It didn’t change. Nothing changed.
Where the Font had burned for century upon century, there was nothing save a ring of scorched stone blocks surrounding an aperture in the floor of the Chamber. It seemed a small opening to have admitted such a gout of marrow-fire. Without the Font, the Chamber was dim-lit, the fading veins of marrow-fire that laced its walls filling it with a vague, subterranean twilight.
Lord Satoris lay supine upon the floor of the Chamber; shadows clustered the length of his awesome form. It seemed impossible, and yet it was so. Even fallen, he filled the space until it seemed little else could exist within it. The scent of blood that was not blood, of sweet, coppery ichor, was thick in the air.
The rough-hewn haft of Godslayer pulsed faintly, a ruby star, where it protruded from the bulwark of the Shaper’s chest.
It moved, ever so slightly.
She stood in the far corner of the Chamber, beyond the ashen pit of the Font, shrinking away from it; from the Shaper, from her deed. Her eyes were stretched wide with horror, her hands upraised, sliding over her mouth as though to stifle a cry.
“Cerelinde,” Tanaros said. The black sword was loose in his grip. “Why?”
Unable to answer, she shook her head.
Ignoring her, Tanaros went to his Lord. In the dying light of the marrow-fire, he knelt beside him. The flagstones were hard beneath his knees, tilted askew by the tremors that had shaken Darkhaven. Ichor puddled, soaking his breeches.
“My Lord,” he said tenderly. “What must I do?”
At first there was no response, and he feared it was too late, that his Lordship was gone. And then the Shaper’s head moved, as though his gaze sought the western horizon beyond the stone walls of his Chamber. “Arahila,” he whispered, almost inaudible. “O my sister. What happens to us when we die?”
“My Lord, no!” Tanaros reached, touching the Shaper’s vast breast, pressing the immortal flesh pierced by the glittering dagger, feeling ichor seep beneath his fingers. “Please, my Lord, what must I do to save you?”
Slowly, Satoris lifted one dragging hand, covering Tanaros’, forcing his grip onto the dagger’s burning hilt. “Draw it,” he said with difficulty. “Let it be done.”
Tanaros wept. “My Lord, no!”
In the corner, the Lady Cerelinde made an inarticulate sound.
“So it is not you, my General.” With an effort, the Shaper turned his head. His eyes were dark and clear; clear as a child’s, but far, far older. The red light of rage had faded in them, as though it had been extinguished with the marrow-fire. So they must have looked long ago, before the world was Sundered, when Satoris Third-Born walked in the deep places of the earth and spoke with dragons. His mouth moved in the faintest hint of a smile. “Not you, at the end.”
With a crash, one of the threefold doors at the top of the spiral stair opened; the left-hand door, Ushahin’s door. Even as he entered, wild-eyed, Tanaros was on his feet, the black sword in his hand.
“Dreamspinner,” he said.
“Tanaros,” At the top of the stair, Ushahin swayed and caught himself. “They are at the Gate.” He gazed blankly around the Chamber. “My Lord,” he said, his voice sounding strange and hollow. “Ah, my poor Lord!”
“He yet lives,” Tanaros said roughly. “He bid me draw the dagger and end it.”
Ushahin laughed, a terrible, mirthless sound. It held all the bitterness of his mad, useless knowledge, of the ending he had failed to prevent. “Are you not sworn to obey him in all things, cousin? Are you not Tanaros Blacksword, his loyal General?”
“Aye,” Tanaros said. “But I think this task is yours, Dreamspinner.”
They exchanged a long glance. For a moment, they might have been alone in the Chamber. The Shaper’s words lay unspoken between them. They were of the Three, and some things did not need to be spoken aloud. “And her?” Ushahin asked at length, jerking his head toward Cerelinde. “Whose task is she?”
Tanaros raised his black sword. “Mine.”
“So be it.” Ushahin bowed his head briefly, then sheathed his blade and descended the stair. He crossed the crooked flagstones, dropping to his knees beside the Shaper’s form, laying the leather case containing the broken Helm gently beside him.
“I am here, my Lord,” he murmured. “I am here.”
Sword in hand, Tanaros watched.
