With Windemere's response effectively cut off, Blackthorn continued. "Should I assume the Regency, it will be the Great Council alone that will provide the rules of law. If thou dost write a law, I will sign it. I will not question it; I will not veto it. I swear that I will hold no power over thee." He indicated the blade he had just thrown. "My sword, as they say, will be thine." Again, he leaned forward, hands planted firmly on the great table. "But make no mistake, no matter what is decided, 'tis Lord British who still rules this land. If I even hear of someone acting on his desire to replace His Majesty, I will brand him a traitor, and I will have the Black Company hunt him down."

With that, he left, but not before tossing his empty scabbard across the table so that it could join the sword that lay gleaming at Windemere's feet.

Snow misted the halos cast by the brazier perched upon the parapet of Castle Britannia. The moons had shifted in their westward arc, the orb Felucca closer to the apex than her sister, Trammel. They and the comets showered the night with light, and the snow-capped fields and hills of Britain shimmered like a white sea. The sea itself rested in darkness beyond the lanterns of Britain and the Britannys, but its scent, even this far away, was strong upon the chill wind. Occasionally, a voice echoed above the wind, other times the bark of a dog, some times the music of a pub.

More than an hour had passed since Blackthorn had left the chamber of the Council, or so he judged by the moons. He seemed to have fallen asleep as soon as he had left, and awoke to find himself standing here by one of the snow-covered cannons, the key in his hand.

He slowly unfolded his fingers. The key glimmered with gold, the Great Earth Serpent engraved in silver on one side of its handle, the symbol of the Codex upon the other. Lord British had entrusted him with it. No one else knew of it. He only knew of one other that existed. That one, he believed, now dwelled in the Underworld, lost with its owner.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he closed his fingers around the key, and concealed it in the pouch at his belt. Two figures shuffled up the parapet toward him, both wrapped tightly in furs, breath frosting in plumes from their hoods. Felespar guided Hassad by the crook of the blind mage's elbow until they stood next to Blackthorn. "I thought we might find thee here," Hassad said. "I must admit, I have not been up here before. Is the view lovely?"

Felespar grinned. "Not when it is dark, you old fool." He addressed Blackthorn. "I believe thou didst leave something behind."

With hands shivering from the cold, Hassad held up the scabbard that Blackthorn had tossed at Windemere. The jewels upon the golden hilt glinted. "Of course," Blackthorn said, "I had almost forgotten." Felespar laughed at this while Blackthorn took the sword. A brief gleam of moonlight shown as he slid the blade from the scabbard, inspected it, then slapped it back into place. "Did the Council make a decision?"

Felespar chortled. "I did not realize thou hadst left us with a decision to make." He tapped Blackthorn's sword with his staff. "Thou didst make it very clear as to what thou didst believe ought to be done."

"The choice was still thine," said Blackthorn. He buckled the scabbard to his belt, next to the pouch in which the entrusted key rested. "Assuming a choice has been made."

Hassad nodded. "The Great Council shall issue a decree to the general populace that His Majesty, Lord British, is believed to be alive, and hence, is still the rightful ruler of Britannia. Lord Blackthorn, as Regent, shall assume the responsibilities of the crown during His Majesty's absence."

"And was this a unanimous decision by the Council?" Blackthorn asked.