He had his own singular gift for sorcery. He had feared its cost for many years. But that was behind him now. In truth, Magister Avail had not sacrificed himself for nothing. He had spent his life in a brave attempt to spare Magister Rummage. The futility of his death did not diminish it.

The mute sorcerer intended to match his friend.

Grimly, he held his enemy’s gaze. While he waited for the Great God to strike again, he imagined Rile’s growing ire, the god’s indignation that his antagonist did not show dread. All of his servants and slaves dreaded him. His rule rested on dread.

The Great God looked away before Rummage did. Scowling, he scanned his priests, made his selection. With a brusque gesture, a harsh word, he coerced two of them to the books on the table.

Ah! thought the hunchback. That is your gambit.

Now he and his enemy would learn what the final Decimate could do against itself. The Great God might care. Rummage did not. He was ready at last.

The other priests betrayed their relief. The chosen two expressed the terror that Rummage had left behind. As awkward as a child’s marionettes, they entered the pavilion, lurched to seat themselves on stools. There they hesitated, resisting their god’s will.

Savagely, Magister Rummage slapped Hexin Marrow’s Final Decimate on the parapet. Then he grabbed Magister Oblique’s arm. Tapping faster than speech, he told her:

—Clear the balcony! At least twenty paces on both sides! Do it now! The next blast will strike here.

His demand shocked her, appalled her, but she understood it. She knew his gift. For one brief moment, she regarded him with anguish. Then she obeyed.

“Get back!” she shouted at the crowd of Magisters and apprentices. “The Great God will target us! Go as far as you can! You are not safe here!”

Her command was enough. The Repository’s people had already felt the final Decimate once. In a rush, they scrambled away from Rummage. None of them knew what a safe distance might be.

Waiting, Magister Rummage was relieved to see the librarian scurry away along the back wall. For reasons of her own, she took the two wielders of the seventh Decimate with her, the older man and the young woman.

Magister Oblique stayed.

“Please, Rummage,” she urged softly. “Do not do this. We can rebuild the keep. We may be able to save some of the books. We cannot restore you.”

For her sake, he tried to smile, but he had lost the use of those muscles. He had recognized the meaning of his life at last. Intending kindness, he waved her away.

She wept as she left.

At once, he turned back to his book and the Great God.

The compelled priests had placed their shaking hands on the covers of their own copies. When their god stamped his staff, they began to open the pages.