"Right." With a prodigious effort, Vorax filled his lungs, then exhaled. He was tired, his blistered skin stung and his knees ached, but he was one of the Three, and he had sworn his oath a long, long time ago. "What now, my Lord?"
"Vengeance," Satoris said softly, "for one who was a friend, once. Protection, for us. There is something I must do, a grave and dire thing. It is for this, and this alone, that I have taken Godslayer from the marrow-fire. And I have a task for you, Vorax, that will put an end this talk of my Elder Brother's Prophecy."
"Aye, my Lord!" Relief outweighed remorse as Vorax reached for his sword-hilt. To slay a defenseless woman was no welcome chore, but such was the nature of the bargain he had made. Immortality and plenitude for him; peace and prosperity for Staccia. It was the only sensible course, and he was glad his Lordship had seen it at last. One stroke, and the Prophecy would be undone. She would not suffer, he would see to that. It would be swift and merciful, and done in time for supper. "Elterrion's granddaughter will be dead ere dawn, I promise you."
"No!"
Vorax winced at the thunderous word, relinquishing his hilt.
"No," the Shaper repeated, leaning forward on the throne. The sweet reek of blood mingled with the distant stench of sulfur, and his eyes burned like red embers through the Helm's dark slits. "I am not my Brother, Staccian. I will play this game with honor, in my own way. I will not let Haomane strip that from me, and force me to become all that he has named me." His voice dripped contempt. "I will not become the thing that I despise. I will assail my enemies as they assail me. The Lady Cerelinde—" he lifted one admonishing finger from Godslayer, "—is my guest. She is not to be harmed."
"As you will." Vorax licked his lips. Had his Lordship gone mad? He pushed the thought away, trying not to remember stormclouds piling high over Darkhaven, a foul rain falling, seething flesh. What did it matter if he had? After all, Satoris Third-Born had reason enough for anger. And he, Vorax of Staccia, had sworn an oath, was bound and branded by it, upon a shard of the Souma itself. There was no gainsaying it. To be foresworn was to die. "What, then?"
"Your work lies in the north." Satoris smiled with grim satisfaction. "Malthus erred. He spent his strength shielding his Bearer from my sight, but he cannot conceal the lad's path through the Marasoumië. I know where he lit. The one who would extinguish the marrow-fire is in the north, Vorax. Send a company; Men you trust, and Fjel to aid them. Find the Bearer, and kill him. Let the vial he carries be shattered, and the Water of Life spilled harmless upon the barren earth."
"My Lord." A simple task, after all. Relieved, he bowed. "It will be done."
"Good." Satoris regarded Godslayer, turning the shard in his fingers. "Ushahin comes apace," he mused, forgetting the Staccian's presence, "and Tanaros has his orders, though he likes them not. You must be consigned to the marrow-fire, my bitter friend, for you are too dangerous to be kept elsewhere. But first; ah, first! We have a task to accomplish, you and I."
"My Lord?" Vorax waited, then inquired, uncertain if his services were needed.
The eye slits of the Helm turned his way, filled with all the darkness and agony of a dying world. "It is time to close the Marasoumië," Lord Satoris said. "Now, while Malthus is trapped within it, before he regains his strength."
"Now? Then how will Tanaros and—"
"Now!" The Shaper pounded a clenched fist on the arm of the throne. Behind the Helm, his teeth were bared in a rictus. "Understand, Vorax! Aracus Altorus has seized one of the Soumanië! Does he gain mastery over it, with two Soumanië to hand, he and my Elder Brother's Counselor could control the Ways. If I do this thing now, then Malthus remains trapped, and the son of Altorus remains ignorant of his counsel. Is that not worth any price?"
There was only one answer, and Vorax gave it. "Aye, my Lord."
"So be it," Satoris said, taking hold of the dagger with both hands. "And you shall bear witness." In his grip, Godslayer's light intensified, bright as a rising sun. "Ah! It burns! Uru-Alat, how it burns!" Rubescent light exploded in the Chamber, and Vorax's branded chest contracted. Struggling for breath, he dropped back to his knees. There he saw Satoris rising triumphant, a vast figure of darkness. Held aloft, Godslayer pulsed in his fist, bleeding light. It was a shard of the Souma itself, filled with the power of the world's birth. Light seemed to illume the Shaper's bones beneath his obdurate flesh, streamed from the wound in his thigh.