In the dusky light, the Shaper’s body seemed wrought of darkness made manifest. Ushahin felt small and fragile beside him, his ill-formed figure a sorry mockery of the Shaper’s fallen splendor; all save his right arm, so beautifully and cruelly remade.
It fell to him, this hardest of tasks. Somehow it seemed he had always known it would. When all was said and done, in some ways his lot had always been the hardest. He had seen the pattern closing upon them. He had spoken with Calanthrag the Eldest. It was fitting. Kneeling on the flagstones, Ushahin leaned close, the ends of his moon-pale hair trailing in pools of black ichor.
“What is your will, my Lord?” he asked.
The Shaper’s lips parted. A terrible clarity was in his eyes, dark and sane, filled with knowledge and compassion. “Take it,” he breathed in reply, his words almost inaudible. “And make an end. The beginning falls to you, Dreamspinner. I give you my blessing.”
Ushahin’s shoulders shook. “Are you certain?”
The Shaper’s eyes closed. “Seek the Delta. You know the way.”
With a curse, Ushahin raised his right hand. It had been Shaped for this task. It was strong and steady. He placed it on the Shard’s crude knob of a hilt. Red light pulsed, shining between his fingers, illuminating his flesh.
It held the power to Shape the world anew, and he did not want it.
Even so, it was his.
“Farewell, my Lord,” Ushahin whispered, and withdrew Godslayer.
Darkness seethed through the Chamber. The Shaper’s form dwindled, vanishing as its essence coalesced slowly into shadow, into smoke, into a drift of obsidian ash. There was no outcry, no trembling of the earth, only a stirring in the air like a long-held sigh released and a profound sense of passage, as though between the space of one heartbeat and the next, the very foundation of existence had shifted.
Quietly, uneventfully, the world was forever changed.
Ushahin climbed to his feet, holding Godslayer. “Your turn, cousin,” he said, hoarse and weary.
CERELINDE WEPT AT THE SHAPER’S passing.
It did not matter, in the end, who drew forth the dagger. She had killed him. He had stood before her, unarmed, and reached out his hand. She had planted Godslayer in his breast. And Satoris Third-Born had known she would do it. He had allowed it.
She did not understand.
She would never understand.
She watched as Ushahin rose to his feet, uttering his weary words. She saw Tanaros swallow and touch the raised circle of his brand beneath his stained, padded undertunic. Hoisting his black sword, he walked slowly toward her. Standing beneath the shadow of his blade, she made no effort to flee, her tears forging a broad, shining swath down her fair cheeks.
Their eyes met, and his were as haunted as hers. He, too, had sunk a blade into unresisting flesh. He had shed the blood of those he loved, those who had betrayed him. He understood the cost of what she had done.
“I’m sorry,” he said to her. “I’m sorry, Cerelinde.”
“I know.” She gazed at him beneath the black blade’s shadow. “Ah, Tanaros! I did only what I believed was needful.”
“I know,” Tanaros said somberly. “As must I.”
“It won’t matter in the end.” She gave a despairing laugh. “There’s another, you know. His Lordship told me as much. Elterrion had a second daughter, gotten of an illicit union. So he said to me. ‘Somewhere among the Rivenlost, your line continues.’”
Tanaros paused. “And you believed?”
“No,” Cerelinde whispered. “Such things happen seldom, so seldom, among the Ellylon. And yet it was his Gift, when he had one, to
know such things.” She shuddered, a shudder as delicate and profound as that of a mortexigus flower shedding its pollen. “I no longer know what to believe. He said that my mother prayed to him ere she died at my birth. Do you believe it was true, Tanaros?”
“Aye,” he said softly. “I do, Cerelinde.”
Ushahin’s voice came, harsh and impatient. “Have done with it, cousin!”
Tanaros shifted his grip on the black sword’s hilt. “The madling was right,” he murmured. “She told me you would break all of our hearts, Lady.” He spoke her name one last time, the word catching in his throat. “Cerelinde.”
She nodded once, then closed her eyes. Whatever else was true, here at the end, she knew that the world was not as it had seemed. Cerelinde lifted her chin, exposing her throat. “Make it swift,” she said, her voice breaking. “Please.”
