The will struck. It struck with a single note, a note of discord that roared with the unison of a single will, and it cut through the aethereal empathy of both choirs, and a dozen women fell dead, their blood boiling in their veins, or frozen solid.

The choirs faltered.

But the older sisters did not falter, and voices carried on, against the slighting note.

Outside, a massive fountain of raw ops plastered itself against the shields by the north tower, and Miriam had to divert some of her choir’s reserve to support the wards . . .

She could no longer keep all the structures in her head . . .

It was too complex, too awful, and she had held them together as long as she could, losing a little here, a little there, and watching her own terrified dissimulation from a distance; a memory lost, a hope destroyed, as the will took her one tower of intellect at a time.

In the end, all she could do was pray.

Miriam slumped, blood pouring from her nose and mouth, and for a moment the choir leaders held the weight of the failing structures. And then something, something of an enormity that dwarfed even Ash, lifted a single note.

Far away, an unimaginable distance away, the other half of the will paused, and knew fear.

And in that moment a knight ran down the aisle of the choir, his sword drawn, and behind him, a figure in a long black cloak that flew behind her as she ran, all out, lungs bursting for air, for Miriam’s podium.

All the universe balanced on the edge of a single step, and the woman reached out and scooped Miriam’s wand from her lifeless hand. Her hood fell away and Desiderata stood in Miriam’s place, and the wall of her mind was like a mirror of gold.

“Magnificat,” she said.

And in that moment, the will failed. The half of the will close by seemed to scream, the single note of attack turned to disharmony of despair in a moment, and the choirs of the abbey, beaten a moment before, began to rally as Desiderata’s mind and voice protected them.

Ash saw the abbey’s shields flicker, the wards down, and he unleashed the lightning sword of his thought, not through Orley, but direct from one stretching talon, and the whole north tower blew off its foundations and fell in ruin across the slope of the ridge, crushing a thousand creatures, men and bogglins, trolls and daemons and irks. The chapel shuddered, and the stained glass of the great rose window shattered, and glass fell across the whole floor.