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.”
Tanaros nodded. “As his Lordship intended. But you will not use it today, Dreamspinner.” He turned to Cerelinde. “Take the right-hand door. It leads in a direct path to the quarters of Vorax of Staccia, who died this day, as did so many others. No one will look for you there.” He paused, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his left hand. “If you are fortunate,” he said roughly, “you may live.”
Her eyes were luminous and grey, glistening with tears. “Will you not come with me, Tanaros?”
“No.” If his heart had not been breaking at his Lordship’s death, at the death of all who had fallen this day, it might have broken at her beauty. “Lady, I cannot.”
“You can!” she breathed. “You can still—”
“Cerelinde.” Reaching out with his free hand, Tanaros touched her cheek. Her skin was cool and smooth beneath his fingertips, damp with tears. A Man could spend an eternity loving her, and it would not be long enough. But she had slain his Lordship. Arahila the Fair might forgive her for it, but Tanaros could not. “No.”
She gazed at him. “What will you do?”
“What do you think?” He smiled wearily. “I will die, Cerelinde. I will die with whatever honor is left to me.” He moved away, pointing toward the right-hand door with the tip of his sword. “Now go.”
“Tanaros.” She took a step toward him. “Please …”
“Go!” he shouted. “Before I change my mind!”
The Lady of the Ellylon bowed her head. “So be it.”
Ushahin watched her leave.
As much as he despised her, the Chamber was darker for her absence. It had been a place of power, once. For a thousand years, it had been no less. Now it was only a room, an empty room with a scorched hole in the floor and an echo of loss haunting its corners, a faint reek of coppery-sweet blood in the air.
“What now, cousin?” he asked Tanaros.
Tanaros gazed at his hands, still gripping his sword; strong and capable, stained with ichor. “It was his Lordship’s will,” he murmured. “He entrusted me with his honor.”
“So you say.” Ushahin thrust Godslayer into his belt and stooped to retrieve the case that held the sundered Helm of Shadows. “Of a surety, he entrusted me with the future, and I would fain see his will done.”
“Aye.” Tanaros gathered himself. “Haomane’s Allies are at the Gate?”
Ushahin nodded. “They are. I bid the Havenguard to hold it.”
“Good.” The General touched a pouch that hung from his swordbelt. His haunted gaze focused on Ushahin. “Dream-spinner. You can pass between places, hidden from the eyes of mortal Men. I know, I have ridden with you. Can you use such arts to yet escape from Haomane’s Allies?”
“Perhaps.” Ushahin hesitated. “It will not be easy. Not with the Host of the Rivenlost at our Gate, the Soumanië at work, and Malthus the Counselor among them.”
Tanaros smiled grimly. “I mean to provide them with a distraction.”
“It will have to be swift. If the Lady escapes to tell her tale, they will spare no effort to capture Godslayer.” Unaccountably, Ushahin’s throat ached. His words came unbidden, painful and accusatory. “Why did you do it, Tanaros? Why?”
The delicate traceries of marrow-fire lingering in the stone walls were growing dim. The hollows of Tanaros’ eyes were filled with shadows. “What would you have me answer? That I betrayed his Lordship in the end?”
“Perhaps.” Ushahin swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “For it seems to me you did love her, cousin.”
“Does it?” In the gloaming light, Tanaros laughed softly. “In some other life, it seems to me I might have. In this one, it was not to be. And yet, I could not kill her.” He shook his head. “Was it strength or weakness that stayed my hand? I do not know, any more than I know why his Lordship allowed her to take his life. In the end, I fear it will fall to you to answer.”
A silence followed his words. Ushahin felt them sink into his awareness and realized for the first time the enormity of the burden that had settled on his crooked shoulders. He thought of the weavers in the gulch, spinning their endless patterns; of Calanthrag in her swamp with the vastness of time behind her slitted eyes. He laid his hand upon Godslayer’s rough hilt, feeling the pulse of its power; the power of the Souma itself, capable of Shaping the world. The immensity of it humbled him, and his bitterness gave way to grief and a strange tenderness. “Ah, cousin! I will try to be worthy of it.”
“So you shall.” Tanaros regarded him affection and regret. “His Lordship bid me teach you to hold a blade. Even then, he must have suspected. I do not envy you the task, Dreamspinner. And yet, it is fitting. In some ways, you were always the strongest of the Three. You are the thing Haomane’s Allies feared the most, the shadow of things to come.” Switching his sword to his left hand, he extended his right. “We waste time we cannot afford. Will you not bid me farewell?”
Here at the end, they understood one another at last.