Tanaros’ upraised arms trembled. His palms were slick with sweat, stinging from the myriad cuts and scrapes he had incurred in his climbing. He was tired, very tired, and it hurt to look at her.
Elsewhere in Darkhaven, there were sounds; shouting. His Lordship was dead and the enemy was at the gates.
A blue vein pulsed beneath the fair skin of Cerelinde’s outstretched throat.
He remembered the feel of his wife’s throat beneath his hands, and the bewildered expression on Roscus’ face when he ran him through. He remembered the light fading in the face of Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost. He remembered the Bearer trembling on the verge of the Source, his dark eyes so like those of Ngurra, the Yarru elder.
I can only give you the choice, Slayer.
None of them had done such a deed as hers. Because of her, Lord Satoris, Satoris Third-Born, who was once called the Sower, was no more. For that, surely, her death was not undeserved.
“Tanaros!” Ushahin’s voice rose sharply. “Now.”
He remembered how he had knelt in the Throne Hall, his branded heart spilling over with a fury of devotion, of loyalty, and the words he had spoken. My Lord, I swear, I will never betray you!
Wherein did his duty lie?
Loyal Tanaros. It is to you I entrust my honor.
So his Lordship had said. And Ngurra, old Ngurra … Choose.
Breathing hard, Tanaros lowered his sword. He avoided looking at Cerelinde. He did not want to see her eyes opening, the sweep of her lashes rising as disbelief dawned on her beautiful face.
She whispered his name. “Tanaros!”
“Don’t.” His voice sounded as harsh as a raven’s call. “Lady, if you bear any kindness in your heart, do not thank me for this. Only go, and begone from this place.”
“But will you not—” she began, halting and bewildered.
“No.” Ushahin interrupted. “Ah, no!” He took a step forward, Godslayer still clenched in his fist, pulsing like a maddened heart. “This cannot be, Blacksword. If you will not kill her, I will.”
“No,” Tanaros said gently, raising his sword a fraction. “You will not.”
Ushahin inhaled sharply, his knuckles whitening as his grip tightened. “Will you stand against Godslayer itself?”
“Aye, I will.” Tanaros regarded him. “If you know how to invoke its might.”
For a long moment, neither moved. At last, Ushahin laughed, short and defeated. Lowering the dagger, he took a step backward. “Alas, not yet. But make no mistake, cousin. I know where the knowledge is to be found. And I will use it.”
Tanaros nodded. “As his Lordship intended. But you will not use it today, Dreamspinner.” He turned to Cerelinde. “Take the right-hand door. It leads in a direct path to the quarters of Vorax of Staccia, who died this day, as did so many others. No one will look for you there.” He paused, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his left hand. “If you are fortunate,” he said roughly, “you may live.”
Her eyes were luminous and grey, glistening with tears. “Will you not come with me, Tanaros?”
“No.” If his heart had not been breaking at his Lordship’s death, at the death of all who had fallen this day, it might have broken at her beauty. “Lady, I cannot.”
“You can!” she breathed. “You can still—”
“Cerelinde.” Reaching out with his free hand, Tanaros touched her cheek. Her skin was cool and smooth beneath his fingertips, damp with tears. A Man could spend an eternity loving her, and it would not be long enough. But she had slain his Lordship. Arahila the Fair might forgive her for it, but Tanaros could not. “No.”
She gazed at him. “What will you do?”
“What do you think?” He smiled wearily. “I will die, Cerelinde. I will die with whatever honor is left to me.” He moved away, pointing toward the right-hand door with the tip of his sword. “Now go.”
“Tanaros.” She took a step toward him. “Please …”
“Go!” he shouted. “Before I change my mind!”
The Lady of the Ellylon bowed her head. “So be it.”
USHAHIN WATCHED HER LEAVE.
As much as he despised her, the Chamber was darker for her absence. It had been a place of power, once. For a thousand years, it had been no less. Now it was only a room, an empty room with a scorched hole in the floor and an echo of loss haunting its corners, a faint reek of coppery-sweet blood in the air.
“What now, cousin?” he asked Tanaros.
Tanaros gazed at his hands, still gripping his sword; strong and capable, stained with ichor. “It was his Lordship’s will,” he murmured. “He entrusted me with his honor.”
