When the Silver Throne was first established, Bert explained as they traveled, Arthur ruled from a modest castle on the island of Avalon. It was his eldest son, Artigel, who moved the seat of rule to Paralon, where he enlisted the Dwarves to build a great city. The streets were paved, and as they entered they saw a number of other principles, each of their own unique make, chugging along the roadways. The buildings they passed were white stone and glass, and all were topped with soaring roofs and towers. The main castle, which they had sighted from the harbor, was not built atop the plateau, but carved from it, into it, through it. It was a remarkable feat of engineering. Tummeler parked the Curious Diversity on a broad avenue at the intersection of streets below the towering edifice and motioned them to a bridge that led to two great applewood doors. “Here,” he said, gesturing with a paw. “I’ll be waitin’ here f’r when all’s said an’ all’s done. One word of warning,” the badger added. “Watch out for one in partic’lar. Th’ one called Arawn, that is. Eldest son of the old Troll King Sarum. He’s a bad ’un. Bad from the get-go, and bad to the core. He’s been calling for a full council for several years, and he has made it no secret that he thinks the time of Men is past, and a new High King should be chosen from one of the other races. “It don’t take a scowler,” Tummeler finished, “to guess who he thinks should get the job. Good luck to you all, master scowlers.” There were a thousand different races in the Archipelago, Bert explained—more if you included the animals. But only the four great races were allowed to send formal emissaries to the Council: the Trolls, the Goblins, the Elves, and the Dwarves. The fifth race, Men, convened the council out of sheer tradition. Despite the occasional conflicts that arose, all of the races respected Arthur’s lineage, and had accorded that respect to the Parliament during the years since the murder of the old king and his family. But they had grown restless, and each race wanted to claim the Silver Throne for their own. “Are we going to be allowed?” Charles asked. “We are neither royalty nor emissaries.” “We’ll be allowed,” said Bert. “I have some standing with the Parliament, and he, after all,” he said, tapping John on the shoulder, “is the Caretaker.” Aven rolled her eyes and cursed under her breath. “At least,” Bert added, “he is the bearer of the Imaginarium Geographica. That alone gives him, and you all, a degree of status.” John sighed and looked at Bug, who smiled supportively. Together, they entered the Great Hall of Paralon. Tummeler had not overspoken. The Great Hall was a sight stunning in its grandeur. Each entry from the four points of the compass opened through arches a hundred feet high, bracketing a great gallery of boxfront seats. Far, far above, the ceiling ended in a crystal window that may have been set atop the plateau itself. Carved into all of the pillars were alcoves bearing torches, illuminating the entire hall in a brilliant white light. It was, in a word, spectacular. “The Winter King will never get the throne,” Jack murmured to Charles. “Why not?” “Because,” said Jack, “he’d have to repaint everything black.” About half of the seats in the gallery were taken. Bert led the companions to a staircase behind one of the pillars on the left, and they climbed to an open cluster of seats about a third of the way up. “The central seating is reserved for the human Parliament,” Bert explained. “They’ve yet to arrive, which is good—we’ve not come too late.” The elves took up the seats to the right of center; they represented the largest number of delegates from any race. They were slender, fair-haired, and fair-skinned, and they bore the aloof demeanor of a race that rarely saw death. The dwarves sat to the left, above and around the companions. They were shorter and stocky, and well armed. Not a single delegate carried less than two short swords, as well as bows and braces of arrows. “Keep on their good side,” Bert warned. “They’re a testy lot. Like to pick fights—mostly with elves, though. It’s a height thing.” “So, uh, you lot built this place, eh?” Jack said to the dwarf sitting three seats over. “Yes,” said the dwarf. “Uh, nice work,” said Jack. “Humph,” snorted the dwarf. Bert raised a hand in greeting and saw the gesture returned by a greasy, gnarled man dressed in elaborate silken robes sitting high in the center of the gallery. “Uruk Ko, the Goblin King,” said Bert in explanation. “And entourage.” “A Goblin King?” John whispered in distaste. “Oh, he’s an affable enough sort,” said Bert. “Stellan—Professor Sigurdsson—and I once shared a long voyage with him in the southern isles on a ship called the Aurora. It was meant to be an exploratory expedition— mapping for the Geographica and whatnot—that somehow turned into an adventure all of its own. “But,” he concluded, shrugging, “that’s the sort of thing that happens when the captain is a talking mouse.” Directly opposite the goblins in the great hall, sitting low in the gallery, was a bulky, dark-visaged personage that could only have been a troll. Thick, corded arms were folded against a massive chest, which was further plated with heavy leather armor. His bearing and manner, as well as the number of supplicants crowded around his elevated chair, indicated that he was in all likelihood a creature of high status, if not the Troll King himself. “I don’t know him,” Bert said. “Those of the Troll race tend to keep to themselves in the eastern isles of the Archipelago.” “One guess,” said John. “I’ll bet that’s Tummeler’s Arawn.” “Quiet,” said Bert. “The Parliament is arriving.” Entering from a fifth entrance between the east and north gates, the representatives of the Parliament were dressed according to the suits in a deck of cards: clubs, spades, diamonds, and hearts. Somberly, they marched in, looking neither right nor left. Bert’s brow furrowed as the members of the Parliament filed in and took their seats with the rest of the Council. “What is it?” John whispered. “Can’t say,” Bert replied. “Something is amiss, although I can’t quite put my finger on it.” They watched in silence as the elaborately dressed men and women settled into their places in the gallery. At length a shifty yet officious-looking man—the Steward of Paralon, Bert said—strode to the center of the hall and called for order. “As Steward of Paralon, I shall oversee these proceedings,” he began. “In the absence of a legitimate heir to the Silver Throne, the Parliament, under my guidance, has ruled Paralon and with it, the Archipelago. “Now a claim has been made on the throne. A claim of birthright and blood.” At this there was a great deal of murmuring from the gallery. “What’s that about?” John whispered. “I thought all the heirs were dead.” “I don’t know,” said Bert. “Listen.” “The claim,” the Steward continued, “has been approved by the Parliament. If none dissent, by the end of the day we shall have a new High King.” Calls rang out to the Steward, who waited for the cacophony to die down before addressing them again. “The claim,” he said, “has been made by one of Arthur’s own kinsmen, and as such ought not to be disputed. While he has had no previous standing with this body, he has nevertheless come to be known by most of you… “…as the Winter King.” “Wait,” boomed a voice. It was Bert. “May I speak?”
