His Men did speak, then, relating what she had told them. Behind them, others emerged from the depths of Darkhaven, escorting Vorax’s handmaids and an unarmed horde of weeping, babbling madlings. Aracus listened gravely to his Borderguard. “Get torches. Find the lad and his uncle,” he said to them. “And Godslayer; Godslayer, above all. It lies in the possession of the Misbegotten, and he cannot have gotten far. Search every nook and cranny. He will be found.” He turned back to Cerelinde. “Ah, love!” he said, his voice breaking. “Your courage shames us all.”

Cerelinde shook her head and looked away, remembering the way Godslayer had sunk into Satoris’ unresisting flesh. “I did only what I believed was needful.”

Aracus took her hand in his gauntleted fingers. “We have paid a terrible price, all of us,” he said gently. “But we have won a great victory, my Lady.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

She yearned to find comfort in his touch, in that quickening mortal ardor that burned so briefly and so bright. There was none. It had been the Gift of Satoris Third-Born, and she had slain him.

He had spoken the truth. And she had become the thing that she despised.

“Come,” Aracus said. “Let us seek Malthus’ counsel.”

He led her across the courtyard, filled with milling warriors and dying Fjeltroll. They died hard, it seemed. A few of them looked up from where they lay, weltering in their own gore, and met her eyes without fear. They had seemed so terrifying, once. It was no longer true.

Malthus was kneeling, his robes trailing in puddles of blood. He straightened at her approach. “Lady Cerelinde,” he said in his deep voice. “I mourn the losses of the Rivenlost this day.”

“I thank you, Wise Counselor.” The words caught in her throat, choking her. She had seen that which his keeling body had hidden. “Ah, Haomane!”

“Fear not, Lady.” It was a strange woman who spoke. In one hand, she held a mighty bow wrought of horn. Though her face was strained with grief, her voice was implacable. “Tanaros Kingslayer is no more.”

Cerelinde nodded, not trusting her voice.

Though half a dozen arrows bristled from his body, Tanaros looked peaceful in death. His unseeing eyes were open, fixed on nothing. A slight smile curved his lips. His limbs were loose, the taut sinews unstrung at last, the strong hands slack and empty. A smear of blood was across his brow, half-hidden by an errant lock of hair.

The scent of vulnus-blossom haunted her.

We hold within ourselves the Gifts of all the Seven Shapers and the ability to Shape a world of our choosing … .

Cerelinde shuddered.