Working together, the King’s Magisters fought back, all of them. They poured out as much of their talent as they had, like against like, striving to settle the earthquake as it shook the paving-stones, the walls, the gate. The riflemen fired and fired, trying to hit Rile’s sorcerers. Even three or four losses among his earthquake-wielders might be enough.

“They can do it,” panted Bleak. “They can.”

But the Great God had already succeeded. The Farsighted had concentrated their attention on the area around the gates. Gripped by the struggle there, they had neglected the more distant stretches of the wall where the torches and Magisters were fewer.

All three Farsighted yelped as an eruption of stone and dirt snagged at one edge of their vision. They wheeled in time to see a wide section of the wall leap into the air and come crashing down, tremendous in its silence. The few riflemen there were flung into the rubble, caught by great blocks of stone and crushed. A Magister died with them. If they screamed, the Farsighted could not hear them.

A fatal gap had been opened. Rile’s army surged toward it.

“Bifalt,” moaned Queen Estie. She did not realize that she had said his name aloud. She had no idea that she was weeping. “Bifalt.”

Magister Threnody stepped closer to Magister Bleak. She knotted her fists, clenched her courage in both hands.

“The King!” she demanded. “Do you see him? If his men still live? And his Magisters? What does he do?”

Bleak wiped his face. “Forgive me, librarian. The shock—” He jerked his head from side to side. “The King. The King.”

Like a curse, the albino said, “Above the gates.”

“Yes,” agreed Magister Bleak. “There. With the Prince and Elgart. Other men. He waves his arms. He may be shouting. His riflemen and Magisters run. He must be ordering them off the wall. They are passing out of sight.”

“And then?” asked the librarian weakly.

Bleak was too distressed for courtesy. “How can we know?” he practically shouted. “There is no light. Not behind the wall. Not in the whole of the old city. We cannot see without light.”

From her corner, the Knight announced harshly, “He has lost his fortified place. He requires another. He and his people will withdraw to his citadel. His foes will pursue him.”

Estie understood. The idea appalled her. There was no escape from the old city, not now, not through vast numbers of infantrymen. Where else could Bifalt go? Belleger’s Fist was all he had left.

But from the Fist there was no possibility of escape. The heavy gates of the bailey, with the sturdy doors of the keep behind them, were the only way in or out.

Her husband had gone there to die, taking his riflemen and Magisters with him. Prince Jaspid and Elgart would be killed beside him.