Lord Satoris lay supine upon the floor of the Chamber; shadows clustered the length of his awesome form. It seemed impossible, and yet it was so. Even fallen, he filled the space until it seemed little else could exist within it. The scent of blood that was not blood, of sweet, coppery ichor, was thick in the air.

The rough-hewn haft of Godslayer pulsed faintly, a ruby star, where it protruded from the bulwark of the Shaper’s chest.

It moved, ever so slightly.

She stood in the far corner of the Chamber, beyond the ashen pit of the Font, shrinking away from it; from the Shaper, from her deed. Her eyes were stretched wide with horror, her hands upraised, sliding over her mouth as though to stifle a cry.

“Cerelinde,” Tanaros said. The black sword was loose in his grip. “Why?”

Unable to answer, she shook her head.

Ignoring her, Tanaros went to his Lord. In the dying light of the marrow-fire, he knelt beside him. The flagstones were hard beneath his knees, tilted askew by the tremors that had shaken Darkhaven. Ichor puddled, soaking his breeches.

“My Lord,” he said tenderly. “What must I do?”

At first there was no response, and he feared it was too late, that his Lordship was gone. And then the Shaper’s head moved, as though his gaze sought the western horizon beyond the stone walls of his Chamber. “Arahila,” he whispered, almost inaudible. “O my sister. What happens to us when we die?”

“My Lord, no!” Tanaros reached, touching the Shaper’s vast breast, pressing the immortal flesh pierced by the glittering dagger, feeling ichor seep beneath his fingers. “Please, my Lord, what must I do to save you?”

Slowly, Satoris lifted one dragging hand, covering Tanaros’, forcing his grip onto the dagger’s burning hilt. “Draw it,” he said with difficulty. “Let it be done.”

Tanaros wept. “My Lord, no!”

In the corner, the Lady Cerelinde made an inarticulate sound.

“So it is not you, my General.” With an effort, the Shaper turned his head. His eyes were dark and clear; clear as a child’s, but far, far older. The red light of rage had faded in them, as though it had been extinguished with the marrow-fire. So they must have looked long ago, before the world was Sundered, when Satoris Third-Born walked in the deep places of the earth and spoke with dragons. His mouth moved in the faintest hint of a smile. “Not you, at the end.”

With a crash, one of the threefold doors at the top of the spiral stair opened; the left-hand door, Ushahin’s door. Even as he entered, wild-eyed, Tanaros was on his feet, the black sword in his hand.

“Dreamspinner,” he said.

“Tanaros,” At the top of the stair, Ushahin swayed and caught himself. “They are at the Gate.” He gazed blankly around the Chamber. “My Lord,” he said, his voice sounding strange and hollow. “Ah, my poor Lord!”