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."