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.

The arm that slipped around his waist and guided him back to Britannia belonged to Shaana. "Too much to drink, my Lord?" she asked, amused. "Or dost thou often leave thy own celebrations to stare off into the night?" She touched his brow, and gasped. "Thou art as cold as ice."