Hands were on me, Sabine’s and Marc’s, trying to hold me steady, but I pushed them away and fell against the wall, my fingernails digging into the stone. Drawing in a deep breath, I tried to sing, but it came out raspy and jarring. Snatching up the water skin, I guzzled the contents even as the horde began to shift and move, many of the people climbing to their feet, the injured struggling against those trying to help them.

I began the lullaby again, but the magic was faulty and impure, the islanders not reverting to that blissful calm, but swaying and twitching with collective unease.

“Is he dead?” Marc demanded, his hand gripping my arm hard enough to leave bruises.

I shook my head, tears falling from my face with the motion.

“Hurt or unconscious?”

I nodded, but those terms didn’t encapsulate all of what I was feeling. Unconscious, hurt, and… drained.

“Shit!” He was across the tower to the door in an instant. “Get all of ours back inside the wall,” he ordered the half-blood messenger Tips had left behind. “Now. Hurry.” Then he set off a series of lights, which were answered by flashing on the wall.

Chris swooped over top of us. “I saw Roland,” he shouted. “He’s sitting alone in a field. But I couldn’t find Tristan.”

Bile burned in my throat, and I tried and failed to tune him out.

“And we’ve got more trouble coming our way,” he shouted as Melusina circled. “Dozens of Angoulême’s followers are coming this way, fast.”

“How do you know they’re his?” Marc asked. “They could be from Trollus.”

“Because I recognize the troll leading them,” Chris replied. “It’s Comtesse Báthory. They’ll be here in a half-hour, tops.”

So much for Roland killing her.

The dragon landed on the tower, and Chris climbed off. “You need to find him,” Marc said. “Go and look.”

“I don’t know how,” my friend said, his eyes welling up. “The water is full of bodies.”

I felt sick, but the song kept flowing.

“Victoria and Vincent will be out there as well; look to them for help,” Marc said.

“I’ll try,” Chris said, then he inexplicably snatched Souris up and stuffed him in his coat before leaping onto the dragon’s back.

Lights flickered in a pattern on the wall. “Everyone’s inside,” Marc said, then his hands fell on my shoulders. “Stop singing.”

I stiffened, risking my focus to turn and look at him.

“Better they think Tristan’s dead,” he said. “And if he was, you wouldn’t have the focus for magic.”