Bayar stared at Han, brows drawn together. Then he looked back up at the birds, extending his hand toward them as if he meant to flame them once again. Slowly, his arm drifted down to his side as he gazed up at them, transfixed.

As the birds sang on, Bayar dropped to his knees like an acolyte on Temple Day, raising both hands in affirmation. His eyelids drooped shut, his face gone slack as a turtled mark. He knelt there, eyes closed, a beatific smile on his face.

Birds gently coasted toward him, circling to land on his shoulders, his arms, his back.

A handful scouted Han, but he swatted at any that came near. All the while, he continued to sing as loudly as he could, desperate to block out the deadly music.

They’d sailed for only three long nights

And three short winter days.

When the Dragon sailed from out the west

And set them all ablaze.

Now Ailen haunts the Widow’s Walk

And mourns her brothers three.

For there is blood upon the Indio

And three graves beneath the sea.

It was rather grim for a lullaby, but Mari had always liked it.

Bayar slid forward onto his face, his arms outstretched in front of him, the serpent amulet still clutched in his right fist. He was so covered in seething birds that he looked like he’d grown feathers himself.

Still singing like a Mad Tom, Han crossed to where Bayar lay. Taking his hand off his right ear, he scooped up the Waterlow amulet. The birds scarcely noticed him, intent as they were on Bayar.

Blood spattered onto the stone floor around Bayar’s body and pooled under him. Birds rose, their beaks smeared with blood and flesh, then settled again, fighting for access.

Say hello to the Breaker, Bayar, Han thought. Time to answer for Dancer and all the rest.

Shuddering, he staggered out the door, slamming it closed behind him. He fell to his knees and was violently ill.

When he’d retched his last, he sat back on his heels. Now that the battle was over, he took no joy in the winning. He rocked, tears stinging his eyes, sick with grief and despair. Bayar was gone, but so was Dancer—his best friend. Dancer had come to help him, and now he was dead.

How could he possibly tell Cat? If she cut his throat, he deserved it. It would break Willo’s heart, after a lifetime spent trying to protect her only son.

Gingerly, he explored his head with his fingers, found the lump where he’d hit the wall. Questions still rattled around in his grief-muddled mind. How had Dancer found his way into this area? How had he passed the barriers meant to keep him out?