“My Lord!” He knelt, the words bursting fiercely from him. “My Lord, I swear, I will never betray you!”

Beneath the shadow of the Helm, the Shaper’s features shifted into something that might have been a bitter smile. “You have seen the Dreamspinner.”

“He should never have defied your will.” Tanaros gazed up at the aching void. “He should never have added to your pain, my Lord.”

The Shaper bowed his head, studying Godslayer as the shard pulsed between his hands, emitting a rubescent glow. “It was not without reason,” he mused. “And yet … ah, Tanaros! Is there no way to survive without becoming what they name me? I have fought so hard for so long. Ushahin Dreamspinner sought to take the burden on himself, but there is no escaping the pattern of destiny. Oh, loving traitor, traitorous love!” He gave a harsh echoing laugh, making the torches flare. “It is always the wound that cuts the deepest.”

Tanaros frowned. “My Lord?”

“Pay me no heed.” Lord Satoris passed one hand before his helm-shadowed eyes. “I am in darkness, my faithful general. I am surrounded by it. It is all I see, and it grows ever deeper. Pay me no heed. It is your time that is coming, the time of the Three. It is for this that I summoned you, so many years ago. I wonder, betimes, which one …” Glancing at Godslayer, he paused and gathered himself. “Vorax reports that it was done and the Staccian traitors dispatched. Have you ensured that the tunnels have been sealed?”

“Aye, my Lord.” Tanaros touched the hilt of his sword for comfort, feeling its familiar solidity. “I pray you, know no fear. Darkhaven is secure.”

“That is good, then.” The Shaper’s head fell back onto his carnelian throne as though it cost him too much to keep it upright. His shadowed eyes glimmered in the uptilted sockets of the Helm. He held Godslayer loosely in his grip. “Tell me, my faithful general. Did I ask it, did I return Godslayer to the Font, would you swear your oath anew?”

Tanaros stared at the beating heart of the dagger; the rough knob of the hilt, the keen edges, ruby-bright and sharp as a razor. The scar on his chest ached at the memory. It had hurt when his Lordship had plucked the dagger from the marrow-fire and seared his flesh with the pact of binding—more than any mortal fire, more than any pain he had ever known. He raised his gaze. “I would, my Lord.”

“Loyal Tanaros,” Lord Satoris whispered. “It is to you I entrust my honor.”

“My Lord.” Tanaros bowed his head.

The Shaper gave another laugh, weary and edged with despair. “It is no boon I grant, but a burden. Go, now, and tend to your duties. I must … I must think.” He glanced once more at Godslayer, a bitter resentment in his gaze. “Yes, that is it. I must think.”