So much was burnt down in between that Han could see Market Temple poking up into the murkish night sky. So it was standing, though it might be burnt over and still stand, being built of stone. It looked glittery, oddly brilliant against a gloom of smoke and cloud. As they got closer, Han realized what it was—his shroud of magic still wrapped the temple like a name-day present.

They came up under the huge double doors, looking up at the bell tower. As Han watched, a small girlie appeared in the window. Hallie’s girl—what was her name? She poked her hand out the window, trying to grab hold of the magical shroud, before Hallie yanked her back.

“Asha! Don’t you touch that!” Hallie scolded, as her daughter wailed in frustration. “Lord Alister put that there to keep us safe. Anyway, I told you to stay put with the others. How’d you ever get up here?”

Joy kindled within Han. “Hallie!” he shouted. “Hallie! The fire’s burnt out. It’s safe to come out!”

Hallie stared out at him, flashed a grin, then disappeared.

Han gripped the petticoats of the magical coverlet and ripped it free, away from the door, and Cat swung the great doors wide. Talia and Pearlie blinked out at them. They embraced Han and Cat, and then each other. Then went to help Mick drag the stone from atop the stairs down to the crypt.

People poured out of the crypt, flowed the length of the nave and through the double doors. Men and women with babies in arms or towing small children by the hand. Many froze on the plaza, staring around at the remains of the world they knew.

Han stood by, thinking, I didn’t do enough. It wasn’t enough. What good is a life with nowhere to live it? Nowhere to make a living. Would they rather have died in a fire, or die of starvation later on?

It’s my fault, he thought. Bayar may claim he’s doing it to stop the wizard murders, but he aimed this bolt right at my heart. It’s my fault for drawing his attention here.

Then a strange thing happened. Some of the survivors wept, overcome by their losses, but others smiled through their tears, amazed at their deliverance. They walked up to Han in twos and threes, bowing their heads, shyly reaching out to touch his garments, his sleeves, the charred stoles bearing the Waterlow mark, as if he were some kind of saint.

“Thank you, Lord Alister,” they said. “Thank you for saving us.”

“Thank you for saving my little ones. They’re all I got.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

A couple even threw themselves flat and tried to kiss the hem of his ruined trousers, but he put a stop to that.