he spoke. "Who better else, than his court advisor?"

"The court jester, perhaps?"

The quill continued to write. "A devious man, that fellow. Far more observant than he lets on."

"Just like thee," said Blackthorn.

Another shrug. "'Tis my duty to be aware of things that others are not, else what worth would my advice be?"

Blackthorn approached the man, one hand rubbing the edge of Lord British's crown. "Then thou art aware that thou dost now speak with the Regent of Britannia?"

At last the writing ceased. The scribe rested the quill upon the parchment and leaned back. The enormous chair, its maroon cushions deep and plush, engulfed him. "So, the Council invoked thy right as Regent." Fingers gnarled like the limbs of Yew trees contemplatively tapped together in a pyramid. "Sooner than I would have expected. What, pray tell, didst thou say to them?"

Satisfied that he had at last received a reaction, Blackthorn told him.

"Clever," the court advisor admitted. "Lord British left a void of power when he did not invoke thy Regency. With his absence, the Great Council could have supported a third party as the inheritor to the throne, and since thou wert not Regent, it would not have been thy right to oppose it. But now thou dost have that power, not to mention the power to rule in Lord British's place. And since thou hast proclaimed that the missing monarch still lives, thou dost not even need to worry about a third party taking the throne. Very clever, indeed."

The warmth of the crown suddenly seemed to burn, and Blackthorn placed it on a chest of drawers. "I did what had to be done, nothing more. We should not be debating about who might inherit the throne of our ruler. We should be concerned about how our realm fairs while he is gone."

"What if he never returns?"

Blackthorn did not want to answer, believed the question did not warrant an answer. Lord British lives! Yet he heard himself speak. "If need be, then I, as Regent, will ensure that the establishment of a new monarchy is created in accordance to law." But such action will not be needed. He lives!

"And if something were to happen to the Regent?" The scribe leaned forward, the light of the chamber falling full on his face.

'Twas if winter's breath had seeped into Blackthorn's blood. He had known the court advisor for years, but that face always caused disconcertment whenever Blackthorn saw it for the first time. The crystalline, blue eye that scrutinized him gleamed with shrewdness, and the scribe's mouth curved in a sly grin, teeth in even rows if not shining white. His nose, cheeks, and jaw were lean and slender, fit for a thief. Blackthorn had recognized the man's craftiness immediately. 'Twas an intelligence others did not usually see in the old man, not when distracted by the right half his face.

Eye, nostril, and mouth drooped in a perpetual frown, each too thin, too long, twisted and warped. They might have looked as if they were trying to crawl their way off his skull, had they not simply hung there in lifeless lumps. The rest of his skin heaved in thick, molten welts, boiled and burned long ago in a fire of which the man would not speak. The right ear was missing as well, an unsightly hole covered by that angry mesh of gray hair, and 'twas the reason why the court advisor leaned with his left side forward when others spoke.

"Tell me, Whitelock," Blackthorn whispered, "what dost thou mean by ‘if something were to happen to the Regent?'"

The man named Whitelock regarded Blackthorn coolly. "Come now, didst thou not think of this? The Regent may rule in His Majesty's absence, but what if the Regent were, shall we say, to go missing as well? What then? The void of power would resume. The Great Council could then support a third party for the monarchy, should they choose to support a monarch at all." One half of his face smiled, the other frowned. "Do not think that this scenario has not occurred to Windemere."

The crown glinted out of the corner of Blackthorn's eye as he spoke. "Windemere has nothing to gain from overthrowing me. I promised the Great Council full compliance."

"Over what? Creating and signing laws?" Whitelock grunted in amusement. "Lord British had, more or less, already granted the Great Council that power. Rarely did he contend any action of the Council, not that he needed to. The courts and military, they who enforce the laws, ultimately answer to the monarch, not the Council, and Windemere will not rest until that is changed. He took his first steps toward control by providing Britannia with a navy. Certainly, he would have extended his control over the land . . . had not a young lord already done so with the Black Company." The scribe's singular eye stared pointedly at Blackthorn. "Now, with Lord British's disappearance, he need not control the land if he controls the monarchy. Yet here thou art, once again, standing in his way."

Blackthorn shook his head. "Windemere is a fool, that is certain, but he's even more the fool if he believes he can simply rid the realm of a king. The monarchy is an establishment. The Great Council knows this. If one king falls, another will replace him."

"Unless they are all busy fighting each other, in which case Windemere could convince the Great Council to declare martial law, and seize control of the courts and the military. That is within their right, providing no Regent is available to do the same."

Blackthorn could not believe what he was hearing. "An unlikely scenario," he declared.

"Is it?" Lord British's advisor grabbed a handful of scrolls off the desk. As he did so, he uncovered an ornate box of sandalwood. Something stirred within Blackthorn as he stared at the box, something that he thought he should know, but then Whitelock distracted him when he rattled the air by shaking the scrolls. "For the past few nights I have been receiving reports from the contacts that I have throughout Britannia. Jhelom. Trinsic. Minoc. Moonglow. New Magincia." He tossed a scroll down for each city that he named. "All are wondering what is to be done, and all have a different idea of what should be done. Only the folks in Britain, Yew, and Skara Brae seem to be willing to wait for His Majesty's return. Britain, for obvious reasons, and Skara Brae because of Hassad's inexplicable fondness for thee. As for Yew, Dryden will ensure that it remains loyal. Felespar, too, but only should Yew's loyalty remain to his advantage."

The clock pealed twice, deep and resonant. "There was bound to be unrest in the beginning," Blackthorn said, when the clock returned to its steady, quiet count of the hour. "The realm will settle down once the Council issues its decree. Affairs will be conducted in an orderly manner. Britannia will not be torn apart. Lord British will return." His gaze drifted to the box.

