The blind Tiste Andii shrieked, and his blood poured over the packed bodies.

Slain by his own child. And the web drank deep its maker's blood.

Someone crawled alongside Ditch. He struggled to focus with his one dying and dying dying eye. A broad face, the skin flaking off in patches, long thick hair of black slashed through with red. She held a flint knife in one hand. eye. A broad face, the skin flaking off in patches, long thick hair of black slashed through with red. She held a flint knife in one hand.

'Take it,' he whispered. 'Take it quick-'

And so she did.

Agonizing pain, fire stabbing deep into his skull, and then . . . everything began to fade.

And the child G.o.d, having killed, now dies.

Only one man wept for it, red tears streaming down. Only one man even knew what it had done.

Was it enough?

Apsal'ara saw Anomander Rake pause, and then look down. He smiled. 'Go, with my blessing.'

'Where?'

'You will know soon enough.'

She looked deep into his shining eyes, even as they darkened, and darkened, and darkened yet more. Until she realized what she was seeing, and a breath cold as ice rushed over her. She cried out, recalling where she had felt that cold before- And Apsal'ara, Mistress of Thieves, tossed him the b.l.o.o.d.y eye of the G.o.d.

He caught it one-handed.

'A keepsake,' she whispered, and then rolled clear.

For this wagon was no place to be. Not with what was about to happen.

The pattern sank down, through the heaped forms, even as the Gate of Darkness rose up to meet it.

Wander no longer.

Anomander Rake, still standing, head tilted back, arms raised, began to dissolve, shred away, as the Gate took hold of him, as it fed upon him, upon the Son of Darkness. Upon what he desired, what he willed to be. willed to be.

Witnessing this, Draconus sank down to his knees.

He finally understood what was happening. He finally understood what Anomander Rake had planned, all along this, this wondrous thing.

Staring upward, he whispered, 'You ask my forgiveness? When you unravel what I have done, what I did so long ago? When you heal what I wounded, when you mend what I broke?' He raised his voice to a shout. 'Rake! There is no forgiveness you must seek not from me, G.o.ds below, not from any of us!' not from any of us!'

But there was no way to know if he had been heard. The man that had been Anomander Rake was scattered into the realm of Kurald Galain, on to its own long-sealed path that might just might lead to the very feet of Mother Dark.

Who had turned away.

'Mother Dark,' Draconus whispered. 'I believe you must face him now. You must turn to your children. I believe your son insists insists. He demands it. Open your eyes, Mother Dark. See what he has done! For you, for the Tiste Andii but not for himself. See! See and know what he has done!' He demands it. Open your eyes, Mother Dark. See what he has done! For you, for the Tiste Andii but not for himself. See! See and know what he has done!'

Darkness awakened, the pattern grasping hold of the Gate itself, and sinking, sinking down, pa.s.sing beyond Dragnipur, leaving for ever the dread sword- In the Temple of Shadow, in the city of Black Coral that drowned in poison rain, Clip and the G.o.d within him stood above the huddled form of Endest Silann.

This game was over. All pleasure in the victory had palled in the absurd, stubborn resistance of the old man.

The rings spun, round and round from one hand, as he drew a dagger with the other. Simple, messy, yes, but succinct, final.

And then he saw the floor suddenly awaken with black, seething strands, forming a pattern, and icy cold breath rose in a long sigh. The sheets of spilling rain froze the instant each droplet reached the cold air, falling to shatter on the heaved cobbles and broken tesserae. And that cold lifted yet higher.

The Dying G.o.d frowned.

The pattern was spreading to cover the entire floor of the altar chamber, swarming outward. It looked strangely misshapen, as if the design possessed more dimensions than were visible.

The entire temple trembled.

Crouched on a berm at the crest of a forested slope, Spindle and Monkrat stared up at the sky directly above Black Coral. As a strange maze-like pattern appeared in the air, burgeoning out to the sides even as it began sinking down on to the city.

They saw the moment when a tendril of that pattern touched the sleeping dragon perched on its spire, and they saw it spread its wings out in ma.s.sive unfolding crimson fans, saw its head lifting on its long neck, jaws opening.

And Silanah roared.

A sound that deafened. A cry of grief, of rage, of unleashed intent intent.

It launched itself into that falling pattern, that falling sky, and sailed out over the city.

Spindle laughed a vicious laugh. 'Run, Gradithan. Run all you like! That fiery b.i.t.c.h is hunting you!'

Aranatha stepped through, Nimander following. Gasping, he tore his hand free for her grip had become a thing of unbearable cold, burning, too deadly to touch.

