Absolutely not, Gabriel said.

He dismounted, and walked wearily through the gate, waving at the sentries and the murmured “good nights” of his people.

His great red pavilion was set up just inside the gate. It was instantly warm; a pleasant night, and he walked into the pavilion to find every evidence that there had been a fine party. Tom Lachlan was asleep, his head down on the table, snoring, with Sukey sprawled in the next chair; Anne Woodstock lay with her head in Toby’s lap on the carpet; and Michael lay asleep with Kaitlin’s head on his shoulder and their daughter between them. Master Nicodemus was asleep; Mortirmir was asleep with Tancreda by him, an untouched cup of wine in her hand; Francis Atcourt was stretched full length on the far side of the table from Toby; de Beause appeared awake at first, but he had fallen asleep in his armour.

Gabriel looked around at all of them, and his first thought of annoyance was replaced with a simple warmth. He wanted to cry. It was an absurd feeling.

And then Blanche was there. “I stayed awake,” she said softly. “I hoped you would come back.”

“You are a wise maiden,” he said.

“There is, in fact, still oil in my lamp,” she said.

“Is that a double entendre?” he asked.

“Did you want me to help you with your armour?” she asked. “Or just walk off and leave you to your fate?”

And a few quiet moments later, he had a hand on her belly and was listening to his son or daughter move.

“You should sleep,” she said.

He shook his head. “I don’t want to sleep,” he said. “I want this cup taken from me. I want time to stop.”

She kissed him. “At least, if we cannot make time stand still,” she said, “we can make him run.”

He laughed. “I love you,” he said.

She laughed with sadness, because weeping would waste time.

Sunset. The long, pleasant sunset of the last world; a world cleared of predators by the Odine. Through the gate, Gabriel could just see snow falling from the open doors of his red pavilion. Today the emperor’s pavilion was almost empty, and he stood in the vast red space while Jon Gang and Hamwise and Woodstock put him in his newly polished golden armour. His officers came through and there was little talk—an embrace or a handshake, and not much more. Ser Michael came in and took a whetstone and sharpened his dagger.

Morgon Mortirmir came in and stood watching them. “I finished felling the weapons,” he said. “It’s done. All the casa. Most of the company. Really, all of them, but some of them wanted daggers as well as spears, and I’m not—”

“Morgon,” Gabriel said.

The young magister flushed.

“We’ve defeated the shadow, the will, and the rebel,” he said. “We’ll win.”

Mortirmir nodded. His hands were shaking.

Gabriel went and took them.