“And if he won?” Speros asked. “Would he slay the Six?”

“No.” Tanaros shook his head. “I think not. He loved his sister Arahila well, once; I believe he loves her still. Though she sided with Haomane against him, it was she who stayed the Lord-of-Thought’s hand when his Wrath scorched the earth, and she who raised the red star in warning. Lord Satoris cares for his honor. It may be that she would persuade him to mercy.”

Speros glanced westward. “What manner of world do you suppose his Lordship would Shape?”

“Only his Lordship knows for certain,” Tanaros said. “Yet I imagine a world in which the tyranny of one Shaper’s will did not hold sway over all. And that,” he added, “is enough for me.”

“It’s a beginning,” Speros agreed. He looked curiously at Tanaros. “What would you do in such a world, Lord General?”

Unaccountably, Tanaros pictured Cerelinde’s face. “It don’t know,” he murmured. “Yet I would like to find out. Perhaps I would become a better Man than I have been in this one.” He gathered himself with a shake, ignoring the Midlander’s quizzical expression. “Come on, lad. Let’s choose a horse for you.”

Perplexity gave way to a grin. “Aye, General!”

IN THE CHAMBER OF THE Font, the marrow-fire burned unceasing, a column of blue-white flame rising from its pit, so bright it hurt the eye. And in the center the shard of Godslayer hung, pulsing like a heart to an unseen rhythm.

“My Lord.” Cerelinde of the Ellylon clasped her hands in front of her to hide their trembling. Valiant as she was, the fear came upon her every time the tapestry in her quarters twitched at the opening of the secret door, a wary madling emerging to beckon her through the winding passages behind the walls to the three-fold door and the spiral stair, to answer the summons of the Lord of Darkhaven. “You sent for me?”

“Yes.” The Shaper’s voice was gentle. He moved in the shadows at the outskirts of the room, his massive figure blending into darkness. Only the red, glowing eyes showed clearly. “Be at your ease, Lady.”

Cerelinde sat in the chair he indicated, stiff-backed and fearful.

His deep laugh rumbled. “You have been my guest these weeks now. Do you still think I mean you harm?”

“You hold me against my will.” She fixed her gaze on the beating heart of Godslayer within the marrow-fire. “Is that not harm, my Lord?”

“Will,” Satoris mused, and the stones of Darkhaven shivered under his mighty, soundless tread. A reek of ichor in the air grew stronger at his approach, sweet and coppery. “What do you know of will, little Ellyl?”

“I know it is mine to defy you.” The words came hard, harder than she could have imagined. It was hard, in this place, to cling to all that she knew was true.