The riflemen did the same. By the time King Bifalt reached the crude monument, only the Magister’s face remained uncovered. Despite the choking pressure of dust in his throat and lungs, he paused to scoop up dirt in both hands, scatter it gently over Bone’s slack visage. Jeck, Malder, and the men behind them added more rocks. Then they let their need for air drive them onward.

The outlet was a narrow split in the granite. Squirming through it, they came out on an open hillside behind what had once been the Fist’s and the old city’s northwest wall. At their backs, the keep was still falling in on itself, reducing the ancient seat of Belleger’s kings to its own cairn.

Bifalt did not look back. Unsteadily, he ascended the slope until he stood in front of the people whom Elgart had gathered for him: six Magisters and perhaps seventy riflemen, a number of them wounded. To the east, the moon had risen above a sprawl of storm clouds. The crowd Bifalt faced looked as spectral as ghosts in the moon’s silver. Beyond them in the northwest, fifty paces away, crouched the old forest clutching darkness in its bare limbs. Overhead, the stars glittered without pity or interest.

The King said nothing. No one broke the silence. The only sounds were the subsiding thunder and smash of Belleger’s Fist and the wind keening through the trees. It was Bifalt’s place to speak first, but he was waiting.

After a few moments, Jaspid and the last soldiers emerged. The Prince rested a hand briefly on his brother’s shoulder as he and his companions went to join the other riflemen; but he made no effort to find words for what they had all lost.

Finally, the King cleared his throat. “You have done well,” he said, hoarse with coughing. In the aftermath of the escape, he stood hunched like an old man. “You will do well again, when the time comes.”

Then he told his people what they needed to know first.

“General Klamath has left horses for us in the forest. Food and bedding. Rain-capes. Warmer garments.” A storm was coming. “A few tents. Water and fodder. Among the trees, we can make fires. We can rest there for a time.”

And care for the wounded. That was essential. Bifalt had no stitchers or bonesetters with him.

To the workmen, he said, “I have no word for my gratitude. We will speak again when we have eaten and slept. It is my hope that now you are done with war.”

He intended to say more. His people had a right to know what lay ahead of them. But he was struck dumb by the blare of a voice in his mind.

It shouted like all of the world’s anguish: BIFALT!!

It dropped him to his knees. He knew that voice better than he knew his own. It was Estie’s.