With Laveth recovering in childbed, Ranald turned his energies to the reconstruction of Open Court. All documents kept by his grandfather, Revel the Fair, had been lost and Rand the Rash hadn’t bothered with records. With only memory to guide him, Ranald recalled that it had been held twice a year, once before spring moon and once after harvest, and in the Great Throne Room. A slim beginning, but even so the great doors opened.

            In the spring, the Warrior sprawled on his throne, a just and happy man.

            In autumn, the doors ground open to startling changes. The great hall was a hushed and darkened room. Thick draperies covered the casements while fat candles sputtered and burned in the brackets along the walls. Ranald sat cushioned on his throne, pale and shaking while Elymas, ever solicitous, hovered nearby with a chalice. The Warrior drank sparingly and judged fairly but it was clear to the people who came from the fens, the mountains, the stinking fishing villages, that the scepter was held by a dying man.