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!"