"And what proof didst thou have of this? None that thou didst care to show us. Yet still thou didst imprison one of us. And with thee were our own kin—mages—but only those who practice spells and rituals so dark and dangerous that they defy our laws of conduct—laws that thou didst once extol." The Councilor's voice sounded louder, angrier. Or so Blackthorn thought. He could not be certain, not with his heart, his anger, screaming in his ears. "Canst thou truly blame my peers for their actions? Thou didst act outside the law. Why not they?"

"Because I am King!" Blackthorn roared, standing up and throwing back his cloak. His hand went to his sword.

"A KING OF BRITANNIA!" Hassad's pronouncement threw Blackthorn back into his chair. 'Twas the Councilor who now stood, nearly as tall as the chamber itself, the aura of the torches glorious around his shoulders and wisps of hair. He leaned over, his robes blazing white, shedding the room of its shadows. Yet all that paled to the light in his eye, which bore into the Regent, so much that Blackthorn had to avert his gaze. "And a King of Britannia is no monarch!" The Councilor's words were thunder. "He is an advisor, a counselor—a Father!—to his people! He listens to them, he protects them, he nurtures them; but never, ever does he rule them!" And suddenly Hassad's voice resumed its normal, reassuring softness. "That, thou hast forgotten. That, Windemere forgot. And now we are here."

Blackthorn opened his eyes. 'Twas as if Hassad had never moved. The mage sat as he had before Blackthorn had sprung to his feet. "If it makes any difference to thee," Hassad said, "I asked my peers to wait for thy return before releasing Windmere, to at least hear thy counsel. All but Felespar and Malifora would not listen. And when they heard the Black Company was coming for them—" His sigh diminished his stature even more. "They had no choice but to flee. The Black Company listens to only one man."

"No, not just one," Blackthorn whispered to himself. The signature blazed in his mind.

Hassad nodded. "There is a great Evil in Britannia. We have all felt it to a certain extent, lurking out there, unseen, yet affecting every one of us—filling us with distrust, trepidation, and malice. Malifora was the only one truly aware of it, but even she, I think, managed to blind herself with wishful hope. Now it is too late. Whatever this Evil may be, we cannot fight it separated. We cannot fight it alone." His gaze was gentle. "Though some of us are already trying."

Blackthorn rose and clasped the mage's frail hand. "And I fear that fight must end tonight." He strode away from Hassad, drawing the hilt of his sword free from its scabbard. Before he left, he paused. "Go, my friend," he said, without looking back. "Flee this place whilst thou can. But I warn thee, I will track thee down, should I need to find thee."

"I would expect nothing less from Britannia's finest," said his friend.

When Blackthorn did look over his shoulder, the shackles lay on the table. The mage was gone, the room . . .

. . . empty, as the boy Blackthorn had expected when he opened the door to the cottage.

"Where is thy father?" the Captain of Yew asked quietly.

"I will find him," the boy answered, and went into the main room. Breakfast had been cleaned, the floor swept. On the table rested eight cards, all spread in a fan. The boy absently touched one. He looked down. The face of Justice.

"There is no hurry," Shaana's father said. He still stood outside. "I will be here." With that, he gently shut the front door. Blackthorn left the cottage through the back.