At that moment, a tall man in robes, hooded, perhaps middle-aged, judging by what little could be seen of his face, approached the Thane from the side, whispered something. He had a number of documents in his hands.
‘Yes, yes,’ the Thane said impatiently, ‘ it shall be done, without further delay. Young lady, ascend the podium to my left, please. It is time for you to sign the Writ of Proxy, and to deliver your Emissarial Address.’
She looked to Ralph, her eyes wild with fear.
‘Don’t worry,’ he told her firmly. ‘Doc and Pran and I are right here. Remember what the Thane said; you’re not in court; you’re not on trial.’
Pran pressed his hands to his temples, trying to disguise his worry, thinking, ‘Yes, but there are other dangers of which you do not guess . . .’
Doc shifted uncomfortably, his presence momentarily forgotten by the others. His eyes were locked on the hooded man, whom he watched, frowning.
‘Miss,’ the Thane prompted, not unkindly, ‘we haven’t all day.’
Trembling uncontrollably, thinking of what she had been subjected to at her trial, seeing the unfriendly faces staring at her in the gallery, her mouth went dry, and she was so afraid that she feared she might be sick to her stomach. She followed the young Elf who led her to a small, railed, circular podium. One small corner of her mind appreciated that it was richly carved, the sort of place a powerful orator would have stood and held an audience in thrall; not the sort of mean, austere structure upon which she’d been made to stand at her trial . . .