It crossed his thoughts to send them to Vorax’s quarters. There was time, yet, for the Ellyl bitch to pay for her sins. It would be a fitting ending for her. But the memory of the shadowed pain haunting Tanaros’ eyes forestalled him.

Was it strength or weakness that stayed my hand?

Ushahin did not know. The question begged an answer, and he had an immortality in which to find it … if he lived through the next hour. If he did not, nothing would matter. And vengeance was unimportant in comparison with fulfilling his Lordship’s will and taking his place in the pattern that bound him.

“Do you know which mount is mine?” he asked instead. “Bring it round to the postern gate near the kitchens.”

The silent madling boy, the one who loved horses, pelted away at a dead run. Ushahin let the others escort him. His people, his wailing, keening throng. It would hurt to leave them. They passed through the kitchens, the fires burned down to unbanked embers, untended for the first time in memory, crowding through the door after him, surrounding him at the postern gate.

There was the stablehand, holding the bridle of his blood-bay stallion.

It was time.

Ushahin lashed the Helm’s case to his saddle. He touched Godslayer’s hilt, making certain it was secure in his belt. He mounted his horse.

“Remember,” he said to them. “Remember Satoris, Third-Born among Shapers. Remember he was kind to you when the world was not.”

The wailing throng swirled and parted, then Meara was there, clutching his stirrup, her tearstained face lifted upward.

“Forgive me,” she gasped. “Oh please, oh please, my Lord, forgive me!”

He gazed down at her, thinking what a piece of irony it was that his Lordship’s downfall should have hinged in part on such a small matter. It was true, Ushahin had failed his madlings. He alone had understood their longings, their vulnerability. He had let himself grow overly concerned with great dangers, forgetful of the small ones. Did he not owe Meara compassion? It was a fit counterpoint to the act of vengeance he had forgone.

An act of honor; a small kindness. Things his enemies would never acknowledge.

Leaning down in the saddle, Ushahin laid his misshapen left hand upon her head. “Meara of Darkhaven. In Satoris’ name, I do forgive you.”

Her eyes grew wide. Ushahin smiled his crooked smile.

“Farewell,” he said to them. “When you remember his Lordship, think of me.”

Straightening, he invoked the dark magic taught to him long ago by the Grey Dam of the Were, letting his waking awareness drift. The world shifted in his vision, leached of color. The madlings’ voices faded, and Meara’s last of all.

He beheld the paths between and set out upon them.

THE COURTYARD WAS A PLACE of slaughter.