As he said Whimper’s name, she flinched. She might have turned away, but Brighten gripped her arm. The lightning-wielder resembled a fuse burning toward an explosion. In contrast, excitement lit Crawl’s face like flames.

General Klamath sighed. In his heart, he was not a man who told Magisters what to do. Until recently, he had assumed that they would be commanded by King Bifalt, not by an ordinary man like Klamath.

The gift for sorcery was rare everywhere; but for reasons that no one understood, Belleger and Amika gave birth to more drought and fire than any other Decimate. Despite her fears, Magister Whimper represented thirty of her peers, Bellegerin and Amikan. Magister Crawl led twenty-two fire-wielders. After the deaths in the Bay of Lights, Brighten spoke for only nine other Magisters. Solace was one of twelve whose gift was pestilence. Trench had no more than fourteen men and women like him.

Klamath hoped that they would be enough. What else could he do? In the end, this war was always going to be a slaughter.

Already, leprous splotches were appearing around the city as the flames ran out of fuel. In an hour or two, there would be nothing left of the Open Hand except ash and charcoal. Within the old city’s damaged fortifications, only the outer wall of Belleger’s Fist would remain, cracked and torn by the death of King Bifalt’s reign.

Klamath needed to go, but he was reluctant to leave. The dying fires demanded that he remain to bear witness.

“All this?” murmured Rowt. “For what? To destroy books? What does the enemy fear from them? How can they threaten a Great God?”

“Nonsense!” snapped Magister Brighten. “He is Rile, nothing more. Men who call themselves gods are jumped-up sorcerers. They delude themselves to mask their fear.”

Trench watched her closely. “Then tell us, Magister. Answer the Captain. What does Rile fear from books?”

“Knowledge,” she retorted. “The library. Any man or woman who knows whatever he does not. He may not fear any army. He may not fear us. Knowledge may be the only threat. But it is enough. A self-proclaimed god must stamp it out.”

In a scraping tone, Magister Solace said, “I concur. Any Decimate is a two-edged blade. The same must be true of Rile’s sorcery. If his great strength is his power to coerce, then his great weakness must be that his hold can be broken. Any knowledge that he does not possess may render him powerless. He fears it because it may undo him.”

Trench regarded Solace quizzically. “I did not take you for a scholar, Magister.”

The pestilence-wielder shrugged. “I think. It is worth the effort.”