“They are playing the stone-song,” Maya said. “Listen.”The thin, mournful whistle had grown louder, rising to a high, keening wail that made Thorne’s teeth ache. Somewhere beneath the sound, a deep, dull cracking rolled through the earth, like ice breaking on a frozen lake.“The warding stones,” Cael Dross shouted. “They are breaking.”“Williams!” Thorne called, through the threads. “The wards!”“I feel it.” The old master’s voice was calm. “Hold the shore. I will deal with the flutes.”“How?”“The Sentinel.”Overhead, the wheel of light blazed. The thirteen rods turned faster, their beams sweeping across the water like searchlights. The silver web between them shuddered, flexed, and then, with a long, ringing note, descended.It fell across the river in a shimmering curtain, a veil of pale radiance that swept over the second fleet. The acolytes stiffened. Their flutes fell silent. One by one, they froze mid-gesture, their robed arms raised, their eyes wide and staring, their breath

Tobin did not move. He stood on the pale shelf among the broken bone, with frost still melting from the sleeves of his grey robe, and stared at Williams as though the old master had just pronounced a sentence of death.“Please,” he said. His voice cracked on the word. “Please, not that. Anything but that.”“You were not given a choice about what you helped do this morning,” Williams said. His tone was not unkind, but it held no give. “You were given a flute, and you played it.”“I did not know what it was for.”“You knew what it sounded like when the stones began to crack.”Tobin’s mouth opened and closed. His eyes slid away, toward the shattered ranks of the wardens, toward the long white hulls grinding against the shore, toward the far bank where two small figures stood on a hill. “I knew,” he whispered. “I am sorry. I knew.”“Then you also know what must follow.” Williams folded his hands behind his back. “A message that is not delivered is a message that does not exist. If she doe

“It is also a compliment.”Thorne crossed the rock. Tobin watched him come, his eyes huge, his arms wrapped around his thin ribs. He was perhaps twenty, with a narrow, clever face and untidy dark hair, and he held himself like someone who had spent years practicing how to be small.“I am not going to order you,” Thorne said. “I want to be clear about that first.”“But he said—”“He said what he thinks is wise. He may be right. I think he probably is.” Thorne sat down on a low flat stone so that his eyes were level with Tobin’s. “But I want to hear what you think. Honestly. As if there were no one else here.”Tobin stared at him. “You are the one,” he said slowly. “The golden one.”“I am Thorne.”“She calls you the Key.”“She does?”“In the valley. When she thought no one was listening.” The boy swallowed. “She said the Key would either save the world or break it, and she did not yet know which.”Thorne went very still. The Aegis hummed faintly against his knee, and the pulse in his ch

“If it goes badly. If she turns on you.” He swallowed. “Say my name. Tell her I said that no one on this island will turn away from her if she comes in peace.”Tobin’s eyes widened. “She will not believe it.”“Say it anyway.”“I will.”“And Tobin.”“Yes?”“If you can, get out. Run. Go north. Find your mother.” Thorne’s voice cracked. “I will not be able to help you. But I wanted you to know someone wished it.”The boy looked at him for a long, wordless moment. Then he nodded, once, sharply, and turned away. His thin shoulders squared. He stepped into the boat, and Kester gave the hull a short, firm push.It slid out from the shore like a leaf on a pond, its lantern a small gold star against the pale water. The current, calm now, took it gently. For a few minutes it drifted, rocking, and then a faint, steady breeze caught the little craft and bore it away from the island, across the wide, steaming river, toward the far bank.They stood and watched. Nobody spoke. Williams stood with his

“The one who lived.” Tobin’s voice dropped. “Sorceress, they fought as though they shared one mind. I do not know how. Their movements were joined. When one struck, the other was already moving.”“The silver threads,” Melissa said softly.“I did not see threads.”“You would not.” She turned her head, and her eyes flicked to Elvyn, who sat motionless on the boulder. “A Blackwater technique. Old. Tied to the wrist. They feel one another’s hearts.”“Is that possible?”“Apparently.”Tobin glanced up, startled, then ducked his head again. “The boy took the wall down himself. I saw it. He let it fall, so the wardens stumbled. And then he raised his hands, and there was a spear of fire.”“A spear.”“Of light. Gold, at the heart. White at the edge. It cut through a dozen of them at once.” His voice trembled. “I have never seen anything like it. The bones did not break. They parted. Like cloth being cut.”Melissa’s face did not change. But a muscle at the corner of her jaw, so slight that only