The hall had been built for another tide.
Water covered the lower benches. Names cut into the upper stone had been repaired in different hands, some careful, some deep enough to make the newer letters look angry beside the old.
Lyra followed the raised path while it remained exposed. Felix came behind her with the permitted technical notes. Barnaby inspected the tide mark before choosing the dry stone from which he could observe.
Nether-Bane waited in dark armor.
A solid outline. Hands resting on the arms of a worn chair. His face remained visible beneath the battered helm, pale and unsmiling in the reflected light.
An attendant began correcting Lyra’s address before she finished it.
“Sovereign of the Drowned Court, Keeper of the Unreturned, Warden of the Lower—”
Felix looked toward the rising water.
