“Available,” Quiver said in his steady, measured tone, “for the moment. Sanctuary operatives are covering over half of them – more than we thought they knew about – but there are still plenty we could use to evacuate key personnel.”

“Speaking of key personnel,” Tenebrae said, turning to Craven, “how is she? Is she well enough to be moved?”

Craven took a deep breath, and for a long moment he didn’t speak. Just before Tenebrae opened his mouth to demand a response, Craven nodded. “She could make it if she had to, but I’d really rather keep her stationary. Her power ebbs and flows. If we can keep them out for five hours, maybe six, she should be back to full strength. Then we won’t need to run anywhere.”

Wreath frowned at him. “Six hours? We’ll be lucky if they don’t burst in here halfway through this conversation. The Temple is not a fort.”

“But it is well protected,” Craven said, hands clasped and looking off somewhere beyond Wreath’s elbow. It was a new habit Craven had picked up, and Wreath didn’t like it. It made Craven look like a holy man. “Once the barricades are in place, we could collapse the tunnels and seal ourselves in.”

“We don’t want to seal ourselves in,” Tenebrae said gruffly. “We want an escape route.”

“I understand, High Priest, but as I have said, once Melancholia regains her strength, we won’t need to run.”

“That, Cleric Craven, is your opinion.”

“Indeed it is, Your Eminence. And with all humility, may I remind you that it was I who guided Melancholia to the brink of the Passage. Without meaning to overstep my bounds, one might think I was entitled to a little faith in return.”

“I think,” Tenebrae growled, “that you have indeed overstepped your bounds.”

Craven bowed his head. “My apologies, High Priest.”

With Craven’s head still bowed, Tenebrae looked at Wreath.

“If we collapse the tunnels,” Wreath said reluctantly, “we could hold them off for twelve hours at the most. The barricades would need to be reinforced. We’d need to move people around. But make no mistake, we would be sealing ourselves in. If Melancholia doesn’t regain her strength, it could be disastrous.”

“The Death Bringer will be strong when we need her,” Craven said solemnly.

Tenebrae’s jaw clenched. “Cleric Wreath, see to it.”

“Of course, Your Eminence.”

Wreath left the room, a plan of his own forming. He ignored the barricades for the moment and went deeper into the Temple.