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 . . .

* * *

The crowd which spanned the green sounded with vigorous applause as Blackthorn knelt before his Majesty, Lord British, who stood with the others upon the podium. For a moment, Blackthorn had to steady himself as a wave of disorientation washed over him along with the clamor of the crowd. He did not know where he was, or how he had arrived. Neither did he understand why his green robes had been replaced with black, boiled leather. And the Lord Mayor, his father, where was he?