She no longer felt heated. She was heat. Without warning, her world reeled. There was no stone under her feet, no walls and windows and people around her, no sensations in her hands or her face or her skin, no air anywhere. Instead, there was power.

As soon as she felt it, she knew what she could do. She was not done. Not while she lived. The silence in the chamber had become absolute, but that blank quiet had no meaning. Nothing mattered except her awakened gift.

The voice of her mind. From her mind to other minds. To any mind she chose.

With all of her strength, she cried out: BIFALT!!

Then she surrendered. Until that moment, she had not realized that she was exhausted. The floor seemed like a good place to rest.

NINETEEN

AMONG THE FOUNDATIONS

As he left the balcony over the doors of Belleger’s Fist, King Bifalt ran.

Not knowing whether the enemy would understand him, he had shouted, “I am here, you scum! Come for me if you dare! I will show you how the kings of Belleger defend their own!” But he had not stayed to watch the effect of his taunting. He had no doubt that the mass of infantrymen in the bailey would come after him.

True, they could not know how strong his forces were, or how many Magisters he had. Despite their devotion to their god, they were not witless. They would suspect some trick. Nevertheless the tactics of overwhelming force dictated their decisions. Bifalt had taunted them only to infuriate them. He wanted them to come after him at once.

He did not know how much longer Set Ungabwey would live.

Running, he went by the quickest ways down through the levels of the keep toward its foundations. Rather than fear, he felt a fierce eagerness. He was a soldier by nature and training. He could not win the war, but he knew how to win this battle.

If his preparations did not fail.

Prince Jaspid and Elgart accompanied him. Jeck led them. Malder watched their backs. Spliner and Boy were already in the depths, poised to do whatever they could to keep the caravan-master alive.

The King had lost a few riflemen to the enemy’s archers, and more when the Decimate of earthquake had breached the walls. By now, Magister Astride and her comrades should be waiting to escape through the tunnel when it was completed. His soldiers had other orders.

Many of them were the Fist’s former guardsmen. They knew its passages. The King had instructed them to scatter and hide, shooting only when they caught the infantrymen by surprise. He wanted them to feign a desperate defense. “But,” he had told them, “do not risk yourselves. Know your paths to the cellars. We cannot suffer more losses.”