Dryden would not be fooled. "Thou hadst this in mind all along, Lord Mayor, I am sure of it. I knew thou wert fond of the woman, Nyomae—that much was obvious, otherwise thou wouldst never have pursued Windemere in the first place—" He paused, clearly uneasy with what he had to say next. "But to go through all of this: To defy Lord British, to put the justices and the Great Council at each other's throats, to anger Windemere's family, to put thy reputation in jeopardy." He took a draught from his tankard, and licked his lips. "All of this, just to see this woman freed. Why?"

The Lord Mayor rose from his chair and walked over to the hearth. Upon the center of the mantle rested an open urn packed with soil from the grave of Blackthorn's mother. From it, a single sapling grew, that of a young Yew tree. "Why risk so much?" the Lord Mayor reiterated, brushing the leaf of the sapling with a single finger. "'Tis because of something the boy's mother once remarked to me after I had finished a trial. ‘Justice often weighs in favor of the wealthy,' she said, ‘simply because they have more gold to place upon its scales.'" He turned to face the clerk. "She was correct, Dryden. For whatever reason, we hold gold, power, and reputation over all other things, and such was the case for this trial. So involved did Britannia's folk become with the fate of their Councilor, that they simply dismissed the welfare of the woman, the commoner. Her sentence, they did not question. And 'twas not because they felt her penance virtuous or fair, 'twas because her fate simply did not matter."

Perhaps Dryden would have countered, but a horse whinnied and a voiced boomed from the front yard. "Lord Mayor! I must speak with thee!"

"That is my father," Shaana said, surprised, and hurried to the door.

Outside, her father waited with seven others of the Britannian Guard. He addressed Blackthorn's father. "I know that the woman is here, Lord Mayor. Thou must turn her over to me."

Dryden looked at the Lord Mayor in disbelief. "What art thou talking about?" he said, sharply.

As he dismounted, the captain spoke. "The woman, Nyomae, was freed this night. The jailer was knocked unconscious, nearly killed, and his keys stolen. His assailant then took her from her cell. Fortunately, whoever stole away with the girl is no huntsman. They left a trail that a child could follow." The boy Blackthorn did not know what made his heart pound worse, the accusation, the captain's cold stare, or the sword that the captain had drawn. "Where is she, Lord Mayor?"

"I can only assume that this trail of which thou dost speak led here," the Lord Mayor said, calmly.

"To the edge of thy property, yes," the captain answered.

The Lord Mayor stepped forward, frowning in defiance. "But surely not to my front door, Captain, for I speak truthfully when I say she is not inside this cottage, or when I say that I do not where she is." Now his frown was one of trepidation. "We must find her, and quickly. Art thou certain she was with another—"

The screams echoed from afar: Once, twice, shrieks of unbearable pain that cut through the chorus of the forest night. The third scream had barely begun when it, too, was cut short. Silence hung. A cricket chirped, then forest quietly sung once more.

Dryden's tankard lay shattered on the front doorstep. "That scream," he whispered. "I know it. I remember hearing it during that night at the Slaughtered Lamb."

"No," the Lord Mayor stammered. "They would not do this." With that, he sprang forward and ran around the cottage, disappearing into the forest.

"Lord Mayor!" the captain called, and followed, his men on his heels.

So, too, did Shaana and the boy Blackthorn follow the course of his father, sprinting into darkness. Northeast they ran, farther away into the forest, toward the site of his mother's grave, the light of the lamps suddenly accompanied by blue pinpoints of light that winked on in the distance, one by one, flitting and swirling among the trees—