"Let us hope he does," Whitelock said. He took up his quill, and pushed the scrolls from his parchment. The box was covered again, and Blackthorn blinked uncertainly. Whitelock looked up, the maimed half of his face hidden. "Be wary of Windemere, my Lord. He is very much like his father: Charismatic, a true leader, and rebellious. His reach extends well beyond his influence in New Magincia. Those who dwell within his family's stronghold consider their island a country in its own right. In addition, he has followers in every city, some visible, others not, lawmakers and lawbreakers, all with some influence over the local courts and militia. And like a crew of one of his captains, these men and women are loyal to Windemere, fiercely loyal, save for a few, who I happen to contact every now and then." He turned back to his writing, hair and shadow once again concealing his face. "Do not underestimate him. This is his opportunity, as it is thine." He interrupted his scribbling long enough to point the quill at the crown that had mysteriously reappeared in Blackthorn's hands. So startled was Blackthorn that he nearly dropped it.

"No," Blackthorn whispered. The metal of the crown burned. "This is not mine." Neither does it belong locked in here. It belongs with the other crown jewel, the Scepter of Lord British.

He took the crown to Lord British's throne room, empty at this hour, and a soaring vault of darkness. A tunnel of pale light burrowed through that blackness, bordered by the chamber's ghostly pillars, each so enormous that the torch bracketed to it could only illuminate a pale ellipse of marble. An elaborate carpet, crafted by the silk weavers of Buccaneer's Den, stretched forth from Blackthorn's feet. At its far end, the king's throne gleamed in a fragile island of light. And on the throne, where Lord British had told him he could find the scepter . . . the scepter was not.

Heart suddenly surging, Blackthorn ran to the throne. The indentation of His Majesty's scepter was clear in the cushions, but the scepter itself—"Someone has stolen it," he heard himself whisper.

Disbelief turned to shock, and shock melted into anger, all within seconds. He released his frustrations in a bellow of rage. The throne room screamed back at him, once, twice, more until the last of the echoes died. Windemere! He tossed the crown upon the throne, and room screeched with the drawing of his blade. I shall have thine head! He spun, ready to storm out to Windemere's quarters, then heard something.

He stopped, listened. From behind him, the sound came again. A whisper so soft Blackthorn had to strain to hear it. "Ho eyo he hum." Yes, he was not mistaken. "Ho eyo he hum." This time followed by the tinkle of bells. Blackthorn's sword glinted as he looked behind the throne.

In the tiny space between the throne's back and the wall was the court jester, curled in a ball, arms clasped around his knees, which he had tucked up beneath his length of a chin. The bells in his cap jingled quietly as he rocked back and forth.

There, cradled in the fool's lap, was the scepter.

Rage consumed Blackthorn, a fire in his blood. He leveled the point of his sword mere inches from the man's neck. "Why hast thou taken it?" he whispered, fiercely.

The jester looked up, and what little light there was here gleamed off his tears. "Ho eyo he hum," he whispered. "My king is gone, and darkness has come."

The flames of anger within Blackthorn died, doused by sorrow, pity, and, above all, shame. He lowered his blade. "Keep it safe," he said softly to the jester. "It and the crown, if need be."

The jester solemnly nodded, then looked behind Blackthorn. "Ho eyo he hum," he said, voice quieter than before. "I see three, where there should be one."

He did not understand what the jester meant until he turned and noticed that with the arrangement of the torches, he cast multiple shadows upon the wall. As all men do, he thought.

Then he exited the throne room, ordering the guards outside to keep it locked to all but the jester, saddened that the Crown Jewels of Britannia were best entrusted to a fool.

Blackthorn's father sat on the opposite side of the table, face illuminated by the glow of the common room's hearth. Evening had settled an hour before, just before the two had supped, and their bowls and cups still sat upon the table. "Thou art sworn to uphold a lord who participates in the forbidden torture of prisoners," his father said. "Each night their cries of pain reach thee." He tapped the card with the beggar. "Dost thou show compassion by reporting the deeds, or—" He slid his finger over to the first card, the sleeves of his linen shirt brushing the table. "Or dost thou honor thy oath and ignore the deeds?"

The boy Blackthorn did not hesitate. He laid his hand on the beggar. His father nodded, then removed the card with the paladin, setting it facedown with five others. He replaced this card with an eighth depicting a blindfolded woman swathed in green robes. She stood upon a hill of verdant grass, holding aloft a set of scales, golden like her hair.

Blackthorn's father spoke again. "After twenty years, thou hast found the slayer of thy best friends. The villain proves to be a man who provides the soul support for a young girl." His father touched the card with the beggar. "Dost thou spare him in compassion for the girl, or—" He moved his finger to the other card—"Dost thou slay him in the name of justice?"

This time, the boy Blackthorn did hesitate. Card versus card the game went, virtue against virtue until only one remained, the virtue that, supposedly, the player favored in his spirit. With this in mind, he eyed the beggar and his coins since his heart went out to the girl in his father's last question, but in the end he laid his hand upon the woman and her scales.

"The card of justice," his father said, a faint gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. He held the card aloft, rotating it. The scales flashed in the warm light shed by the hearth.

The boy Blackthorn stood from his seat to collect the plates and cups. His father halted him by gently taking the boy by the arm. "Tell me, son, why thou didst choose the card of compassion over the card of honor, yet ultimately relinquish it to the card of justice?"

"'Tis in the accords of Britannia," the boy answered, "that a man who unjustly slays multiple men should suffer for his crimes by forfeiting his life."

"And if no such precedent had been set?" his father asked. "What then wouldst thou have chosen?"

The boy Blackthorn did not hesitate this time. "I would have spared him for the girl."

His father nodded, and released his arm. The boy carried the dirty cups and plates to the hearth. As he stacked them upon the shelf to the hearth's left, his father spoke again. "What if another—say, a man who had been bereft of his sons by the man thou didst spare—what if he chose to slay the villain? Wouldst thou stay that man's sword?"

