"Blackthorn!" Sir Simon's cry was one of dismay, anger. "Thou didst know of this! Tell me, didst thou even send a courier to Windemere's fleet? Didst thou even give them a chance to surrender?"

Lord Malone had silenced his acclamations, and he slowly lowered his sword. Rain lashed at his frown. Beyond the knight, more of Windemere's frigates toppled into the sea. Flames belched. Tentacles writhed. And Blackthorn's fleet continued to shower Windemere's with cannon shells.

Blackthorn confronted Simon. "It had to be done, knight," he yelled over the wind. "We cannot allow Britannia to be divided, least of all by Windemere and the Great Council. We shall set an example with them. First, with Windemere and his Keep, then with the others!"

"But, my Lord," protested Malone, "Windemere betrayed the Council as well."

More lightning. Cracks of thunder, of splintering hulls. "And 'twas they who set the traitor free!" declared Blackthorn.

"They did not know—"

Light cut him off, cut off the world.

The wave that knocked Blackthorn and others to the deck was not one of water, but of pure force and sound. 'Twas as if every clap of thunder Blackthorn had heard throughout his life had been drawn over the island and released. It poured over the mountains, onto the ocean, and across the battle. Masts cracked. Sails ripped. The serpents wailed, the tentacles writhed, and the maelstrom churned. Blackthorn slid back across the deck, tumbled down the stairs to his cabin. He smacked against the door. His ears roared. No, 'twas still the air that rumbled—from the detonation, whatever it had been. He wiped rain from his eyes. When his vision cleared, he looked toward the north.

Whatever had happened, it had tossed the lowest layer of clouds away from the island in a gray, turbulent ring. In their place hung a mushroom of black smoke, its fiery stalk retracting upward from somewhere within the island. Based on the maps that Whitelock had sent him, Blackthorn judged the epicenter had been Windemere's Keep.

He crawled up to the deck, eyes fixated on that ghastly column of smoke that marked Windemere's home. He managed to stand, albeit with some difficulty. The air still shook.

Lord Malone was picking himself up. Beyond the knight, the battle on the sea continued. Sir Simon lay nearby, shouting something at him. "What hast thou hidden from us? What forces have we unknowingly allied ourselves with?"

Powerful magic. Dark magic. He was aware of that much, and who was responsible for it. As for the maelstrom—he did not know, but would find out. He focused on the top of the cliffs ahead, imagined himself upon it, and allowed his mind to relax, to reach out into the ethereal void as he had been taught. He reached out. Something grasped him, pulled him forward.

The world slipped around him.

Atop the cliff, the battle upon the sea was distant, silent. 'Twas peaceful here, calm. There was no rain, no wind. The lightning had stopped, as had the thunder. Just the sky and the ring of clouds. Just the cloud, the cloud of dark smoke that bloomed like a stalk of nightshade.

And them.

Three of them. Silent and shrouded, they awaited him on the opposite edge of the cliffs. Though there was no wind—not even a breeze—the rims of their dark cloaks rippled against the ground, disturbing not a single mote of dust. Through them, Blackthorn could see Windemere's Keep, remarkably intact, a fortress in a snow-caked vale.