Satisfied, Bifalt led Elgart, Jaspid, Malder, Jeck, and a growing number of riflemen down the stairs.

Boy and his father said nothing until the King neared them. Then Spliner cleared his throat.

“He lives, Majesty. I do not know how. We have feared—” He stopped, unable to find the words he needed.

Boy intervened. “For a day now, Majesty,” he said, “we have feared that every breath would be his last. Every drop of blood he exhales seems to announce an end. Yet he is still with us. When he opens his eyes, his gaze is clear. He can make his needs plain.”

King Bifalt nodded. “I will speak with him.” A moment later, he told Boy, “Guide these Magisters to the tunnel. They must enter as soon as it opens. I do not mean to lose them.”

He despised Magisters. He had always distrusted them. But none of these seven had shirked for an instant when he had risked them earlier. They had earned his respect.

“As you say, Majesty.” Boy loosened his shoulders and rolled his head, making an effort to appear relaxed as he collected the theurgists. With him, they moved deeper among the pillars.

For reasons of his own, Spliner muttered, “A good son.”

More riflemen hurried down the stairs, eight or ten of them. Bifalt considered his brother and Elgart. The Prince was like a burning fuse. If he did not keep busy, he might explode. Elgart was calmer. The scar that split his face gave his grin a wolfish cast, but he knew how to wait.

To Jaspid, the King said, “Organize the men as they come, Brother. Hide some behind the nearest pillars. Remind them that only a direct hit can hope to pierce that armor.” The elevation of the arch would make shots from below glance off. “Place the others farther away to cover our retreat.”

“As you say, Majesty.” At once, the Prince went to intercept the men on the stairs.

While Bifalt considered a task for Elgart, one of the laborers came trotting from the back wall. He was a burly man caked in dirt, dust, and sweat. Too tired to bow, he announced bluntly, “We cannot do it, Majesty.”

Bifalt had promised the workmen more time. He had not known then that Rile’s army had quickened its pace.

His heart skipped a beat. Nothing showed on his face. “Cannot?”

“No.” The man was breathing hard. Dismay showed through the grime on his face. “We are well under the wall. Twenty paces? But we have hit granite. It is like a shelf over our heads. We can chip at it, but it does not crack.

“It extends too far. We cannot dig past it.”

Cannot? That was a heavy blow. Yet Bifalt accepted it like a soldier. When he misjudged his circumstances, he moved on without hesitation. Too many lives depended on him.

“Go to the Magisters,” he commanded Elgart. “Take them into the tunnel. Tell them to deal with that granite.”