“So you say.” Ushahin thrust Godslayer into his belt and stooped to retrieve the case that held the sundered Helm of Shadows. “Of a surety, he entrusted me with the future, and I would fain see his will done.”
“Aye.” Tanaros gathered himself. “Haomane’s Allies are at the Gate?”
Ushahin nodded. “They are. I bid the Havenguard to hold it.”
“Good.” The General touched a pouch that hung from his swordbelt. His haunted gaze focused on Ushahin. “Dream-spinner. You can pass between places, hidden from the eyes of mortal Men. I know, I have ridden with you. Can you use such arts to yet escape from Haomane’s Allies?”
“Perhaps.” Ushahin hesitated. “It will not be easy. Not with the Host of the Rivenlost at our Gate, the Soumanië at work, and Malthus the Counselor among them.”
Tanaros smiled grimly. “I mean to provide them with a distraction.”
“It will have to be swift. If the Lady escapes to tell her tale, they will spare no effort to capture Godslayer.” Unaccountably, Ushahin’s throat ached. His words came unbidden, painful and accusatory. “Why did you do it, Tanaros? Why?”
The delicate traceries of marrow-fire lingering in the stone walls were growing dim. The hollows of Tanaros’ eyes were filled with shadows. “What would you have me answer? That I betrayed his Lordship in the end?”
“Perhaps.” Ushahin swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “For it seems to me you did love her, cousin.”
“Does it?” In the gloaming light, Tanaros laughed softly. “In some other life, it seems to me I might have. In this one, it was not to be. And yet, I could not kill her.” He shook his head. “Was it strength or weakness that stayed my hand? I do not know, any more than I know why his Lordship allowed her to take his life. In the end, I fear it will fall to you to answer.”
A silence followed his words. Ushahin felt them sink into his awareness and realized for the first time the enormity of the burden that had settled on his crooked shoulders. He thought of the weavers in the gulch, spinning their endless patterns; of Calanthrag in her swamp with the vastness of time behind her slitted eyes. He laid his hand upon Godslayer’s rough hilt, feeling the pulse of its power; the power of the Souma itself, capable of Shaping the world. The immensity of it humbled him, and his bitterness gave way to grief and a strange tenderness. “Ah, cousin! I will try to be worthy of it.”
“So you shall.” Tanaros regarded him affection and regret. “His Lordship bid me teach you to hold a blade. Even t
hen, he must have suspected. I do not envy you the task, Dreamspinner. And yet, it is fitting. In some ways, you were always the strongest of the Three. You are the thing Haomane’s Allies feared the most, the shadow of things to come.” Switching his sword to his left hand, he extended his right. “We waste time we cannot afford. Will you not bid me farewell?”
Here at the end, they understood one another at last.
“I will miss you,” Ushahin said quietly, clasping Tanaros’ hand. “For all the days of my life, howsoever long it may be.”
Tanaros nodded. “May it be long, cousin.”
There was nothing more to be said. Ushahin turned away, his head averted. At the top of the winding stair, he paused and raised his hand in farewell; his right hand, strong and shapely.
And then he passed through the left-hand door.
TANAROS STOOD ALONE IN THE darkening Chamber, breathing slow and deep. He returned the black sword to his right hand, his fingers curving around its familiar hilt. It throbbed in his grip. His blood, his Lordship’s blood. The madlings had always revered it. Tempered in the marrow-fire, quenched in ichor. It was not finished, not yet.
Death is a coin to be spent wisely.
Vorax had been fond of saying that. How like the Staccian to measure death in terms of wealth! And yet there was truth in the words.
Tanaros meant to spend his wisely.
It would buy time for Ushahin to make his escape; precious time in which the attention of Haomane’s Allies was focused on battle. And it would buy vengeance for those who had fallen. He had spared Cerelinde’s life. He did not intend to do the same for those who took arms against him.
There were no innocents on the battlefield. They would pay for the deaths of those he had loved. Tanaros would exact full measure for his coin.
He touched the pouch that hung from his swordbelt, feeling the reassuring shape of Hyrgolf’s rhios within it.