Lord Satoris gave a mirthless laugh. “With the Arrow of Fire.”

In the sweltering heat of the Throne Hall, his skin turned cold and clammy. Haomane’s Prophecy pounded like a litany in his skull. “They did it,” Vorax said, forcing the words past a lump of fear in his throat “Found the lost weapon”

“Yes.” The Shaper contemplated the dagger in his hands. Godslayer’s flames caressed his fingers, shadows writhing in the Helm’s eyeslits. “They did. And they will be coming for us, my Staccian, these Allies of my Brother.” His head lifted and his eyes blazed to life. “But what they plan, I have seen! I dare what they did not think I would dare! I am not my Brother, to quail in mortality’s shadow! I dare to don the Helm, I dare to pluck Godslayer from the marrow-fire and see!”

“Right.” With a prodigious effort, Vorax filled his lungs, then exhaled. He was tired, his blistered skin stung and his knees ached, but he was one of the Three, and he had sworn his oath a long, long time ago. “What now, my Lord?”

“Vengeance,” Satoris said softly, “for one who was a friend, once. Protection, for us. There is something I must do, a grave and dire thing. It is for this, and this alone, that I have taken Godslayer from the marrow-fire. And I have a task for you, Vorax, that will put an end this talk of my Elder Brother’s Prophecy.”

“Aye, my Lord!” Relief outweighed remorse as Vorax reached for his sword-hilt. To slay a defenseless woman was no welcome chore, but such was the nature of the bargain he had made. Immortality and plenitude for him; peace and prosperity for Staccia. It was the only sensible course, and he was glad his Lordship had seen it at last. One stroke, and the Prophecy would be undone. She would not suffer, he would see to that. It would be swift and merciful, and done in time for supper. “Elterrion’s granddaughter will be dead ere dawn, I promise you.”

“No!”

Vorax winced at the thunderous word, relinquishing his hilt.

“No,” the Shaper repeated, leaning forward on the throne. The sweet reek of blood mingled with the distant stench of sulfur, and his eyes burned like red embers through the Helm’s dark slits. “I am not my Brother, Staccian. I will play this game with honor, in my own way. I will not let Haomane strip that from me, and force me to become all that he has named me.” His voice dripped contempt. “I will not become the thing that I despise. I will assail my enemies as they assail me. The Lady Cerelinde-” he lifted one admonishing finger from Godslayer,”—is my guest. She is not to be harmed.”