No one answered her. No one spoke at all. The Knight’s armor clinked softly in the corner. Twisted by the shape of his back, Magister Rummage’s breathing was a raw wheeze. Magister Avail’s lips moved without a sound, addressing minds elsewhere in the Repository. He kept his eyes closed.

Travail was watching Estie. When she noticed his gaze, she saw a new anguish written on his mien: a present pain, not an old one. His efforts to translate for Magister Avail wracked him—or something else did. Sweat ran down his cheeks like tears.

Then a sharp “Yes!” burst from Magister Bleak. “That is how!”

Joyly turned away in shock. The albino surged forward a step.

“Torches!” proclaimed Bleak. “The defenders have lit torches along the wall. Set below the parapets. They will not shine in the eyes of the riflemen. The men can see to aim.”

“And the enemy?” prodded the librarian.

Without hesitation, the Farsighted Magister answered, “They gather in the open space before the gates, more and more of them. It appears that the Great God has given them no other task. When the fortifications fall, and the defenders are dead, his forces will do whatever they will to the Open Hand.”

“Magister Bleak.” Perhaps for Estie’s sake, Threnody’s tone held a hint of reproof. “Tell us more. Who holds the walls?”

He studied the scene. “We see riflemen, scores of them. But faces we know?” Scowling, he searched. “We—” Almost at once, he announced, “Yes! Elgart is there. He is plain enough. And Prince Jaspid. He stands on the ramparts like a man shouting defiance. But—?” He scanned farther. “Perhaps—? Yes, there. That is King Bifalt. We cannot be mistaken.”

The heat was misery and helplessness. It was indecision. Estie felt a wild impulse to pull her gown down off her shoulders, let her skin breathe. She thought that her heart had stopped. As far as she knew, there was no way out of the old city except through the gates. Bifalt was trapped.

He was going to sacrifice himself.

After that, the Farsighted had difficulty describing the action clearly. Too many men were moving. The soundlessness of the scene must have been eerie. The growing multitude of Rile’s infantry formed an uninterpretable turmoil. The position of the torches obscured the responses of King Bifalt’s men.

Brief streaks of flame showed that those men were shooting, but the surrounding night concealed the effects of their fire. What could they do against foes in iron armor? Some infantrymen fell. Their numbers did not diminish the inrush of fresh forces.

One of Rile’s officers must have bellowed a command, a shout no one in the Repository heard. Men ran at the gates, tried to break through with their shoulders. But the gates were strong. At one time, age had made the wood brittle. Over the years, however, King Bifalt had reinforced them. They held.