Estie forced herself to breathe. Sweat stung her eyes. Rather than wipe it away, she squeezed them shut. Ordinary sight was useless. She needed to hear.

And understand. And pray.

“There.” Magister Bleak clenched his fists. “They have found a way north. The whole march follows its leaders past the fire.” With sudden satisfaction, he said, “And now they do not try to avenge their fallen. They stay in their ranks.”

Nodding, the albino added, “Their pace quickens.”

“They begin to grasp their peril,” said the Knight. “They know now that the King is ready for them.”

The idea thrilled Queen Estie. It appalled her.

“But their way north remains open,” protested the albino.

Five heartbeats later, Bleak cried, “It does not! See?” He gestured as if his audience shared his gift. “Another line of flame! Again, it blocks the enemy’s path. Again, it is diagonal—and as hot as the first. Wood, oil, and the Decimate of fire. The infantrymen are forced to the west again.”

And in the west of the Open Hand, thought Estie, stood the old city on its hill. The old city and Belleger’s Fist.

Bifalt was there. She felt sure of it. Every beat of her heart told her that he was there.

Magister Threnody turned to the Knight. “Sword Eradimnie, how do you interpret these tactics?”

The woman clanked her sword for emphasis. “The King means to deflect this enemy’s attention, librarian. He has no other means to protect the north. A few deaths will not serve. But to succeed, he must give battle from a fortified place. Otherwise, he will be overrun with ease. These barriers restrict his foe’s choices. They lure or compel the enemy to strike at him where he is strongest.”

Behind the walls of the old city.

Magister Rummage nodded like a man in a rage.

Queen Estie opened her eyes, rubbed the sweat away. For a moment, she felt disoriented, unsure of where she stood among the Magisters. Then her vision cleared.

She moved to Joyly’s side. Whispering, she asked, “Do people still flee north?”

“Yes, Queen,” answered the woman. “A few.”

Estie caught her breath, held it, then asked in a rush, “Can you recognize any of them?”

Joyly squinted into the distance. “One,” she murmured carefully. “Perhaps two. The third son, Prince Lome? And is that—?” With a flick of her gaze, she referred her question to her companion.

“The Land-Captain,” declared the albino. “Erepos.”

The plump woman nodded. “They are the last, Queen. They shepherd others ahead of them. No one follows.”

Queen Estie hugged herself to contain the clamor of her pulse, her nerves. She drew too many conclusions in an instant. Lome must have chosen to help Erepos evacuate the city. If so, he had put treachery behind him.

Lure or compel. Bifalt was in the old city. Offering himself as bait.