He approached the king's bed, a canopied affair with four ornate posts, mahogany headboards, and a wealth of heavy blankets neatly tucked and folded, as if patiently awaiting the return of their occupant. Blackthorn walked along the side of the bed, tracing the edges of the fabric with his fingers, marveling at its softness. At one time in his life he had had a bed he could call his own. How many years ago had that been? Not since he had fled Yew.

He reached over the bed and from its pillows he lifted the crown of Lord British. Before he had departed, Lord British had sent Blackthorn a message that indicated that the crown jewel could be found here. Now Blackthorn held the crown aloft, turning it. He had always wondered how it would feel. Like the hearth, it radiated warmth, pulsed with light. Jewels within gold scintillated, reflecting the chamber's gilded lamps and candelabra.

Crown held in outstretched arms, Blackthorn slowly crossed the floor to stand before the full-length mirror set in the corner of the chamber. He laughed ruefully at the man who greeted him from within the glass, taller than most, shoulders and neck broad, black beard neatly trimmed upon a stout jaw. A handsome man, or so others told him, with wavy hair thick and dark as coal, skin like a fine coat of bronze, and piercing eyes. He saw none of that. Just pale flesh, a solemn frown, and sorrow. All flayed by the lines of age. As he watched, the man lifted the crown above his head, as if ready to place it upon his brow.

"It suits thee, does it not?" a voice said. Blackthorn whirled around, crown gripped in one hand, the other going to his sword.

The elderly gentleman who sat hunched over Lord British's desk did not bother to look up. Instead, he dipped his quill in the inkwell, and continued to work on the parchment upon which he had been writing, one of many scattered across the desk, the nearby shelves, and floor. Blackthorn glanced in distaste at the mess. "I should not be surprised that I have found thee here." He relaxed his grip on the sword.

The old man shrugged. "Thou art not the only one to whom Lord British entrusted a key." As he wrote, the old man's length of thick, gray, knotted hair whispered over the parchment, and toyed with spots of ink. "His Majesty felt that someone ought to assume the position of scribe with Remoh gone." That mat of hair also obscured the man's face, but Blackthorn imagined a ruthless smile lingered upon the elder's lips as he spoke. "Who better else, than his court advisor?"

"The court jester, perhaps?"

The quill continued to write. "A devious man, that fellow. Far more observant than he lets on."

"Just like thee," said Blackthorn.

Another shrug. "'Tis my duty to be aware of things that others are not, else what worth would my advice be?"

Blackthorn approached the man, one hand rubbing the edge of Lord British's crown. "Then thou art aware that thou dost now speak with the Regent of Britannia?"

At last the writing ceased. The scribe rested the quill upon the parchment and leaned back. The enormous chair, its maroon cushions deep and plush, engulfed him. "So, the Council invoked thy right as Regent." Fingers gnarled like the limbs of Yew trees contemplatively tapped together in a pyramid. "Sooner than I would have expected. What, pray tell, didst thou say to them?"

Satisfied that he had at last received a reaction, Blackthorn told him.

"Clever," the court advisor admitted. "Lord British left a void of power when he did not invoke thy Regency. With his absence, the Great Council could have supported a third party as the inheritor to the throne, and since thou wert not Regent, it would not have been thy right to oppose it. But now thou dost have that power, not to mention the power to rule in Lord British's place. And since thou hast proclaimed that the missing monarch still lives, thou dost not even need to worry about a third party taking the throne. Very clever, indeed."