The boy Blackthorn peered at the wooden cup he was about to place over the hearth. "Yes," he finally said. "'Twould be the honorable thing to do."

"Indeed," his father said, skeptically. "But would it not also be an act of justice for the other man to slay the villain?"

The boy Blackthorn did not know how to respond, for in truth, he was not certain he could rationalize an argument. Then, at last, he said, "'Tis not an act of justice if no law permits it."

His father's answer was immediate. "Yet no law denies his action, either. The question remains, then, who is in the right, for neither can be wrong." He held up the eight cards of virtue, fanning them in his hand. "These cannot tell us, can they? The virtues are chaotic in nature, unruly, open to interpretation." He spread his fingers. The cards fluttered to the table, some facing down, others up. "They define endless paths through which one can attain spiritual fulfillment, yet never specify which is the correct path to take."

With a cloth, the boy Blackthorn picked up a kettle steaming over the hearth and poured its contents into a wide bowl that rested on the cutting table. "Perhaps there is no correct path, Father," the boy said, eyeing the rivulets of water that danced down the side of the bowl.

"No, perhaps not," his father answered. "But if the path of one man impedes that of another . . . What then?" He held up the woman and the scales. "Only rules, rules made by the men who walk the paths, can answer which one may continue forward, and which one must concede." His father gripped the boy in his gaze. "Dost thou understand what I am saying?"

"Of course," said the boy Blackthorn. "Like all things, virtues are meaningless without definition." 'Twas one of his father's favorite sayings. "'Tis why we need laws."

"Good." His father's smile was warm. "Put down thy cloth, boy, and go. I will take care of the dishes this night. I know how thou dost enjoy thy walks among the woods. Contemplate what we have discussed, for tomorrow thou shalt stay inside. Thou must study thy books."

Without trying to appear too hasty, the boy Blackthorn rinsed and dried his hands, then headed to the back door, passing the ladder that led to the loft in which his bed and wardrobe were housed. He removed a lamp from its hook beside the door, lit it, and departed the cottage.

The night held tightly to this part of the forest, an hour or so journey away from the lights of Yew. Blackthorn's lamp cast a pale circle in the darkness, not that he truly needed a light yet. The glow from the back window of his father's cottage bathed the yard, and then briefly flickered. His father had passed in front of the window, no doubt on his way to his study.

Blackthorn continued on fifty or so footfalls south and east until he came to the stable. Their horse, Gavel, snorted and quietly tapped his hooves against the earth when Blackthorn approached. He soothed the red gelding before turning to the back of the stable. There in the corner, beneath a pile of hay and straw, the boards lay loose. With a pitchfork, Blackthorn pried them up, then quickly removed the long bundle of cloth hidden beneath them. Boards and straw returned to their appropriate place, he left the barn, jogging parallel to the cottage toward the garden. A quick right past the old well took him into the woods.

The tall, voluminous trees of the Deep Forest sheltered the earth from the night sky. Stray beams of star and moonlight managed to slip through the branches and leaves. His footsteps cracked upon twigs and rock, echoing with the song of crickets and the occasional cry of an owl, then the burble of stream to his left. The scent of wet mud and stream reeds joined that of pine and yew. He followed the brook, a crisp rivulet of moonlight where it widened enough to separate the roof of the trees. Where the water eventually led, Blackthorn did not know, for he had never followed its current any farther than a few miles, but he guessed it emptied into one of the northern rivers, which, in turn, emptied into the bay far to the north.

Soon he arrived where the water hooked around a small hummock of earth and moss, and embedded in its middle, a round stone, silver in his lamplight and no higher than his waist. He balanced the lamp upon the stone, and unrolled the cloth. Steel gleamed and brass glittered as he peered at the blade and hilt of his sword.

The crunch of pebbles and the whistle of wood alerted him in time to spin and lift his weapon. The blade rang against his opponent's blow, but his assailant was quick: The second stroke forced him back a step when he parried, the third another. Again and again the strokes came as he and the enemy circled in the lamplight, and though he blocked most, by the time his blade had been flung from his hand, his right shoulder, left thigh, and abdomen throbbed from his opponent's attack.

While his assailant went to retrieve his sword, he stumbled over to the stone, nearly knocking the lamp over when he leaned against the rock, hands upon his knees, trying to catch his breath between winces.

The girl who now carried his sword tilted it, and clicked her teeth as she fingered a chip in the steel. "Thou wilt ruin it with our practices," she said at last.

"Not if I learn how to care for it, Shaana" Blackthorn responded. "The blacksmith's apprentice, Chamfort, has already agreed to help me."

Shaana stepped back into the light, tall for her age, and thin, her raven hair so dark that he could almost see naught but her pretty, oval face. She handed the blade back to Blackthorn. "I still do not understand why thou dost treasure it so. 'Tis not the finest blade there is, not even in Yew."

"'Tis the only one I have," said Blackthorn.

Shaana uttered a peevish grunt. "And doth thy father know of the treasure that thou didst steal from his stores?"

"'Twas found!" Blackthorn insisted, and that was true, though his father would wonder how he and Shaana had infiltrated what constituted Yew's armory. Shaana had a way with undoing locks with hairpins and needles. 'Twas how they had invaded the cellar of the Slaughtered Lamb the year before, and both had paid dearly for it the next morning, first in the head from the ale, then in the hide from their fathers.

Shaana was laughing. "Do not worry. I am certain that no one has missed thy prize. 'Twas nearly rust when thou didst find it. But now thou must toss it aside. Defending against me is one thing, but I will not have thee attack me with steel."

"Afraid that I will smite thee?" Blackthorn teased, and picked up the second practice sword that had been lying next to the stone. He raised his weapon and took an offensive stance.

"I'm more afraid of thee skewering thyself," she said, and flipped back her hair. "Now come at me, and prepare to be bruised."

