Drust turned abruptly and started walking back through the trees toward the Federation encampment, already mulling over what he would have to do to minimize the damage. He couldn’t go back and face the Coalition Council without having accomplished more than this. He might have driven the Druids out of Paranor, but the fortress was still mostly intact and not in Federation hands. Hundreds of Southland soldiers were dead and many more wounded. His time as Prime Minister would be over if that was all he had to show for this expedition.

“We’ll go back in tomorrow,” he repeated firmly. “When it’s light again. We’ll loot her and begin tearing down the walls. That greenish stuff won’t still be there by then. You’ll see.”

“Will I?” Stoon asked mildly. “Maybe. But I’m not sure you will.”

“What are you talking about?” Drust snapped, irritated with the other’s intractability.

“I’m just saying I don’t think you’re going to be here tomorrow.”

Drust wheeled on him furiously. “Of course I’m going to be here tomorrow! Where else would I—”

A white-hot fire exploded in his chest, bringing a gasp that Stoon’s rough hand over his mouth only partly managed to muffle. He was suddenly aware of the knife protruding from his body as Stoon’s free hand grasped the hilt and twisted.

Stoon shoved the knife in deeper. “I’ve put up with you long enough, Drust,” he whispered. “I don’t have to do that anymore.” The knife slid out and then back in again, bringing new pain and shock. “You were never even half as smart as you thought.”

He released the Federation Prime Minister and let him fall. Drust Chazhul was dead before he struck the ground.

Aboard Wend-A-Way, Aphenglow Elessedil was crouched beside Bombax where he lay stretched out on a bed in a forward compartment, stripped of his clothing and covered with a sheet. Ointment had been spread over his entire body, providing some small relief for his burns. He had broken both legs and one arm and several ribs, and his internal injuries were so severe there was no reasonable chance of treating them. His breathing was shallow and labored, and his gaze distant and empty.

“Everything hurts,” he murmured.

She had given him medicines to help with the pain, but they weren’t doing much. She held one hand loosely, letting him know that she was there.

“I’m dying, Aphen.”

“Shhhh, shhhh,” she whispered. “Don’t talk.”

Arling, kneeling next to her, rose and cleared everyone out of the room. “I’ll be just outside,” she said before leaving.

Her sister knew. She was giving Aphen these last minutes alone. There was nothing she could do. There was nothing more any of them could do. Tears spilled down Aphenglow’s cheeks and fell on the sheet draping her life partner.