If Blackthorn's father realized where that placed the wisps, he did not show it. "'Tis far enough. If we do not bother them, they will not bother us. We will speak no more of it. There are other matters of import." He handed Blackthorn the scroll. "Read this, my son. I would have thy thoughts."

The boy's eyes widened. "'Tis a letter written by Lord British, himself," he whispered. Shaana nearly dropped her tea.

"I have discerned that much," his father chuckled. "'Tis about what our Lord writes that I would have thine opinion." He smiled at Shaana who could not conceal her attempts to steal a glance at what Britannia's monarch had to say. "Thou mayest read it, too, Shaana. Thy father has already seen it. 'Twas delivered on the night Lady Windemere and her cohorts visited us."

Blackthorn nodded, remembering the scroll that Dryden had held when arguing with his father. Now he reviewed the words that must have inspired that discussion. Shaana leaned over his shoulder, whispering the words that she, too, read, her hair tickling his cheek.

When they finished, the boy Blackthorn reverently replaced the parchment upon the table, and Shaana returned to her side of the table, a thoughtful, yet relieved, expression upon her face. His father had taken a seat in his plush chair, elbows upon its arms, fingertips pressed together, his gazed locked on Blackthorn. "What did our Lord have to say, my son?"

Blackthorn took a deep breath. Here he was, about to interpret the words of Britannia's monarch, and he could feel the burden of the task weigh upon him. "His Majesty believes that the virtuous thing to do is to show compassion for Councilor Windemere and his family. Hence, he asks that thou dost abide by the will of the Great Council and His Majesty's own decree. He requests a reversal of the decision that thou didst make in regards to Councilor Windmere's penance. The Councilor should not be executed. Rather, the Councilor should be turned over to the Royal Guard so that they might justly imprison him for life."

"And so it should be done," murmured Dryden, who was now half finished with his second tankard of ale. "That much I have said again and again. Thou wilt certainly be tried for treason or some such nonsense if thou dost not obey their orders. Ipocrisis will see to it."

"True enough," Blackthorn's father answered. "But what orders have been given that I can disobey?" The question was directed at Blackthorn who, in turn, directed his gaze at the letter.

At last, the boy spoke. "None," he said, quietly. "The letter is not a document of command, but one of request. His Majesty may speak of Virtue, but by Britannian law, the letter holds no authority."

"No authority?" Shaana said, stunned. "'Tis the word of Lord British, himself. Shouldst not the requests of our Liege be considered demands?"

"That is, of course, the opinion of many, including Windemere's family and the Great Council," Blackthorn's father said. "Thy father even thinks the same. What dost thou think, my son?"

Blackthorn hesitated. He agreed with Shaana and Dryden, not because he believed that Lord British's word was law, but because he believed Lord British was right. Still, personal beliefs meant nothing when interpreting the law, and nor should they. "The decision to uphold Windemere's sentence is still thine, father," he said. "Lord British knows this, and though he might not agree with thine interpretation of what is virtuous, he will defend thy right to carry out the sentence."

Dryden sighed. "Children," he muttered. "'Tis more complicated than that."