Outside, sunlight fell upon the forest through a break in the rain clouds. Grass and leaf still gleamed from this morning's shower. Birdsong flowed upon the fresh, cool currents of air. Butterflies flitted alongside him as he passed the well and garden; darted away when he entered the trees.

The boy found his father kneeling before his mother's grave, just as his father had promised. His father wore the verdant robes of the Lord Mayor of Yew, the silver tabard of the Supreme Justice of Britannia. Both, it seemed, were damp, as if his father had wandered through the morning's rain, and had yet to dry. Indeed, the ground around was unusually wet. His hair, too, possessed the sheen of one who had just bathed, and when he looked up, that single lock of white hair upon his brow flashed in the sun. The boy Blackthorn absently touched his own hairline, wondering when—or if—he would inherit that odd trait. His mother had often fawned over it, had even said it had been what had first attracted her to his father.

"I know why thou art here, my son," his father said. "Each day, I have waited here, expecting thy arrival, but thou didst not show, so hope arose within me that, perhaps, we would never have to meet, that life could continue as it always had." His hands, cupped together over a rock in front of him, he lifted to his chin, and he sighed into them. "Then I heard thy footsteps upon the path and knew such hopes could not be. Justice will not allow her scales to remain unbalanced for too long."

"They are waiting for us," the boy Blackthorn said. He did know what else to say. He took a step forward—

"Stop," his father said, and the boy halted. The glade rippled. A strange, unctuous scent, one that reminded the boy of lit torches, brushed by, then was gone, a wisp upon the sudden breeze. When the glade grew still, his father spoke. "Stay there for a moment. Let me look upon thee. I fear that I have little time to do so."

The boy stood still for many minutes, gazing back at his father's solemn eyes, before he realized the elder Blackthorn was waiting for him to speak. When he did, he could think of only one thing. "Why didst thou have Windemere slain?" the boy whispered furiously.

"For thy mother, of course," his father said. "I freed Nyomae for her. I spared Windemere of a lawful execution for her. And how did his family repay her for her guidance? By desecrating her grave." His father bowed his head. "That, I could never forgive."

"She would not have wanted it to come to this," the boy Blackthorn said.

"No, she would not have," his father admitted, "and she certainly would not have allowed it. She had great insight, thy mother, perhaps from her studies at the Abbey. She told me long ago that thou wouldst not be satisfied with studying law—that thou wouldst one day pick up a sword. She called thee her blade, and I her book." His father closed his eyes, fond memories written upon his smile. "She, of course, was our light." His eyes opened, his smile faltered into a scowl. "And thou dost see what happens when the light is gone—" His features darkened—"or when it has been shrouded through desecration. So for the first time in my life, I wielded the blade. . . . Unfortunately, I did so without her light."

Uneasiness gnawed at the boy's insides, dappled his skin with sweat. He had never heard his father speak like this, the ramblings of a man who had decided to take leave of his sanity. Reason appeared to have left his father's eyes as well—they now peered unseeing, unfocused, roaming about the glade.

His father continued to speak. "I have admitted my guilt, and by doing so, if I go with thee, I shall be imprisoned for life. I would gladly accept that sentence if I thought I had more to teach thee, my son, but thou hast learned of both book and blade, and thou dost know of thy mother's light. I cannot teach thee anything more." He unfolded his right palm, held it out. It was empty. "So, I may choose to live the rest of my life within the darkness of a cell, or—"