Abruptly, King Bifalt stood. His knees were trembling. He felt unaccountably cold. His hard breathing made gusts in front of his face. Not done? Until this moment, he would have sworn that nothing the caravan-master suffered would distress him. His brief encounter with Set Ungabwey twenty years ago, like his exchanges with Tchwee before the caravan departed the Open Hand, had outraged him. Yet now Bifalt wanted to curse the library’s Magisters for sending Set Ungabwey to die.

Was this what Third Father meant by surpassing himself?

No. Too many more people were going to die, and all of them had a higher claim on King Bifalt’s heart than Master Ungabwey.

He had considered himself a hard man. He needed to be harder than this.

To Klamath, he rasped, “See to him, General. Tell the physicians to save him if they can. Is he not done? I want to know what else he thinks he can do.

“I must ride.”

He meant, I am the King of Belleger. He had to turn his back on men who endured agony and would almost certainly perish because he had chosen to fight the Repository’s war.

The General replied with a look of bafflement that quickly became comprehension. “As you say, Majesty.” He had his own pains. He recognized them when he saw their signs in his King.

Striding past the rearguard and the Magisters—past men struggling for breath while they waited for stretchers—King Bifalt went to his horse. His bodyguards were gone. He was not encumbered by anyone who might insist on accompanying him. Or arguing with him. As soon as he gained the saddle, he urged his mount to run.

But he did not follow the company of riflemen on their weary trek back to the army camp. Riding the beat of his mount’s hooves and the throbbing in his head, he angled eastward up the side of the ridge, heading for the highest crest he could see. From that vantage, he would see anyone who came looking for him. He wanted to be left alone while he tried to master himself.

He had not felt this fragile since Estie’s departure—and before that, since the bitter hour when she had confessed her gift for sorcery. She had taught him to fear that he might break.

Not for the first time, he imagined making his last stand against the enemy in Belleger’s Fist. He was the King: he belonged there. Let him die in the keep when Rile stormed it. Let the Magisters of the library face the consequences of their disregard. He would be able to say that he had done enough.

Unlike Set Ungabwey—