She nodded once, then closed her eyes. Whatever else was true, here at the end, she knew that the world was not as it had seemed. Cerelinde lifted her chin, exposing her throat. “Make it swift,” she said, her voice breaking. “Please.”

Tanaros’ upraised arms trembled. His palms were slick with sweat, stinging from the myriad cuts and scrapes he had incurred in his climbing. He was tired, very tired, and it hurt to look at her.

Elsewhere in Darkhaven, there were sounds; shouting. His Lordship was dead and the enemy was at the gates.

A blue vein pulsed beneath the fair skin of Cerelinde’s outstretched throat.

He remembered the feel of his wife’s throat beneath his hands, and the bewildered expression on Roscus’ face when he ran him through. He remembered the light fading in the face of Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost. He remembered the Bearer trembling on the verge of the Source, his dark eyes so like those of Ngurra, the Yarru elder.

I can only give you the choice, Slayer.

None of them had done such a deed as hers. Because of her, Lord Satoris, Satoris Third-Born, who was once called the Sower, was no more. For that, surely, her death was not undeserved.

“Tanaros!” Ushahin’s voice rose sharply. “Now.”

He remembered how he had knelt in the Throne Hall, his branded heart spilling over with a fury of devotion, of loyalty, and the words he had spoken. My Lord, I swear, I will never betray you!

Wherein did his duty lie?

Loyal Tanaros. It is to you I entrust my honor.

So his Lordship had said. And Ngurra, old Ngurra … Choose.

Breathing hard, Tanaros lowered his sword. He avoided looking at Cerelinde. He did not want to see her eyes opening, the sweep of her lashes rising as disbelief dawned on her beautiful face.

She whispered his name. “Tanaros!”

“Don’t.” His voice sounded as harsh as a raven’s call. “Lady, if you bear any kindness in your heart, do not thank me for this. Only go, and begone from this place.”

“But will you not—” she began, halting and bewildered.

“No.” Ushahin interrupted. “Ah, no!” He took a step forward, Godslayer still clenched in his fist, pulsing like a maddened heart. “This cannot be, Blacksword. If you will not kill her, I will.”

“No,” Tanaros said gently, raising his sword a fraction. “You will not.”

Ushahin inhaled sharply, his knuckles whitening as his grip tightened. “Will you stand against Godslayer itself?”

“Aye, I will.” Tanaros regarded him. “If you know how to invoke its might.”

For a long moment, neither moved. At last, Ushahin laughed, short and defeated. Lowering the dagger, he took a step backward. “Alas, not yet. But make no mistake, cousin. I know where the knowledge is to be found. And I will use it.”