"My father is dead, Councilor Windemere," Blackthorn finished, acidly, "as is thine. Shall we let their spirits rest this night?"

The son of the man who had been condemned by Blackthorn's father said nothing, merely bowed with a languid sweep of his arm, then obliged Blackthorn's desire to see him leave, the echo of his footsteps and the tap of his staff trailing behind.

"Damn thee," Blackthorn whispered. He did not know to whom it was he spoke: the father or son.