By the ninth hour of the night, the private bedchamber of King Alden IV had been transformed into an extraordinary court of lawful row. Four heavy oak desks had been moved in from the private library, their surfaces lit up by six brass branch-candelabras that cast a warm, golden glow across the dark velvet tapestries.
Around the bed stood the four highest officers of the realm: Chief Justice Lord Maren, Master of the Rolls Lord Jonathan Cole, High Chancellor Lord Henry Cole of the Parliament, and Keeper of the Privy Seal Master Ronald Vance. Beside the cedar table stood Tomas Reed, Hester Quill, and Nessa Vale, representing the Forty-Eight Parishes and the commoner guilds.
King Alden IV was propped high against four goose-feather pillows, a thick wool mantle draped across his frail shoulders. Though his voice remained a raspy whisper, his mind was lucid, focused with the fierce clarity of a dying monarch who knows his hours are measured in drops of animal fat.
“Write, Master of the Rolls,” the King commanded, his eyes fixed on the blank sheet of royal sheepskin spread before Lord Cole.
The goose quill scratched across the thick parchment with a rapid, rhythmic hiss that filled the silent bedchamber:
