Flane did not like to think of that.
He stepped forward, lifting the blade.
He thrust it home, into the diamond-shaped opening. The blade clicked in, fitting perfectly.
And nothing happened.
The Machine was truly dead above them. Aevlyn sobbed. She came to stand with him, pressing her arm shoulder to his in comfort as he leaned against the cold metal side of the Machine, hammering his fist against it until the knuckles bled.
Behind them Besl sighed, "Now that is too bad. I shall hate to order the kaatra-tail banners forward, but I have no choice."
Flane lifted his hand, looked down at the torn flesh, at the dark blood staining his flesh. Aevlyn was whispering to him but he did not hear. He was deaf to everything, at that moment.
A hand patted his arm sadly, and then the old man from Moornal turned on his heel and went out of the Temple, bowed and broken. With him went Besl. In the quadrangle before the Temple they came to a stop and stared at each other. The big Darksider saw tears furrowing the cheeks of the old man.
"I had thought to see a new world, Besl. The old world come to life again. Gaiety and laughter, play and sunshine. I thought Flane was the one the prophecy told of, with his foreign blood and his blue sword. I would have staked my neck on it."
"Yes," grunted Besl. "So too would I."