He stumbled to one side.

She had halted at the very edge of an enormous altar chamber. Where a bizarre, ethereal pattern was raining down from the domed ceiling, countless linked filaments of black threads, slowly descending, even as other tendrils rose from the floor itself.

And Nimander heard her whisper, 'The Gate. How . . . oh, my dearest son . . . oh, Anomander . . .' oh, Anomander . . .'

Clip stood in the centre of the chamber, and he turned round upon the arrival of Aranatha and Nimander.

The rings spun out on their lengths of chain and then stopped, caught in the pattern, the chains shivering taut.

Sudden agony lit Clip's face.

There was a snap as the looped chain bit through his index finger and the rings spun and whirled up and away, speared in the pattern. Racing along every thread, ever faster, until they were nothing but blurs, and then even that vanished.

Nimander stepped past Aranatha and leapt forward, straight for Clip.

Who had staggered to one side, looking down as if seeking his severed finger somewhere at his feet. On his face, shock and pain, bewilderment- He had ever underestimated Nimander. An easy mistake. Mistakes often were.

So like his sire, so slow to anger, but when that anger arrived . . . Nimander grasped Clip by the front of his jerkin, swung him off his feet and in a single, ferocious surge sent him sprawling, tumbling across the floor.

Awakening the Dying G.o.d. Blazing with rage, it regained its feet and whirled to face Nimander.

Who did not even flinch as he prepared to advance to meet it, unsheathing his sword.

A fluttering touch on his shoulder stayed him.

Aranatha who was no longer Aranatha who was no longer Aranatha stepped past him. stepped past him.

But no, her feet were not even touching the floor. She rose yet higher, amidst streams of darkness that flowed down like silk, and she stared down upon the Dying G.o.d.

Who, finding himself face to face with Mother Dark with the Elder G.o.ddess in the flesh quailed quailed. Shrinking back, diminished.

She does not reach through not any more. She is here. Mother Dark is here.

And Nimander heard her say, 'Ah, my son . . . I accept.' I accept.'

The Gate of Darkness wandered no more. Was pursued no longer. The Gate of Darkness had found a new home, in the heart of Black Coral.

Lying in a heap of mangled flesh and bone, dying, Endest Silann rose from the river thing of memory and of truth, that had kept him alive for so long and opened his eyes. The High Priestess knelt at his side, one hand brushing his cheek. 'How,' she whispered, 'how could he ask this of you? How could he know-'

Through his tears, he smiled. 'All that he has ever asked of us, of me, and Spinnock Durav, and so many others, he has given us in return. Each and every time. This . . . this is his secret. Don't you understand, High Priestess? We served the one who served us.'

He closed his eyes then, as he felt another presence one he had never imagined he would ever feel again. And in his mind, he spoke, 'For you, Mother, he did this. For us, he did this. He has brought us all home. He has brought us all home.' He has brought us all home.'

And she replied in his mind then, her voice rising from the depths below, from the river where he had found his strength. His strength to hold, one last time. As his Lord had asked him to. As his Lord had known he would do. She said, I understand. Come to me, then. I understand. Come to me, then.

The water between us, Endest Silann, is clear.

The water is clear.

As the ruined, lifeless remnant that had once been Seerdomin was flung to one side, Salind prepared to resume her attack, at last upon the Redeemer himself- The G.o.d who had once been Itkovian silent, wondering witness to a defence of unimaginable courage now lifted his head. He could feel a presence. More than one. A mother. A son. Apart for so long, and now they were entwined in ways too mysterious, too ineffable, to grasp. And then, in a flood, he was made to comprehend the truth of gifts, the truth of redemption. He gasped.

'I am . . . shown. I am shown . . .'

And down he marched to meet her.

'Thank you, Anomander Rake, for this unexpected gift. My hidden friend. And . . . fare you well.'

The Redeemer, on his barrow of worthless wealth, need not stand outside, need not face Darkness. No, he could walk forward now, into that realm.

Down through the thinning, watery rain to where she stood, uncertain, trembling, on the very edge of abandonment.

He took Salind into his embrace.

And, holding her close, he spoke these words: 'Bless you, that you not be taken. Bless you, that you begin in your time and that you end in its fullness. Bless you, in the name of the Redeemer, in my name, against the cruel harvesters of the soul, the takers of life. Bless you, that your life and each life shall be as it is written, for peace is born of completion.' 'Bless you, that you not be taken. Bless you, that you begin in your time and that you end in its fullness. Bless you, in the name of the Redeemer, in my name, against the cruel harvesters of the soul, the takers of life. Bless you, that your life and each life shall be as it is written, for peace is born of completion.'