Bruised he was by the end of the hour, and he walked with a slight limp when he and his friend left the stream to return home. A year and more the two had practiced by the stream, and still Blackthorn could not best her.

"'Tis not hard to see why," Blackthorn muttered, when she had mentioned this for a second time. "Thy father is the Captain of Yew's Guard." He winced when he stumbled over a root. "I receive nothing from my father but lectures and books."

"And thou wouldst receive a thrashing if he caught thee with thy toy," Shaana giggled.

"More than likely," Blackthorn admitted. "The man has never lifted a sword in his life, or so he claims. He believes that law is what should rule the civilized man, not the threat of the blade."

Shaana peered at Blackthorn thoughtfully. "Yet he is willing to sentence a man to the blade, should need be."

"Yes, I suppose." Blackthorn murmured. He had not told his father that he disagreed with the decision to execute Windemere. Granted, the law gave his father lee to do so, but so many other factors needed to be considered—

"Douse thy light," Shaana suddenly hissed, dropping to the ground. "Who is in thy home?" she whispered.

Dropping next to his friend, Blackthorn extinguished the lamp. They had neared the edge of the cottage's yard, close enough to discern the two figures within the light of the cottage's rear window, one clearly that of his father, the other with something in hand, a scroll perhaps. Their gestures suggested an argument, and though words were not discernible, the muffled undertone of their voices was heated in disagreement.

"'Tis the clerk, Dryden," Blackthorn finally said. "Why is he here? Rarely does he visit us. What is it that he is holding?"

"Come, we can get closer," Shaana whispered, and even in the dark, Blackthorn could see the mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Perhaps we can hear what is being discussed."

Before Blackthorn could protest, she scuttled south along the property's border, leaving behind the practice swords that she carried. Blackthorn cursed lightly under his breath, then followed. He caught up with her as she was inching toward the cottage along the north wall of the stable. Like she, he flattened his back against the stable's wall. "Shaana," he whispered, fiercely. "I don't think—"

"Shh," she said. "I am trying to listen. I thought I heard other voices."

A sudden roar echoed through the forest, a collective chorus of catcalls and jeers. Both Blackthorn and Shaana started, as did the figures of his father and Dryden, both whirling in the direction of the cottage's front door. A halo of torchlight enveloped the roof of the cottage, cast from an unknown source in the front yard. A cry went up, the stern voice of a woman. "Blackthorn, Lord Mayor of Yew, come forth!" Others, those of men, rang out. "Blackthorn!" they cried. "Purveyor of injustice, come forth!"

The figures of his father and Dryden disappeared from the window. "I recognize those voices," the boy Blackthorn said to Shaana. "I think—" But Shaana was already scampering away, rounding the corner of the stable and disappearing into the woods farther south. She waved at him to follow her. Biting back on a second curse, he complied, and the two skulked around trees of the southern edge of the property until they could see into the front yard. There, Shaana ushered him down behind a log. The sting and scent of pine needles greeted him as he prostrated himself next to her, and peeped over the fallen tree.

"The Lady Windemere," Shaana said, amused.

There were perhaps two dozen of them, men and women, many with torches, many crying out for his father, and all led by a tall, regal woman, her arms outstretched, in one hand a torch, the other a set of scales. Much like the woman on the card of justice, Blackthorn thought, except the Lady Windemere garbed herself in black, and her hair caressed her shoulders in silver peels. She called again. "Blackthorn! Come forth and behold thy jury!" Torches laced the darkness as the crowd reiterated her demand.

A shaft of light appeared when the door to the cottage opened just enough for Blackthorn's father to exit. From where Shaana and he lay, Blackthorn could see Dryden by the hearth. He doubted the crowd could see the frightened clerk from their angle.

Blackthorn's father, the Lord Mayor of Yew, spoke. "What brings thee to my door at this hour, Lady Windemere?" he said, calmly. "And who are these people that thou hast brought with thee?"

"Do not dismiss us so coldly, Blackthorn," said an elderly man, one who the boy Blackthorn recognized as Ipocrisis, the Councilor from Yew. Already short, the Councilor crouched over a gnarled cane, his torch flaring below the plane of the others. He crept forward to stand next to the Lady Windemere, the frayed wisps of his hair barely reaching the height of her shoulders. His eyes gleamed shrewdly. "Thou dost know who we are."

The Lord Mayor's expression drew stern. "I see only a fool who believes that waving a stick of fire gives him the right to trespass upon my property." The elderly man recoiled as if struck, even as angry mutters unfurled from the mob. Shaana clapped her hand over her mouth to suppress her outburst of laughter. The boy Blackthorn wished he could join her. Steel had glinted when several men at the far end of the mob had stirred. He did not think his father could see them.

Meanwhile, the Lady Windemere had drawn herself up in rage. "How darest thou address a Councilor that way!"

Still peering at Ipocrisis, the Lord Mayor said, "So long as he stands uninvited upon my lawn without writ or summons, he is a criminal, whether his seat is upon the Great Council or not." The Lord Mayor then addressed the lady. "As art thou and thine other followers, many of whom I do now recognize." He raised his eyebrows as he surveyed several individuals. They shrank away from his gaze.

"Thou wilt not be able to frighten us with petty threats, Blackthorn," the Lady Windemere said. "What wouldst thou do? Have some of Britannia's finest justices and officials incarcerated for a peaceful demonstration? I think not. Thou wouldst not come to us today when we asked, so we have come to thee." Her eyes narrowed to slits. "We will have words with thee, Lord Blackthorn," the Lady Windemere said.

"We have had words," the Lord Mayor answered, "words and words again. Dost thou think that what will be said this evening will overturn what has been decided?"

Apparently, the Councilor believed so. "Thou didst go against the will of the Great Council, Lord Blackthorn," Ipocrisis said. "Councilor Windemere is not to be executed. The Great Council decreed it, as did Lord British." The crowd endorsed him with an enthusiastic roar. "Traitor!" cried some. "Usurper of justice!" And the Lady Windemere threw down the scales she held, and stamped upon them.

