Again, the tall Farsighted wrenched at his hair. He tore strands from his scalp. “Ask the stars!” he yelled. “Ask the mountains! We cannot see his mind! We cannot see him at all!

“Belleger’s Fist falls!”

“Everyone,” panted Magister Break. “Crushed. Everyone there.” Then he seemed to rally. “Hundreds of the Great God’s men.” He spoke more strongly. “Several hundreds. Perhaps the cost is not too high.”

Queen Estie staggered. The whole keep? All of Belleger’s Fist? Destroyed because King Bifalt commanded it?

The atrocity of it—

Deep inside her, down where her fears and passions twisted around each other, something broke. Her crisis became more than she could bear.

Snatching her arm away from Crayn, she strode across the chamber. He shouted after her, but she refused to hear him. She hardly saw the Magisters in her way.

As desperate as any madwoman, Queen Estie of Amika went to confront Magister Avail.

He still stood with Apprentice Travail’s hand on his forearm. His eyes were open now, staring at Estie. The horror in his gaze had the force of a scream.

In silence, Travail wept. Nevertheless he regarded her as if he had known that she would come.

To the deaf sorcerer, she shouted, “Awaken me!”

Her distress was too flagrant to be misunderstood. He seemed to hear her without Travail’s touch.

“No,” he groaned. “Not like this. It is worse than folly.” He appeared to wail, but he did not raise his voice. “You cannot make this choice now. The King’s death— A terrible blow. You must choose calmly. You will hate what you have done if you do not choose calmly.”

Estie surged closer. With both fists, she thumped the plump flesh of Magister Avail’s chest. Fiercely, she insisted, “Awaken me. Do you think you have been cursed? I am cursed! My husband has made me a wasteland. I am left with nothing. Open your heart. Awaken me.”

Travail wrote the words like tears on Avail’s forearm.

The Magister’s features were a visage out of his own worst nightmares. He snatched his arm away. With both hands, he covered his face. “Queen,” he moaned. “Oh, Queen. Is this what who you are requires?”

Then he seemed to shrink into himself, collapsing inward like Belleger’s Fist. She had released an earthquake among his foundations. The prospect of losing him threatened to shatter her.

But he was not lost. He was searching himself for something. For courage, perhaps. Or cruelty.

Or compassion.

He did nothing that she could see, said nothing that she could hear. There were no gestures. No incantations.

Silence surrounded her. No one attempted to dissuade her. For her, everyone else had vanished, every emotion, every outcry. Only she and Magister Avail remained.

Only the two of them—and sorcery.