The Wayward Godking by Brendan Carroll

here, however.”
    “Mr. Zebulon d’Ornan,” Barry called on the next man when Edgard stopped speaking.
    “Sirs, ladies,” Zeb said, not to be outdone by Izzy, also stood and turned to bow to the ladies at the back of the assembly. They had added several more young ladies and women from the Isle of Ramsay in the past few days. It seemed some of them were doing quite a bit of dreaming. One in particular caught his eye and blushed though no one else noticed. “I must agree with both of my esteemed Brothers. We must decide on a place commonly known to all of us. I have noticed some of the later arrivals may not be familiar with the estate in Lothian, yet they are quite familiar with the Isle of Ramsay and St. Patrick’s Island. Does anyone here not know of those islands? At least enough to visualize them in a concentrated effort?”
    Several ‘ayes’ and nods of approval greeted his suggestion.
    “That is a very good suggestion, Mr. Zebulon.” Edgard smiled at Barry of Sussex’s apprentice, and then scanned the back of the room for Marceline Brandel.
    Of course, she was there. The growing romance between the dark Marceline and the fair d’Ornan brother was becoming legend amongst the islanders. He was not even a Knight of the Council, and yet, he rode about the island dressed in the most flamboyant outfits whenever he had the chance, pretending to be the epitome of the Noble Knight, rescuer of fair maidens, dragon slayer, etceteras, etceteras. Only Marceline Brandel, who pretended not to be impressed by his shenanigans, had won his attentions, and the pursuit had become a subject of much speculation and debate. Now he had apparently dreamed her here. “Is everyone agreed the Isle of Ramsay would be a good choice for a common goal?”
    A chorus of ‘ayes’ erupted in the room and the vote seemed unanimous. Even Corrigan voted in the affirmative. The Isle of Ramsay was close enough to Ireland for him.
    Catharine’s hand was up again.
    “Mrs. Dambretti,” Barry spoke her name again, and Lucio turned on the bench to look at his wife.
    “I am well versed in the arts of concentration, meditation, visualization and the like. I have practiced these arts for years using several different methods, and I find them all quite effective. However, I happen to know the art of visualization is not something one embarks upon lightly. It is an exacting, exhausting process, long and tiring just to learn to do it. And even more difficult is the art of concentration. I would not wish to slight anyone present, but I am skeptical as to whether everyone here would be able to conjure up a picture of the same goal and be able to hold it unwavering long enough to accomplish such a feat, if such a feat is possible without some means of travel, some vehicle, some mode of transport. If we all concentrate and plan to project ourselves to another place unsuccessfully, we may scatter our psyches to the four winds. I must remind all of you we are not even sure of where we are, or if we are here physically, or in some other form.”
    When she finished speaking, a pall of disappointment fell over the room.
    “Miss Galindwynne,” Barry called on the elderly woman wearing a gray shawl over her hair.
    “Excuse me for butting into family affairs, but I will say this on behalf of myself and Carlisle. If we are going to practice magick, then those of us who know how to do it would be obliged to carry the weight of those who do not. I pledge my power, what little I may have, to ensure the success of this endeavor. I expect my son to do the same.”
    “Thank you, Madam.” Edgard nodded to her and then smiled.
    “Brother de Bleu,” Barry called on the Knight of the Wisdom of Solomon.
    “ Pardonne moi .” The golden Knight stood slowly, and then locked eyes with his grandfather, who sat on the front bench with Lucio. “I do not wish to cause problems, but I would like to advance the notion that the second option might be better undertaken than