The Lord Mayor would not be intimidated. "What the Great Council believes to be justice and what the law demands as justice are not the same. The Great Council, even Lord British himself, as per his own decree, are not above the laws of Britannia. Laws, I might add, written by thy predecessors on the Council. And in this case, the law clearly indicates that Windemere is to forfeit his life. Unless, of course, the law changed overnight." He awaited the Councilor's response, but none came. "No, I thought not. Not even the Great Council would presume to change the law for a single man, though I have been assured that at least one councilor made the attempt."

Indignation swept through Ipocrisis. Giggling, Shaana turned to the boy Blackthorn and whispered. "Thy father is skilled with his speech. If only thou wert as skilled with thy sword, then perhaps thou couldst best me."

"Quiet!" the boy hissed. "There. Look." He pointed to the men he had seen stir earlier. Robed in heavy cloaks, several of them flanked the crowd, and at least one seemed to be edging closer to Shaana and Blackthorn. His pace was slow, a step every few seconds, but like the others, steel glinted beneath his cloak, the links of a mail coat. Shaana sucked in her breath. Blackthorn gripped the hilt of his sword, wondering what to do.

Lady Windemere was shouting at his father. "Thou claimest that the law demands my husband's death, Lord Mayor, yet even now, thou sparest a murderer from execution. What of the girl, Nyomae, she who admits to slaying her own daughter?"

"She did so only to save her from thy husband," the Lord Mayor responded, and for the first time, his voice hinted of anger.

"Yet she is a murderer nonetheless!" the Lady Windemere declared. "Why does she not face the axe of the headsmen?"

"She took the life of only one soul, and she did so in the name of compassion," the Lord Mayor said, softly. "Can thy husband claim that of the children he slew?"

Lady Windemere's followers quieted somewhat by that, yet the Lady would not relinquish. "A man who slays a hundred is the same as she who slays one. The law makes no distinction."

"True, my Lady," the Lord Mayor said, "but the law allows the jurors to make a distinction in their penance: Life-long imprisonment or, should jurors deem the crime fit, as they have in the past, execution. For Nyomae, the jurors, the highest justices in the land, chose imprisonment. For thy husband, they chose death."

"They chose?" the Councilor scoffed. "I think not! The jurors were split in their decision over the fate of Councilor Windemere. 'Twas thee, and thee alone, who broke the vote, Lord Mayor! The choice was thine!"

"As was my right as the judge who oversaw the trial," the Lord Mayor said, but his voice could be barely heard over the new tumult.

The Lady Windemere was screaming. "'Tis thee who sentences my husband to death!"

"'Tis thee who defies the Great Council!" cried the Councilor.

"'Tis thee who defies Lord British!" others called, and with that, the crowd surged forward. Several of the torches arced through the air, two bouncing of the cottage's walls, a third upon its roof where it smoldered briefly, rolled, then dropped to the ground, shedding sparks.

The boy Blackthorn sprang to his feet. "No!" he called. Sword held high, he rushed forward. "Father!" He had only run a few steps when someone tackled him from behind. His sword clattered to the ground. He tried to reach for it, but his assailant pinned him. "Father!" he cried again. Lady Windemere and her mob were no more than a body's length from his home.

"Halt!" The command cracked liked thunder, three crossbows twanged, and three bolts slammed into the earth before the Lady Windemere and the Councilor. "In the name of His Majesty, Lord British, I command thee to halt!"

The hold on the boy Blackthorn loosened just enough so he could look up. The figures he had seen earlier held the crowd at bay with long swords, cloaks thrown wide, revealing the emblem of the Britannian Guard embroidered on green surcoats. The guard whose command had brought the crowd to a halt now stood between Lady Windemere and the Lord Mayor.

"I thank thee, Captain," the Lord Mayor said. "I see that my summons were answered."

"A timely intervention, it seems," the Captain of Yew, a burly man with a curled mustache, answered. "I admit that I doubted thee when thou didst suggest that I be on my guard this evening."

"What is the meaning of this?" Lady Windemere demanded, kicking at one of the bolts.

"Thou dost trespass upon a man's property with a mob ready to set his house afire, yet thou dost wonder why the Britannian Guard is here?" The captain grunted in amusement. "Surely thy friend, the Councilor, he who doth make our laws, can explain it to thee."

"How canst thou protect the Lord Mayor?" the Lady Windemere demanded. "Even thou dost admit he is in the wrong!"

"Perhaps, dear Lady." He glanced at the Lord Mayor. "I, too, hope that he listens to the wisdom of the Great Council and Lord British, and spares the Councilor his life. The Councilor is a good man, and has redeemed many of his sins, though even he cannot escape justice. But his fate is not a decision that is mine to make. Neither is it thine, dear Lady, nor thine, Councilor."

Tears streamed down the Lady's face. "No! This cannot be! This cannot!" She gripped the robes of Ipocrisis so fiercely that he nearly fell to the ground. "Councilor, command the Captain to stand aside."

Sadness and pity swelled within the captain's voice. "The Great Council has no authority over the Britannian Guard. Only His Majesty, Lord British, and Captain Geoffrey of the Royal Guard, may command us. The Lord Mayor has broken no law, but thou hast, and should the Lord Mayor wish, I will have both thee and the Councilor arrested for thy actions on this night."

The Britannian Guard closed in on the crowd, swords gleaming, but the Lord Mayor held up his hand. "Put down thy weapons. Let them go. My house still stands, as do I. I will declare that these men and women have done no wrong, so long as they leave."

And so they did, gradually, even the Lady Windemere, who could no longer walk on her own, so wracked was she with sobs.

