“Kingslayer.” The word was filled with unutterable contempt. Behind the eyeslits of his helm, Aracus Altorus stared at him. The sword in his hand echoed the one on his standard; his ancestor’s sword. Once upon a time, Tanaros had known it well. The only difference was the lifeless Soumanië in its pommel. “You come at last.”

“As I promised, Son of Altorus,” Tanaros said softly.

Aracus nodded, taking a fresh grip on his sword-hilt. Beneath the contempt, he looked tired and resolute. It seemed like a very long time since they had first laid eyes on one another in the shattered nuptial ceremony in Lindanen Dale. “Shall we put an end to it?”

Tanaros inclined his head. “Nothing would please me more, Son of Altorus.”

There should have been more to say, but there wasn’t.

Settling their shields, they rode at one another.

They struck at the same instant, both catching the blows on their bucklers. Tanaros felt the impact jar his arm to the shoulder. He felt, too, Aracus’ buckler riven beneath the force of his blow, metal plate giving way, wood splitting. Tanaros laughed aloud as the would-be King of the West was forced to discard his useless shield.

“Shall it be now?” Tanaros asked, and without waiting for a reply, struck another blow.

Aracus Altorus parried with his ancestral sword, the sword Altorus Farseer had caused to be forged, the sword Roscus Altorus had borne before him long ago. A symbol, nothing more. It shattered in his grip, leaving him clutching the useless hilt with its curved tangs and dull Soumanië, a few jagged inches of steel protruding from it.

He lifted his bewildered gaze. He had believed, somehow, it would not happen.

Tanaros had thought to taunt him, this Man who sought to wed the Lady of the Ellylon, who sought to destroy Lord Satoris. He had thought to find satisfaction in this moment; and yet, having reached it, he found none. Aracus’ gaze reminded him too much of Roscus’ at the end; dimly surprised, uncomprehending.

He hadn’t found it in killing Roscus, either.

“I’m sorry,” he said, raising the black sword for the final blow. There was no choice here, only duty. “But you brought this upon yourself.”

At that moment, the Soumanië in the pommel of Aracus Altorus’ shattered sword blazed wildly into life.

HALFWAY UP THE DEFILE PATH, Ushahin felt it happen.

The world gave a sickening lurch and his mount staggered beneath him. An unaltered Soumanië, with the power to Shape matter, had passed to a new owner.Ushahin’s vision veered crazily, and he saw the Defile loom beneath him, pebbles skittering beneath his blood-bay stallion’s scrabbling hooves, bouncing down the crags toward the riverbed below.

He righted himself with an effort that made every ill-set bone in his body ache, twisting in the saddle to glance behind him.

It was bad.