t last the bleak shore of the island hove into view, and the king's prisoners were brought up onto the deck, blinking and shivering in the cold light of day. The Isle of Despair is well-named; from the sea that mountain of black rock looms up larger than the walls of the most impregnable fortress, and the carrion gulls that swoop and dive along its boulder-strewn beaches are like the black angels which welcome men to the Netherworld. Looking out over the water, I saw the dark sea break over the killing reefs which ring the island, seething white as the waves smashed on the jagged stone teeth. That sea boiled with enough force to smash bone, rend flesh, reduce wood to flinders; I shivered to think of men trying to swim past the barrier to reach the island beyond, which promised nothing to them but a slower death.

Of the four who stood awaiting the final sentence, three were broken men, their bodies emaciated and bent by long confinement in the dungeons of Dernholm Castle; only the rebel Prince still stood tall, despite the heavy chains that weighted him down. He raised his head as the bailiff came forward with his ring of iron keys and began to free all four prisoners from their bonds. The officer of the court cleared his throat, looking pale and sick as he read the scroll he had been given - though whether it was from the heavy seas or the oppressive atmosphere of this place one could not say…

"By the rule of the High Court of Dernholm, you have been found guilty of capital crimes against the sovereign people and the august throne of Cumbria. By order of the High Court of Dernholm you have been sentenced for the commission of these crimes to death. As a consequence your lives are now forfeit to the will of His Majesty the King, who will presently stand before you to announce His will."

The young King seemed to stiffen at this, drawing himself up tight and taking a half-step forward to address his prisoners. Although his words were formally spoken to all four men before him, his eyes never wavered from his brother's face.

"The gods have sentenced all men to death," said Praetor the First; despite the wind, his voice carried to all corners of the deck. "I choose to make time my executioner, and the sea my jailer. You are hereby banished for the length of your remaining days to the Island before you, where you may live for so long as Fate smiles upon you." He hesitated over the final words of the sentence, the words which every king of Cumbria speaks when he has concluded a formal decree; this was the first official act of his reign. "Th-this is my Word, and my Word is the Law…"