She hissed in a breath and his eyes met hers. "It's all up, master," groaned Ben, "nothin' short of a merracle can save us. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. Rain started to pummel the roof of the pavilion, which coalesced into sheets and rumbled to the cement below. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors.
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