"And yet, thou still hast yet to figure out how to find me." Within the mirror, the scribe sat hunched at the desk, one hand twirling a quill pen, the burns and scars of his wounded face illuminated by the chamber's light, the uninjured half buried in shadow, save where eye and teeth gleamed. "I had expected better of thee, my boy." The last of the parchments settled at his feet; its corner unfurled, revealing Whitelock's signature.

'Twas accomplished in one, fluid movement—Blackthorn leapt back away from the mirror, spun in midair. His cape spiraling out from him in a dark, velvet disk, followed by the metallic flash of his blade. The sword drew down across the scribe's chest, whispered when it seared cloth and flesh. Blackthorn landed in a crouch, sword postured to the right and behind him, its tip upon the floor. His cape settled over his outstretched arm.

It took a moment for the blood to flow. A thin line at first, then ever so wider. The scribe peered down, and with the quill, touched the center of the diagonal slash that stretched from shoulder to heart to waist. He brought the pen up. Blood spotted its feathers, a few droplets at most. The cut had barely scratched him. "Impressive," the scribe said. "Thou truly art skilled with the blade, but sadly—" He flicked the blood from the quill—"it only shows that thou art still unaware with whom thou art dealing."

Blackthorn rose, threw back his shoulders, and placed the tip of the sword a hair's breadth from Whitelock's sternum. "Thou didst betray me," Blackthorn said, slowly, carefully. "Thou hast been working with Windemere, scheming against me."

"Please," Whitelock scoffed. "I have done nothing but serve thee. 'Tis Windemere and the Great Council who have perished, and with them gone, the rule of Britannia falls to thee." He indicated the bed. Upon it rested Lord British's crown, in the exact spot Blackthorn had found it months before. "Admittedly, it took some time to reclaim it from the jester," the scribe said. "Thou wert wise to place it in his keeping. As I mentioned before, he is far more clever than he looks. I have yet to discern what he has done with the scepter." He shrugged. "Still, 'tis only a matter of time before we find it, and then the Crown Jewels will be thine, as will the power of rule for which they stand."

Somehow Blackthorn's sword remained steady despite the quivering of his hands. "I never wanted them," he said, hollowly.

"Spare me the abnegation," Whitelock snarled. "If some part of thee had not wanted this, then thou wouldst not have brought me into this." He brushed aside Blackthorn's sword with the quill—'twas as if the pen were a blade in itself. "'Twas not I who first formed the Black Company to bring order to this realm, nor I who first consulted with the Flain. Yes, the archmage might have suspected that I was with thee at the time, that our bond was growing, but 'twas thee and thee alone who first approached him, who studied with him and forged an alliance with the dark mages in secret. And 'twas not I who placed spies within Windemere's court or backstabbers within his navy, nor I who did the same in all levels of Britannia's government. All of that was done by thee, was it not?"

Yes, he done those things. Only to counter the unscrupulous, though, and to provide a balance to the Great Council's power. As for his other sins. . . . "I would not have framed Suturb, a man who had been like a brother to me," Blackthorn hissed. "Nor would I have had my finest captains slain in Jhelom to set up Windemere."

"At the time, no," Whitelock said, his one eye looking down. He seemed to be talking to himself more than Blackthorn. "I fear I had to shoulder those burdens, as well as others that thou hast yet to discover, but nevertheless, thou wert certainly quick to allow Suturb fall to his death, wert thou not?" He snapped his head up, trapped Blackthorn in a serpent-like gaze. "And thou wert quick to take Windemere's head!"

"Only because of what thou hadst the Councilor do!" Blackthorn cried.