The candle wavered, nearly went out, as a chill wind seemed to sweep through Blackthorn. "He escaped?" He barely managed to form the words.

"The Great Council released him."

In the window, Blackthorn watched his own eyes slowly draw to angered slits. His jaw trembled, so tightly clenched were his teeth. "Why would they do this?" Not words this time, growls from the depths of his throat.

Whitelock continued to speak, each sentence seeming to bring one more crease of anger to Blackthorn's brow. "The Great Council did not find it fitting that one of their own be held prisoner without trial. They released him yesterday, and bid him to flee to his home before thou didst return." Whitelock drew away. "This has gone on long, enough, my Lord. The time has come. Let the world know what it means to defy thee."

'Twas the last he had seen of the scribe. The next morning, under Blackthorn's order, Whitelock had been sent back to Britain to deal with the Great Council while he, Lord Malone, and Sir Simon planned the siege of Windemere's island fortress. Despite seemingly overwhelming odds against victory, Lord Malone had been more than eager to join the fight; Sir Simon had expressed caution, just as he did now.

"'Twas a stroke of luck that the maelstrom appeared," he said, grasping a rafter to steady himself as the frigate rocked again. Yes, a stroke of luck, Blackthorn thought. He found his gaze lingering on the corner where had seen . . . Seen what? Something had been there, had it not? "It has cut us off from Windemere's western forces," informed Sir Simon. "We may still have time to retreat."

"Retreat?" Lord Malone scoffed. "Their victory is hardly assured."

"Thy courage is formidable," said Sir Simon, "but we knew from the beginning that we could not hope to defeat Windemere's navy. That is why we sent the captains and crews a courier who said they would be offered a reward as well as immunity if they did not fire upon us."

"And they agreed to the terms," said Lord Malone. "Yet upon our approach, they attacked."

Sir Simon shook his head, sadly. "I, too, am surprised by their treachery. I thought them more loyal to gold and land than to Windemere. Perhaps if we speak with them another time—"

"There will not be another time," said Blackthorn.

"But how, my Lord?" said the knight from Bordermarch. "We cannot break through their navy, and even if we did, how can we possibly assault the Keep? 'Tis guarded by cliffs and peaks. Granted, thou art well prepared." He indicated the sheaths of parchments on Blackthorn's desk, detailed maps of the island, its shores, the Keep's defenses, even a detailed map of the Keep itself. Whitelock had been busy collecting information from his sources. "Even with all this information, 'twould take an army to invade this island, an army we do not have. Our mission was of negotiation, not war."

Blackthorn's voice was soft. "I am through negotiating with traitors."

With that, the thunder of the frigate's canons erupted from below decks, followed by the cheers of the crew.

"Thou art attacking?" Sir Simon said, aghast. "My Lord, we cannot possibly win this battle. And what of the maelstrom?"

The oil lamp guttered fiercely with a sudden swell of the frigate. Both knights had to grasp the desk for support. Blackthorn, however, stood. "The maelstrom is not a threat," he said, uncertain as to why he was so confident that they would not be harmed. "As for us being outnumbered, there is more than one way to sink an enemy ship."