Page 70 of City of Stone and Silence

And the door explodes from its hinges, shattering outward in a blast of wooden fragments. A figure in black armor rolls forward, chain veil jingling. Immediately behind it, an identical shape raises both hands and sprays bolts of flame.

Everything turns to chaos in an instant. Hasaka, Jakibsa, and I are standing behind the makeshift barricade, and we duck instinctively at the sound. Blasts of Myrkai flame hit the pile of sacks, detonating with a roar and spraying rice everywhere. The rest of Hasaka’s people, spread out around the room, aren’t as lucky. I see a boy barely older than me hit by a bolt that wraps his body in brilliant flames, and he stumbles shrieking toward his attacker. An older woman, leaning against the opposite wall, is blown backward by a blast and left in a tumbled heap.

After the initial volley, the Immortal who dove forward gestures sharply, and a wall of blue Tartak force springs up, sealing off the tunnel entrance. Hasaka jumps to his feet, fire swelling around his hands, and the other refugees do likewise. Bolts of flame fly back across the room, toward the dark-armored soldiers, but they slam into the blue energy and gutter and die. Immortals are piling into the room behind the shield of force, carrying swords and crossbows.

More blue energy joins the fray, slamming into the shield with a shower of sparks and a sound like steel on glass. Behind me, Jakibsa grunts, his careful technique abandoned for brute force, tearing at the shield with Tartak power of his own. For a moment the blue curtain parts, and Hasaka triumphantly slams a bolt of fire through, wrapping one Immortal in a shimmering wreath of flame. It vanishes an instant later, though, under the influence of another soldier’s own Myrkai power, leaving the victim smoking but still on his feet.

“Out!” Hasaka barks. “Everybody out! Jak, get Tori!”

I shout an objection, but it’s lost in the roar of the mêlée. The Immortals, clear of the confining tunnel, drop their shield of force and attack. Crossbow bolts, aimed by the preternaturally accurate senses of Sahzim talents, zip across the room. Jakibsa picks some of the bolts out of the air, but others find their targets. A girl goes down, clutching at the fletching emerging from her throat. Bolts of fire slam back and forth, bursting and burning.

An Immortal comes forward, sword in each hand, surrounded by a golden glow and moving so fast she blurs. She’s coming right for me, and I don’t have time to do more than throw up my arms. Then the world around me turns blue, and I’m yanked backward, crashing roughly against a sweating Jakibsa. Garo steps into the sword-wielding Immortal’s path, Melos gauntlets shimmering green on his arms, blocking her strikes with a scream of metal against magic. He slams one gauntlet in her face, hard enough to send her tumbling backward in a jangle of chains, then crosses his arms as a flaming bolt explodes against him, Myrkai energy warring with Melos.

My Kindre senses are shut down in self-defense, blotting out the pain and death. Stumbling behind Jakibsa, I force them open, trying not to choke in the sudden tide of fear and rage from the fighters, mixed with agony and despair from the dying. I reach out to the Immortals, as I did to the Ward Guard in Nirata’s restaurant, and flatten their thoughts.

Stop.

I’m prepared for revulsion, for the sick-making feeling of other people’s minds cracking under the force of my will. What I’m not ready for is nothing. The wave of my Kindre power slides off an invisible barrier, dissipating harmlessly into the miasma of emotions. I try again, pushing as hard as I can, my skin growing feverishly hot as power floods through me. Something—someone—is blocking me, parrying my clumsy thrusts.

Of course they have a defense. Kindre users are rare, but I can’t be the only one. The Emperor’s personal killers could hardly be left vulnerable to such crude manipulation. Despair wells up, turning my legs to jelly, as Garo backpedals desperately in the face of a fresh assault and Hasaka barely ducks a bolt of flame. Jakibsa duels with one of the enemy Tartak users, force grinding against force, and eventually gets in an unguarded shot that lays the man senseless on the floor. It’s only a small victory, and a moment later he’s forced onto the defensive, blocking another volley of crossbow bolts.

We’re all going to die. Blessed defend, rot and ruin, we’re all going to rotting die here in the next few seconds—

The Tori who lives in the Second Ward would have fainted by now. Pampered and protected, shielded from blood and illness and danger, she would lie senseless and helpless, until someone cut her throat.

Thankfully, I’m more than that. I’m not Isoka—I don’t have her steel, her fire—but I can pretend to be.

“Back!” My voice sounds like a screech. “Garo, Hasaka, everyone upstairs! Jak, push them back, just for a second!”

Jakibsa glances at me, sweat already pouring down his face, his ruined hands hanging at his sides as he fights a complex battle with only his mind. But I see him grit his teeth, and blue energy flares, slamming across the room in a solid wave. Broken bits of crate go flying, ricocheting off the shield erected by the Immortal Tartak adepts, then back off Jak’s barrier. Eventually the two collide, and the scraps of wood are pulped between them. For just a moment, the room is split in half.

In that moment, we flee. Garo stumbles back toward me, and between us we haul the immobile Jakibsa up the stairs. The rest of the defenders follow, leaving the dead and dying behind them. Hasaka comes up last, dragging a sobbing young man by the collar.

The stairs up from the storeroom pass through a narrow doorway into the kitchens. I pull Jakibsa to one side, catching him as he collapses, his skin already welting into bright red lines. I’ve read about powerburn, the aftereffect of overexertion, though I’ve never seen it. From the heat still rising from my own skin, I may get to experience it firsthand.

Garo grabs a heavy table and shoves it forward, Melos power amplifying his blows to send the wooden barrier shuddering against the door. Two more defenders put another one in place behind it, just as the first starts to shiver and jump under assault from below.

“It won’t hold them long,” Garo says.

“We’re not staying long,” I pant. “Everyone out. We’re going to the safe house.” I turn to Hasaka, who is standing over Jakibsa, speaking quietly. “Can you carry him?”

He nods. “But not everyone is going to be able to run.”

I know that, and my heart is already tearing.

In a panic, the sanctuary empties.

The children go first, in groups of a dozen accompanied by a leader. I wait by the back door, sending each group on its way and telling them where to go. Then the slower groups, the wounded, the old soldiers, splitting up to make their way through the city as best they can.

A few remain behind, Tartak users to hold the storeroom door, a handful of others to make a last stand. Old Sewa is with them, waiting at attention, Myrkai fire burning on his hands. No trace of confusion in his eyes now. Waves of pure force clash in the doorway, gradually reducing the thick tables to splinters. The Immortals are stronger, better trained, more coordinated. We can’t hold for long.

Not to mention, there are other ways to get to us. Even if they can’t force the door, surely they’re searching for a way around. It might take them a few minutes to figure out which building houses the sanctuary, but—

Hasaka stumbles past, with Jakibsa on his back. “Come on,” he tells me. “They’re nearly through!”

“Where’s Garo?” He’d gone back, to round up the last few stragglers.

Hasaka shakes his head. I wave him on, and he doesn’t argue, staggering off into the street. A few onlookers have gathered, curious at this sudden exodus. But so far—