When the mob's torchlight was no more than a faint wisp within the forest, the Captain of the Guard spoke in the direction of the boy Blackthorn. "Shaana, my daughter," he smiled. "I believe thou mayest let thy friend go. He will not harm anyone."

The boy Blackthorn, who had nearly forgotten he had been pinned to the forest floor, felt Shaana roll off of him. Cheeks flushing to the quiet chuckles of the captain's men, Blackthorn picked himself up, and brushed the pine needles from his clothes. He reached for his sword, only to find it being handed to him by his father.

"Why didst thou not tell me?" his father asked.

The boy Blackthorn bowed his head sheepishly, and took the sword. He could not find an answer.

"Captain," his father said, "it seems that it is the boy's desire to learn the art of the sword. Canst thou assist him?"

"My daughter seems to believe that he has promise," the captain grinned, directing his attention to the girl, "otherwise she would not be sneaking off when she is supposed to be doing chores." Shaana bowed her head at this, and the captain turned his smile back to the Lord Mayor. "I suppose I can spare some time for thy son." He clapped the boy on the shoulder, and Blackthorn winced from the sting of his gauntlet. His head whirled.

Blackthorn's father nodded. "Make no mistake, son, thou wilt still learn the lessons of law." The boy looked up. His father seemed far off. Behind him, even farther, the soldiers of the Britannian Guard stamped upon the smoldering torches. "And in doing so, thou shalt be one step ahead of me."

His father's voice grew distant as he, the captain, and Shaana were drawn away . . .

"For unlike I, thou wilt know how to enforce the laws in two ways . . ."

His father's voice softening amongst the chorus of other men, swirling, as if drawn down . . .

"By book and by blade . . ."

Drawn down into the sea . . .

"By book . . ."

The words echoed as if nearly a dozen men had shouted them, but Blackthorn could only see two men before him, one in the garb of a soldier, the other with a traveling cloak flung over his judiciary robes. Surely Shaana's father and his own—but he could not be certain. The two men seemed indistinct, blurry in the torchlight. No, not torchlight . . . sunlight, gray as if dulled by clouds. The forest, too, had turned gray, its wall of trees now a palisade of stone and mortar. His cottage was also gone, and in its place, a keep.

"Lord Blackthorn?" His father lips moved, but it was the voice of Judge Dryden that spoke.

The courtyard of Castle Briannia solidified around him and the judge peered at him with concern. Captain Suturb stood where Shaana's father had just been, and he shared Dryden's expression. "My Lord," he pressed.

"Yes, of course," Blackthorn answered, then turned to the soldiers lined before him, the elite of the Black Company's soldiers who served as his entourage, the men who had ridden with him to Britain. He had ordered them to mount up, and they had responded with the call of the Black Company. Now they awaited his leave to carry out the command.

Blackthorn merely nodded, and Suturb and the company dispersed for the stables. They would all be riding east on this dull eve, the first time that Blackthorn and many of them had left the confines of Britain since they had arrived during the solstice. While they had stayed, others had left . . . and returned. The Great Council was reconvening in the morrow. This meeting would mark another first, for no where was it recorded that the Great Council had met other than during a solstice or equinox. Granted, not all of the Council had left Castle Britannia. Annon could conduct Britain's affairs from within its walls, and Felespar entrusted Judge Dryden to represent his interests back in Yew. The others Blackthorn had sent back to their towns.

Now the councilors had returned. Indeed, as the Black Company headed for the stables, their ranks broke around the figures of Felespar and Hassad. The councilor from Yew led Hassad around puddles deep enough to submerge one's ankle. Snow had surrendered to rain early this year, leaving behind swaths of slick mud. And by the smell of it, the gray sky would soon yield another storm.

Hassad extended his hand when they reached him. "Lord Blackthorn, 'tis good to see thee again."

"Hassad, as full of wit as ever." Blackthorn fondly grasped the hand of the blind mage. "I am glad that thy trip has seen thee here safely. I have missed thy counsel."

The councilor from Skara Brae chuckled. "Thou wilt have more than enough of our counsel in the upcoming weeks, I fear. Most of the councilors intend to stay through the coming of spring."

"That, I do not agree with," Blackthorn said. "The Councilors should return to their respective towns as soon as possible. They cannot help their people from here."

Felespar uttered a disgruntled oath. "With the exception of Skara Brae, Britain, and Yew, the Councilors do not seem to be helping their towns at all. There is unrest, and the other councilors do little to quell it. If not for the Black Company—"

"We need not discuss that now," Blackthorn said, severely. "The leaders of the Black Company and I will attend to those matters tomorrow."

"As will the Great Council," said Dryden, and Blackthorn could not mistake the sardonic undertone with which he spoke the name. "For surely that is why they arrive, is it not?" The judge directed question at Felespar.

The councilor met the judge's stern eyes with his own. "Thou dost know as much as I, Dryden. Windemere summoned the meeting. I would have ignored his insistence, had I not already been here. Others would have, too. Four meetings in one year are quite enough. We certainly do not relish the thought of being here for a fifth. But Malifora's message . . ." His words softened, and he would not speak.

Hassad finished for the councilor. "I sensed a great fear in her correspondence," he said.

"She hath said nothing while she has been here," Dryden noted.

"Still, she is afraid," said the mage. "Of what, I cannot say. I do not know. And I am certain that, oddly, neither does she. Not yet. But her fear is what brings the councilors together."

"Save for Windemere," Dryden said, not bothering to hide his contempt.

"His ships have arrived, nearly a fleet of them," Felespar said to Blackthorn. "Thy captain, Suturb, shall escort him back to the castle, as per thy instruction. In the meantime, we must prepare. At least, I must, and probably with drink. The heavens only know what tirade Windemere will bring with him this night."

Blackthorn thought of the comets, soon to appear in the approaching dusk. "The heavens, indeed," he whispered to himself.

