“Magister Bleak?” asked the librarian. Her innate uncertainty hampered her. “Has the enemy found another road north?”

“Yes, librarian.” Bleak strained to see. Beyond the second line of fire, the vanguard passed out of the light’s reach. “It may be a broad street. Foemen still fall. They do not—” He stopped himself, peering to pierce the darkness by force of will. Then he crowed, “Yes! A third line of fire like the others. The enemy must march through it or turn west.”

“Belleger’s King,” remarked the Knight, “has foreseen the enemy’s path. That man plans well.”

“And the street west?” pursued Magister Threnody.

Magister Bleak understood her. “It leads toward the old city. The enemy is near enough to discern the fortifications.”

“Then Rile’s soldiers will forget the north and attack.” Sword Eradimnie sounded confident. “They cannot leave a foe of unknown strength at their backs.”

“The infantrymen do not turn aside,” offered the albino. “They go where their leaders take them.”

“The first fire fades,” added Joyly. “The darkness there is too deep. I cannot see more.”

Estie’s gown clung to her limbs. Sweat made the fabric stick to her back. Why was the workroom so warm? Was there too much poised sorcery around her? Too much tension?

How many men had Bifalt kept with him in the Open Hand? Hundreds? But he must have scattered half of them through the Hand to shoot and flee, sting and fly—and to protect the burning barricades. Did he think that he could defend the old city with so few riflemen? Against the Great God’s thousands?

Rile’s spies, his priests, were gone. Without them, he might think that Belleger’s entire army waited for him inside those walls. He had come this far guided by his strange link with his Church. Somehow, Elgart had ended that threat. Now the Great God was as blind as Magister Threnody. As blind as Estie herself.

Crayn touched her arm. “Are you well, Majesty?” he asked softly. “You are flushed. It makes me think of fever.”

With an effort, Queen Estie turned to the Commander. He was not sweating. Excitement or apprehension heightened his color, that was all. Scanning the chamber quickly, Estie saw that only she and Apprentice Travail had moist faces, damp brows.

Fever? Poison?

She dismissed that possibility. She had too much at stake: more at this moment than anyone in the Last Repository.

Magister Bleak was complaining. “The vanguard has passed beyond the light. We are blind. We cannot tell if those men have turned back toward the Queen’s road.”

“The second line of fire begins to fail,” reported the albino. “The march does not change.”

“How will—?” croaked the Queen. She tried again. “How will we know what happens?”