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looking for Northmen or wolves or any kind of enemy!” Pontswain’s voice quavered with outrage. “Am I to be blamedbecause the invaders did not challenge my lands?”
    Several of the lords looked convinced, while others, such as Fergus and Dynnatt, scowled in obvious disgust.
    “In any event,” concluded Lord Pontswain, “your immaturity leaves little option for this council. Our king must be a man of steadiness, intelligence, and responsibility. I am clearly your better in those respects.”
    “Perhaps,” said Friar Nolan, speaking for the first time. “And perhaps not.” The cleric stood, and all of the lords waited patiently for him to speak. Though most of them did not actively worship the new gods of the devout cleric, Friar Nolan was regarded by them all with respect and a little awe. After all, his potent healing magic had benefited more than one of them.
    “It seems to me that you are all in too much of a hurry to make a decision. You have a ruler above yourselves, above even your king. Turn to him for guidance in this most critical decision. Allow the High King to determine which of these men shall become your king!”
    “I cannot object strongly enough,” growled Pontswain.
    Fergus leaped to his feet, a smile lifting his broad mustache. “I, for one, like the friar’s suggestion. Let the High King choose between them.”
    “Indeed!” chorused Koart. “Let the High King decide!”
    A chorus of assents rumbled from the lords, and Tristan and Pontswain exchanged a sudden, challenging look. The prince looked back to the lords, unable to read the emotion in Pontswain’s dark, confident gaze.
    “I shall journey to Caer Callidyrr to petition the king for the throne of Corwell,” Tristan said calmly.
    “And I shall accompany you—and win that approval!” boasted the lord.
    “Decided!” mumbled Galric, lurching drunkenly to his feet and raising his mug. “Let the High King choose!”

    Once again the Council of Seven sat around their U-shaped table. Seven candles illuminated the large circular chamber. Its bleak stonewalls were covered in several places by plush tapestries—abstract designs with crimson streaks of color flowing like blood across the velvet.
    Cyndre sat at the base of the U. His voice, pleasant and conversational as always, floated through the chamber. He spoke to the wizard sitting at his right hand.
    “Alexei? I sense reluctance as you hear our plans.”
    “We could be mistaken in using the assassin so readily. I fear he is not to be trusted—that fat cleric could be using us to further his own ends!” the one called Alexei answered.
    “How dare you challenge the decision of our master!” interrupted the wizard seated to Cyndre’s left. His sharp voice emerged from a black robe. He looked identical to all of the others present, except that he allowed himself the conceit of a small diamond brooch upon his shoulder. His fingers, nervously drumming the tabletop, glittered with a sparkling array of diamond rings.
    “Now, Kryphon,” countered Cyndre. “Please keep the discussion on a genteel level.” The master of the Seven smiled benignly. Of course, none present could see the smile within the folds of Cyndre’s robe, but they all felt it.
    “Very well,” replied Kryphon calmly. “I ask my colleague if the threat to our liege, the High King, should be ignored.”
    “Of course not,” Alexei explained. “But our only evidence of threat comes from the prophecies of this cleric of Bhaal!”
    “A very powerful cleric, of a very powerful god,” added Doric. The woman sat to Kryphon’s left. Her face, like the others, was hidden within her hood, but her voice was filled with cool arrogance. Her unnaturally long fingers tapped nervously upon the tabletop.
    “True. But I feel that we should, through our own methods, determine the veracity of his claims.”
    “Do you think that I am a fool?” Cyndre asked. “Of course I have checked, using far more accurate means than