“Yes.” Tanaros swallowed against a wave of nausea. “It does.”

“Good.” Ushahin closed his eyes briefly. “You were right, it was foolish. Not the attempt, but its aftermath.” He opened his eyes. “He drew on Godslayer’s power to do this, Tanaros, and spent his own in the bargain. I shouldn’t have taken the risk of provoking such a thing. He’s precious little to spare.”

“Dreamspinner.” Somewhere, the anger had drained from Tanaros. He considered Ushahin and sighed, extending his hand. “Get up.” Despite the tremors that yet racked Ushahin, Tanaros felt the strength of the half-breed’s new grip through his gauntleted hand as he helped him to his feet. “After a thousand years, why does he want you to wield a sword?”

“Ah, that.” Ushahin exhaled hard, clutching Tanaros’ shoulder for balance. “It is so that I may be of some use in the battle to come, since I am to be denied the Helm of Shadows.” Their gazes locked, and Ushahin smiled his crooked smile. “You’ve worn it before. I may bring a greater madness to bear, but you bring the purity of your hatred and a warrior’s skill. Wield it well, cousin; and ward it well, too. There is a prophecy at work here.”

… and the Helm of Shadows is broken …

Tanaros took a deep breath. “It is a heavy burden.”

“Yes.” Ushahin relinquished his grip, standing on wavering feet. He flexed his newly Shaped sword-arm, watching the muscles shift beneath the surface of his pale skin. “I gambled, cousin, and lost. We will have to make do.” He nodded toward the Throne Hall. “As you love his Lordship, go now and deliver news he will be glad to hear.”

It was thrice a hundred paces to walk the length of the Throne Hall. The torches burned with a fierce glare, sending gouts of marrow-fire toward the rafters, casting stark shadows. His Lordship sat unmoving in his carnelian throne. Godslayer shone in his hands, and upon his head was the Helm of Shadows.

The sight of it struck Tanaros like a blow. It was never easy to bear, and hardest of all when Lord Satoris wore it, for it was tuned to the pitch of his despair—of the knowledge he alone bore, of the role he was fated to play. Of the anguish of a brother’s enmity, of the loss of a sister’s love. Of immortal flesh seared and blackened, of Godslayer’s prick and his unhealing wound. Of generation upon generation of mortal hatred, eroding the foundations of his sanity.

There was a new pain filling the dark eyeholes: the agony of betrayal, the whirlwind of fury and remorse bound inextricably together, tainted with self-loathing. Tanaros felt tears sting his eyes, and his heart swelled within the constraint of his brand.

“Tanaros Blacksword.” Lord Satoris’ voice was low and weary.