"The bombs," Illarion echoes dumbly. His fingers fumble on the fastenings of his coat, gone numb and insensible. He dips his chin far as the mask will permit, obsessed with the task, anxious with it.

It's too hot. Patches like heat rash (far worse than that) already mar his chalk-white skin.

"I know--bombs, lord. Artillery. Demolition. Worse-- But nothing..." His voice trails into silence as he stares around them again. Then he resumes struggling with his coat, removing it only with great effort.

And only with great effort can he reach to offer it to John, shy and trembling and vulnerable in his terrible confusion. "For her," he says and gestures. "It's hard to die. Cold. She needs-- she needs comfort."