"Others speak of backing Sir Simon," Sindar added. His laconic gaze settled on Windemere as he said this, then he closed his eyes, and leaned back in his seat, expression serene.

"Lord Simon, yes," Goeth murmured. "Support for him, too." The rest of his speech was unintelligible, and trickled off into silence. Trust the fighters of Jhelom, Blackthorn remembered Felespar saying, to insult the mages of the Council by electing one who is crazed.

Malifora, the gypsy soothsayer from Moonglow, interrupted his thoughts, her voice melodious and sorrowful. "The fractures have appeared. Unless we take action, they will continue to grow, and the jewel that is Britannia will shatter." Her words, as always, bore the aura of finality.

Windemere shook his head forcefully. "That, I will not believe. Give the citizens of Britannia a chance to see that the Great Council, their own representatives, can govern on its own, and they will see reason, I am certain of it."

"Reason?" Felespar laughed in disgust. "Really, thou dost give them too much credit. People are creatures of habit, and hence, tradition, and the tradition of Britannia's government is a ruling monarch, and has been for centuries. Thou canst not simply erase that from the hearts and minds of the people. Should we decide to dispose of the monarch, those we represent will simply try to replace him. The answer is simple, Windemere: Invoke the clause of the Regent. Blackthorn shall rule in Lord British's stead, as was deemed by His Majesty on the day of the Summer Solstice, and we will not need to worry about petty rebellions."

Fury ignited within Windemere, and the shadows around the Councilor, those cast by the seated forms of Annon, Malifora, and Goeth, suddenly seemed to grow deeper in the blaze that was his anger. "And what makes thee think that the citizens of Britannia will unite behind Blackthorn?" he nearly shouted. "There are those that oppose his rule, as well!" He leaned over the trembling shoulders of Goeth, his voice now quiet and with purpose. "I ask this: Why choose Blackthorn over Lord Malone?" He then addressed Annon. "Or Lord Michael of the Empeth Abbey, for that matter?" And at last, he confronted Malifora, whose crystalline eyes were cold. "Or Lord Shalineth of the Lycaeum?" He slammed the tip of his serpentine staff on the floor. "Even if Blackthorn is chosen, there will be rebellion."

"Enough of this!" Blackthorn's command thundered across the chamber, and perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed to him that the torches flared when he spoke, and the shadows within the room recoiled. "Thou dost speak as if I am not here, and I did not ride all the way from Yew to be dismissed. Nor did I ride here to listen to thee squabble over who is to rule Britannia. That is not a question. 'Tis Lord British who rules Britannia, and no one else. Not I, and not this Council, not until we know what has happened to our king."

Windemere was the first to recover from Blackthorn's outburst. "And what is it that thou dost suggest we do? We cannot simply sit back and wait for our king to return from the Underworld."

"But we can decree that he still lives and hence is still the rightful ruler of Britannia. In the meantime, the Companions will continue their search, the Great Council will invoke the clause of Regent, and I will assume Lord British's responsibilities while he is absent."

Windemere drew his breath to retaliate, but the hiss that echoed across the chamber was Blackthorn drawing his sword. The jewels upon its golden hilt burst with light as he hurled it across the room. Blade and hilt spun like an opulent disc, parallel to the table, before the sword dropped and clattered harmlessly to the floor at the hem of Windemere's robes. The Councilor stared at it.