Have mercy! she cried, as silent as the crisis of Belleger’s Fist. Have mercy, Bifalt! On yourself, on your people, if not on me. We need you!

How long would the last defenders need to reach the Fist, running uphill through the old city to the Fist? She had no idea. She had passed that way countless times on horseback, or by carriage, but never on foot. And the Farsighted could not tell her. They had no light. Her husband would make his stand, first on the walls of the bailey, then at the doors of the keep, without witnesses. Without hope.

In the silence, Crayn nudged Oblique’s arm. “Water for the Queen, Magister?” he whispered. “Is it permitted here?”

The sorceress shook herself like a woman waking from a trance. For perhaps the first time since the Farsighted had begun to speak, she looked at Estie. Her eyes widened in alarm. “Of course,” she promised. “I will see to it.”

At once, she left the chamber. In the outer hallway, she called softly for a servant. A moment later, she returned.

“What ails her, Commander? Is this another poisoning? Should I summon a shaman?”

“Ask Travail.” Crayn’s voice held a whetted edge. “He understands.” The Apprentice was as flushed as Estie, as drenched in sweat. He would know if he was in danger.

Estie hardly heard Crayn and Magister Oblique speak. With all of her strength and will, her whole heart, she was trying not to imagine Bifalt’s death, yet she could think of nothing else.

Before long, a servant entered the workroom. Keeping his head lowered, he gave a flask and goblet to Magister Oblique. Then he was gone.

Oblique filled the goblet, handed it to the Commander.

“Here, Majesty.” He held up the goblet. “It is water. You must drink.”

Estie blinked at him hard. He meant well. He was her friend. The heat was draining her. It felt as intense as the struggle she could not see. But she was not done.

She was not.

Lifting her hands as if she had never used them before, she took the goblet from Crayn, raised it to her lips, drank—and felt nothing. It was only water. It was not Bifalt’s life.

Time passed until it stopped and there was light.

“Torches!” Magister Bleak’s musical voice had become a guttural wheeze. “On the ramparts of the bailey. Over the doors of the Fist.”

Frightened by what she saw, Joyly covered her face.

“None of the King’s men are there. The King is not.”

The white-skinned Farsighted bared his teeth, showing gums as red as blood. He knotted his fists in his hair, strained to pull it out in clumps.

“The gates are open,” groaned Bleak. “And the doors.”

“Can it be true?” whimpered Magister Threnody. “Where is the King? Where are his riflemen? His Magisters?”

“Wait,” rasped the Knight.