Lilias sat at her window seat and watched the broad silver ribbon of the Aven River unfurl far, far below, thinking about her dream. Perhaps, she thought, she would sleep and dream it again. As awful as it was, it was no worse than the reality to which she had awakened, the reality she was forced to endure. At least in the dream, Beshtanag had not yet fallen, Calandor still lived, and Lilias was immortal.

There were worse things than death and dreams.

THE THRONE HALL WAS ABLAZE with marrow-fire. It surged upward from the torches to sear the mighty rafters and laced the walls in stark blue-white veins; earth’s lightning, answering to Lord Satoris’ rage. The Shaper was pacing the dais in front of his carnelian throne, a vast and ominous figure, unknown words spilling from his lips.

The Three glanced at one another and approached.

“My Lord.” Tanaros went to one knee, bowing his head. From the corner of his eye, he saw Vorax do the same. Ushahin, unaccountably, remained standing. “We come to learn your will.”

“My will.” Lord Satoris ground out the words. He ceased his pacing and his eyes flashed red as coal-embers. “Did you not hear the challenge Malthus raises? My will, my Three, is to take up Godslayer and split open the very earth beneath his feet until he is swallowed whole by Urulat itself, and my Elder Brother’s allies with him!”

His words echoed throughout the Throne Hall, echoed and continued to echo. Tanaros kept his head bowed, feeling the Shaper’s wrath beating in waves against his skin. The air was filled with the acrid odor of blood and thunder, so dense he could taste it in his mouth.

“Can you, my Lord?” It was Ushahin, still standing and gazing up at Satoris, who asked the question. There was a strange tenderness in his voice. “Can we yet delay this hour?”

The Shaper sighed. His shoulders slumped and his head lowered. A beast brought to bay; and yet no beast had ever stood so motionless, so still. The last echo of his words faded, until there was only the sound of the Three breathing, the crackle and hiss of the torches, and the slow, steady drip of ichor pooling on the dais.

“I cannot.” Satoris whispered the words, turning out his empty hands. “Oh, my Three! I am not what I was. It is a terrible burden to bear. I have borne it too long and spent too much.” A shudder ran through him. “Was I unwise? I cannot say.”

“Not unwise.” Ushahin wiped at his dilated eye, watering in the marrow-fire’s painful glare. “Never that, my Lord.”