Nerves were tense by the ring of stones. "I do not like it here," Dryden commented, hunched over a fire he and several others had built for lack of anything better to do. "Why is it that we travel to Jhelom? The Black Company could have convened in Britain."

"'Twas Suturb's idea," Blackthorn answered, wondering when the Captain would meet up with them. "He sought an escape from the tedium of Britain's politics for a few days. And I agreed." He inhaled deeply. "I, too, needed a breath of Britannia's countryside to clear my thoughts."

"So long as the countryside leaves us alone," Dryden muttered, tightening his cloak about his shoulders. The flames cast his face in a gaunt, orange mask. "We are too out in the open. Too exposed."

The judge might have been right. "Trolls," Suturb said with disgust when he finally appeared. He dropped a crude axe to the ground, blade rusty red. "I found a campfire not far from here, and the remains of a merchant or two. My guess is that the trolls wait to ambush those who come through the gate." At the mention of an ambush outside the moongate, Blackthorn could feel Dryden's gaze pierce him. Still, he did not look up. "'Tis no wonder why trade and travel are so feared these days."

"Didst thou learn anything from the Councilor?" Blackthorn said, quickly changing the subject.

"Windemere was silent, my Lord. He would not speak of the Council's business to me."

"As expected." A glimmer of light caught Blackthorn's eye. "Stand back!" he warned. "Keep away from the stones until the gate materializes."

A line of brilliant light spread within the center of the stones, then rose up in a luminescent, blue curtain no wider than two men abreast, though taller than most. The air within the stones shone brilliantly, and quivered with the portal's hum.

"Moongates," Suturb said. "I do not trust them."

Most travelers did not. The magical doorways were for druids and wizards, so the stories went, and when not used properly, could leave one stranded in nothingness. Unfortunately, most in Blackthorn's current company believed such stories, even though Blackthorn had led them safely through the portals time and time again.

No traveler would appear from this particular portal, not this night, and stepping through the doorway at this hour, when Trammel was no more than a dark disc, would take them to Verity Isle, home of the mages. Hence, Blackthorn and the others awaited the rising of the second moon, Felucca, which would be half-full and waxing this night. Once that moon was closer to mid-heaven than Trammel, the destination of the gate would mysteriously change to a second island, this one in southwest Britannia.

At the appropriate hour, Blackthorn mounted Virtue, and ordered his men to follow him into the blazing doorway. A brilliant, azure flash, and then he was through the gate, galloping across the perimeter of a second ring of stones. The air was much warmer, without rain, and the moons hung like crystalline shards in the clear night sky, sisters to the three comets. A marsh spread to the southeast, coating the breeze with a salty tang, filling the winds with the chatter of midnight creatures. Where once plains had stretched to the north, the waves of the ocean shimmered in the night.

He waited for the others to arrive. First Dryden, then Suturb, then the rest of the men, one by one, materialized through the second gate. Their steeds whinnied and stamped and shook their manes. "That, I shall never get used to," Suturb muttered, soothing his stallion. "Let us leave this place."

They rode northwest along the coastline, toward the lights of a city set where the foothills of the western mountains flattened to join the sea. The giant walls and towers of Jhelom, the City of Valor, the home of Britannia's fiercest fighters, emerged against the night sky. Even at this late hour, the city teamed with life. Shouts, music, jovial laughter, and the clanks of mugs echoed over its walls. The gates were flung wide, and a captain of the Black Company rode forth to greet them.

"Lord Blackthorn. Judge Dryden. Captain Suturb." The giant of a man greeted them each in turn, his grin as wide as the half-moon above. Shaggy, red hair fell from beneath an iron helm spiked with what he claimed were the fangs of a dragon.

"Captain Ghaland," Blackthorn said, dismounting. "I see that thou art alone. Where are thy men?"

"Busy this night," Ghaland laughed. "Traveling from pub to pub, making a vain attempt to keep order. Folks seem to be at each other's throats, more so than usual. Already one drunken duel has resulted in a death. We hope to prevent another . . . Drunken duel, that is. We cannot abide a sloppy fight!" He guffawed. "Come! I will take you to The Sword and Keg where the other captains of the Black Company have convened. There thou mayest relax with a drink. And I have had my friend, Gremnor, reserve the finest quarters for thee at The Warrior's Stead."

Ghaland led Blackthorn and his companions down the main thoroughfare. Light, music, laughter, and song spilled into the street from many an open window and door—that is, until the Black Company passed before the establishment. Though the music and song never completely silenced, the laughter often did, replaced by hushed and heated discussion, and at least one discussion erupted into an argument, ending with a fistfight by the sound of it. Revelers who stumbled by were quick to quiet their din, and many openly glared at the company.

Captain Suturb spoke what Blackthorn felt. "There is much malevolence in the air. Even the shadows seem to glare at me." He shook his head, staring back at a beggar who shook his fist at them after they had refused to give him a coin.

Matters were no better within the tavern of The Sword and Keg. The other five leaders of the Black Company sat around a single table in the corner of the tavern, isolated from the other patrons by a separate ring of empty tables. At Blackthorn and his companions' entrance, the barkeep looked up, distaste clearly engraved in her frown. "More of thee tonight, eh?" She threw down the rag with which she had been cleaning a mug. "Well, make thy patronage quick, and be gone so that my other customers will come back! Thy kind is not welcome here!"

Through the haze of smoke and reek of ale, Blackthorn saw Ghaland's face flare bright as his beard, even as those around the barmaid echoed her sentiments. "Art thou mad, Nicole?" Ghaland yelled. "Dost thou not know who thou dost address?"

"I see nothing but strangers dressed like them." She pointed at those of the Black Company who were seated in the corner. Was it Blackthorn's imagination, or had the air in the tavern truly darkened? He heard the barmaid shout, but as if from afar. "And they have driven my patrons away."

"They have done nothing," Ghaland protested. His features darkened.

As did hers, or again, was it the light? "Their presence is enough. And they refuse to leave!"

