He watched it dwindle and vanish, passing out of sight.

It seemed Ushahin Dreamspinner took the light with him, for darkness fell like a veil over his eyes. Tanaros thought of the events that had brought him to die in this place and found he could no longer conjure the old rage. The memory of his wife, of his liege-lord, had grown dim. Had they mattered so much to him once? It seemed very distant. He thought of Cerelinde standing beneath the shadow of his blade, awaiting death; and he remembered, too, how she had smiled at him in the glade of the rookery, making his heart glad.

He wished he could see her face once more and knew it was too late.

The sounds of the courtyard faded. The light of Malthus’ Soumanië diminished, until it was no more troublesome than a distant star. The bonds that had circumscribed his heart for so long loosened, falling away. He had kept his vow. His Lordship’s honor was untarnished. Godslayer, freed, would remain in Ushahin’s hands. Tanaros had spent the coin of his death wisely.

His heart, which had beat faithfully for so many centuries, thudded; once, twice. No more. It subsided into stillness, a long-delayed rest.

There was only the long peace of death, beckoning to him like a lover.

Tanaros met it smiling.

ARACUS’ VOICE CUT THROUGH THE clamor of ragged cheers and shouts that greeted her appearance, filled with relief and joy.

“Cerelinde!”

She stood on the steps of Darkhaven, gazing at the carnage in silent horror. Everywhere, there was death and dying; Men, Ellylon, Fjel. Aracus picked his way across the courtyard, making his way to her side.

She watched him come. He looked older than she remembered, his face drawn with weariness. His red-gold hair was dark with sweat, his armor splashed with gore. In one hand, he held the hilt of a shattered sword, set with a dimly flickering gem. A pebble of the Souma, smooth as a drop of blood. Her palm itched, remembering the feel of Godslayer pulsing against her skin.

“Cerelinde.” Aracus stood before her on the steps, searching her eyes. The Borderguardsmen who had found her in Vorax’s quarters began to speak. He silenced them with a gesture, all his urgent attention focused on her. “Are you … harmed?”

“No.” She fought the urge to laugh in despair. “I killed him.”

For a moment, he merely gazed at her, uncomprehending. “The … Sunderer?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “The Shaper.”