The Counselor’s gaze returned, fixing him. His Ellyl blade swept up into a warding position. To Tanaros’ vision, it seemed limned with pale fire. He laughed aloud, raising his own sword. It burned with dark fire; a wound in the sky, quenched in black ichor. Step by halting step, Tanaros advanced on them.
Oronin’s Bow sang out, over and over.
Arrows thudded into his flesh, slowing him. There was pain, distant and unrelated. The air had grown as thick as honey. Tanaros waded through it, shafts protruding from his left thigh, his right shoulder, clustering at his torso. Ellylon and Men assailed him; he swatted their blades away, his black sword shearing steel. One step, then another and another, until he reached the Counselor.
Tanaros raised the black sword for a final blow.
“Malthus,” he said. “I am here.”
Or did he only think the words? The echoes of Oronin’s Bow made it hard to hear. Tanaros fought for breath, his lungs constricted. He felt his grip loosen on the hilt of his sword; his hands, his capable hands, failing him at last. The black sword fell from his hands. The Counselor’s face slid sideways in his vision. Malthus’ lips were moving, shaping inaudible words. The light of the clear Soumanië he bore struck Tanaros with the force of Haomane’s Wrath.
It hurt to look at it, so Tanaros turned his head, looking toward the Defile Gate. The world was growing dark. He understood that he was on his knees, swaying. The flagstones were hard, and sticky with blood; most likely his own. Here at the end, the pain was intense. All his myriad wounds hurt, and his branded heart ached with loss and longing. He fumbled at his breast, finding the shaft of another arrow.
He understood that he was dying.
There was shouting, somewhere, joyous and triumphant. There were Fjel in isolated knots, battling and dying. And there, beyond the Defile Gate, was a bright specter, moving unseen among the wraithlike figures of the living, bearing a spark of scarlet fire. Only Tanaros, caught between life and death, could see it.
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.”
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.
She could not allow herself to weep for his death; not here. Perhaps not ever. Lifting her head, she gazed at Aracus. He was a choice she had made. He returned her gaze, his storm-blue eyes somber. There would be no gloating over this victory. His men had told her of the losses they had endured on the battlefield, of Blaise Caveros and Lord Ingolin the Wise, and many countless others.
She saw the future they would shape together stretching out before her. Although the shadow of loss and sorrow would lay over it, there would be times of joy, too. For the brief time that was alotted them together, they would find healing in one another, and in the challenge of bringing their races together in harmony.