"Again, thou dost not know who it is that thou dost address!" Ghaland seemed to leap forward, though his pace was only quicker than a walk. A buzz like a thousand insects swarmed in Blackthorn's ears, and the stink of swollen corpses replaced that of aged ale.

Before the Captain could reach Nicole, one of the fighters near the bar stepped forward. "I know to whom it is she speaks," said he, a knight from The Order of the Silver Serpent. "'Tis Blackthorn, he who gave himself the throne!" He directed his scowl at Blackthorn, his movements slow and liquid. Blackthorn could feel the air upon his own skin. Like oil. "Is that not true, my Lord?" the knight challenged Blackthorn. "Thou hast proclaimed thyself as the heir to the throne, hast thou not? And thou hast done naught but sit upon that throne. 'Tis the Great Council and the local civilities who seem to rule these days, and they have done naught but bicker over what is to be done."

This time it was Captain Suturb who spoke, now standing at Blackthorn's side. "Say no more!" he commanded, hand going to his sword.

The knight's gaze, locked on Blackthorn, was as defiant as his tongue. "I take commands from one person only," he sneered. "My oath belongs to Lord Malone of Serpent's Hold, head of my order and a true leader. 'Tis he who deserves to inherit the throne, for he is a man of deeds, not words, and certainly not some pet of a fallen king."

Suturb's blade left his sheath. "In the name of Valor, and in the name of Jhelom, I challenge thy words!" he cried. Men scattered. Nicole's mug shattered when it hit the floor, thunder amidst chaos.

The hand that stayed Suturb's stroke was Blackthorn's own. "Captain!" he heard himself cry. "Put down thy weapon! This man has done naught but state his beliefs!"

Light returned. The shadow that had seemed to cloak the tavern retreated with the whisper of a dying man exhaling his final breath. Suturb's eyes, alight and wide with fury, blinked and dimmed. He looked at the sword he held aloft with confusion. "My Lord?" he asked, perplexed.

The rest of the tavern shared his confusion. "Lord Blackthorn," Nicole said with a deft curtsey. "I apologize for what I have said. I do not know what came over me." She bit her lip as if that might still her trembles. "Thou art welcome here, of course, as are thy men."

Suturb sheathed his sword, and bent to one knee. "My Lord, I apologize for my actions. I will accept thy reprisal."

"There is no need, Suturb. Thou wert valiantly defending our honor. Go and join the others. I will be there shortly." Suturb nodded and followed Dryden, Ghaland, and the rest of Blackthorn's guard to the empty tables. Like Suturb, Ghaland and the other men appeared perplexed by what had just happened. Only Dryden was calm, and thoughtful.

Blackthorn turned to face the knight. Unlike the others around the bar, all of who seemed to be adamantly debating about what, exactly, had just transpired, the knight showed no signs of confusion. His gaze remained resolute.

"I admire thy loyalty, Knight," Blackthorn said, softly, "but remember: Though 'tis Lord Malone who is thy leader, 'tis Lord British who is thy Liege."

"Lord British is lost. His expedition has been slain. 'Tis Lord Malone who should rule."

Blackthorn nearly slit the knight's throat then and there, so confident was his proclamation. Instead, Blackthorn simply cut at him with words, loud enough to draw the attention of those at the bar. "Believe what thou dost will," Blackthorn said to the knight. "Thou mayest even announce it to all who care to hear. But I warn thee, never act upon it, else I assure thee, thou wilt stand trial before thine order—for 'tis a man's deeds, not his words, that break the law. Lord Malone knows this as well as I. He will not rule in thy favor, even if his heart deems otherwise." Sweat formed beneath the rim of the knight's helm. In that single bead, Blackthorn could see himself, eyes drawn to slit. He hissed his final words. "And rest assured, Knight, that I will be there when thine order hangs thee for treason."

The knight wavered. Blackthorn swept a final, menacing gaze over those who had overheard him. They shrank back, all but one, an elderly gentleman who sat alone at his table, scribbling upon a slew of parchments. He peered directly at Blackthorn, the hood of his cloak shrouding the burned ruin that marked the right half of his face.

He nodded his approval, and returned to his writing.

"'Tis all that my men can do to keep the peace in Trinsic some days," Veribed, the knightly captain from Trinsic agreed. "And ironically, my men have become despised, distrusted, and feared because of it."

Had it not been for the morning sun through the window, a pall certainly would have shrouded the chamber of the tower. Already it ensnared Blackthorn's mood. With the exception of the reports from Skara Brae and Yew, the intelligence from the captains of the Black Company was all the same.

He did not face his subordinates. Instead he peered out the window. Beneath a clear blue sky, the ocean around the Valorian Isles shimmered crystalline, serene, calm. So unlike Britannia, he thought. He, like the others, had caught wind of the story, about how Lord British had been imprisoned within the Underworld. Why this rumor had grown and others had not, no one could explain. "And what news is there of those who wish to succeed our supposedly captive King?" Blackthorn asked.

"Only talk, my Lord," said Ghaland. "As thou canst tell, a significant number of fighters and paladins have renewed their cries for Lord Malone to take his rule to Castle Britannia. Just as many others have rallied around Sir Simon. One cannot walk through the town center without hearing someone claim 'tis time for a new monarch." He faltered, as if regretting that last statement. Perhaps he had seen Blackthorn's fist clench. "As I said, my Lord, 'tis only talk. No action has been taken."

"Not against the throne, at least." This from Captain Kayden of Skara Brae. "Though the different factions are already at each other throats from what I hear. Half the duels last night were over the honor of Lord Malone or Sir Simon. And hath not the Black Company been openly attacked in Minoc for similar reasons?"

"A rather boisterous demonstration was held before the barracks one day, but nothing more." The voice of Minoc's captain, Lady Guinere, was as rich and throaty as her looks. "When they became obnoxious, they w