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—"