Windemere, his long, silver hair dancing with motes of reflected torchlight, calmly picked up the parchment that Blackthorn had tossed at him, and read only a few lines before he returned it. "'Tis the journal kept by Remoh, scribe to Lord British, during their journey into the Underworld." His gaze at Blackthorn was of malice. "One wonders how thou didst come by a copy."

That had been Saduj's doing, but Windemere and the others need not know that. "Thou hast possessed the journal for nearly a month, and thou didst not tell us!"

"A month?" said Felepsar, his crooked smile appearing. He addressed Windemere. "Odd. Thou didst tell the Council that the knight who carried this had washed up upon thy shores but a week ago." The mage's gaze darted back and forth between Windmere and Blackthorn, judging and assessing. The other Councilors were just as wary, save for Hassad, who listened intently.

"I spoke the truth," Windemere answered Felespar. "As soon as I learned of the knight's identity, I summoned this Council and brought the journal here."

"Thou dost speak lies, Windemere," Blackthorn snarled, striding toward the Councilor. "I have had thee watched, and I have learned that thou didst keep the girl and the journal secret for a month while thou didst plot and scheme to slay the Regent of Britannia on the very day that thou wouldst reveal to the world that Lord British had been lost." Now he confronted the hawkish Councilor face to face, his eyes but inches from the Windemere's. "Without a monarch, the rule of this land would have fallen to thee and thy colleagues here in the Great Council, which is what thou hast wanted for some time, is it not?"

"My Lord," said the voice of Fiona from behind, "think of what thou art saying! Even if thy life had been forfeit, this Great Council would have raised a new monarch, either Sir Simon or Lord Malone, to be certain."

"Only if Sir Simon and Lord Malone lived to see that day," Blackthorn said, still confronting the Councilor from New Magincia. "When didst thou plan to eliminate them, Windemere? Or didst thou think that they would be in the tower in Jhelom? If so, thou wert wrong." His breath came in heavy, uneven rasps.

Windemere never blinked, and his next words were quiet, and, it seemed, of affirmation. "Thou art mad."

The Councilor's body slammed against the wall, held nearly a foot off the ground by Blackthorn himself, his hand wrapped around Windemere's throat. The Councilor's staff clattered to the floor. The air in the chamber suddenly howled, slamming shut the great doors, dousing several of the torches. "And thou art a traitor," Blackthorn hissed at Windemere. He tightened his grip. The Councilor's neck felt soft, brittle.

"This has gone far enough!" Annon shouted, and from the corner of his eye, Blackthorn noticed the grave wizard raising his staff.

In a single, swift motion, Blackthorn's free hand went to his pouch, drew forth a black pearl covered in sulphurous ash, and cast it at Annon. "Vas Flam," he murmured. Energy radiated through him into the pearl. It burst forth into flame, soared across the chamber in a fiery missle, and detonated against the Councilor's chest, loud enough that even Sindar awoke with a start. Annon fell to the ground, yet the shadow he cast against the wall continued to grow.