Against this, the Dying G.o.d had no defence. In this embrace, the Dying G.o.d came to believe that he had not marched to the Redeemer, but that the Redeemer had summoned him. An invitation he could not have seen, nor recognized. To heal what none other could heal.

Here in this pure Darkness. At the very Gate of Mother Dark, there was, in fact, no other possible place for rebirth.

The Dying G.o.d simply . . . slipped away. slipped away.

And Salind, why, she felt soft in his arms.

The Redeemer leaves judgement to others. This frees him, you see, to cleanse all.

And the water is clear between them.

The ashes drifted down upon a still, silent scene. The legions of chaos were gone from Dragnipur, their quarry vanished. The wagon stood motionless, riven with fissures. Draconus looked round and he could see how few of the Chained were left. So many obliterated, devoured. His gaze settled for a moment upon the patch of ground where the demon Pearl had made its stand, where it had fallen, defiant to the very end.

He saw the soldier named Iskar Jarak, sitting astride his horse and staring up at the place where Anomander Rake had been, there on top of the now motionless, silent bodies not one of whom bore any remnant of the vast tattoo.

Draconus walked up to stand beside him. 'You knew him, didn't you?'

Iskar Jarak nodded. 'He called me a friend.'

Draconus sighed. 'I wish I could say the same. I wish . . . I wish I could have known him better than I did.' He heard someone approaching and turned to see Hood. 'Lord of Death, now what? We remain chained; we cannot leave as did the Bridgeburners and the Grey Swords. There are too few of us to pull the wagon, even had we anywhere to go. I see, I understand what Rake has done, and I do not hold him any ill will. But now, I find myself wishing I had joined the others. To find an end to this-' Iskar Jarak grunted and then said, 'You spoke true, Draconus, when you said you did not know him well.'

Draconus scowled. 'What do you mean?'

'He means,' said Hood, 'we now come to the final act in this bargain. He has been true to his word, but now what comes is out of his hands. He wrought a promise, yes, but will that suffice?'

'Shame on you, Hood,' said Iskar Jarak, gathering up the reins. 'There is not a fool out there who would betray the Son of Darkness, not in this, not even now though he has left us, though he has returned to his Mother's realm.'

'You chastise me, Iskar Jarak?'

'I do.'

The Jaghut snorted. 'Accepted,' he said.

Barathol sat on the cobbles, feeling as if every bone in his body was fractured, as if every muscle was bruised. He wanted to throw up, but struggled against the impulse, lest the convulsions kill him. He glanced yet again at that sprawled corpse with the sword embedded in its face and skull. He could see the broad, deep puncture wounds on one thigh, where the Hound had picked it up. No blood leaked from them.

Antsy came over and crouched down. 'Look at what we run into here. There's beast blood everywhere, and you, y'd.a.m.ned idiot, you stood down one of them monsters with a d.a.m.ned axe!'

'Help me up, will you?'

Antsy stared, then sighed. 'We'd need the ox for that you're big as a bhederin. Fine, I'll squat here and you try using me like I was a ladder, but don't blame me if my knees buckle.'

Another carriage had drawn up a short time earlier, and before it stood the High Alchemist Baruk the one who'd turned them away and beside him a warrior with Barghast blood, an enormous hammer strapped to his back. This one walked up to stare down at the dead Tiste Andii.

Barathol pulled himself upright, Antsy grunting under his weight, and then straightened with a soft word of thanks. He glanced over to study the others still remaining. The Toblakai warrior and the woman who seemed to be his companion. The two other Toblakai, young women possibly even children who might have been sisters, and a large dog bearing more scars than seemed possible. Great Ravens still lined the roof edges, or huddled like black, demonic gnomes on the street itself, silent as wraiths.

The dawn's golden sunlight streamed through the smoke hanging over the city, and he could hear nothing of the normal wakening bustle that should have already begun filling Darujhistan's streets.

Beyond this immediate gathering, others were appearing. Citizens, guards, blank-faced and empty of words, numb as refugees, none drawing too close but seemingly unwilling to leave.

The High Alchemist was standing a respectful distance away from the Barghast and the dead Tiste Andii, watching with sorrow-filled eyes. He then spoke, 'Caladan Brood, what he sought must-'

'Wait,' rumbled the Barghast. 'It must wait.' He bent down then, reached out and grasped hold of the blackbladed sword. And, with little ceremony, he worked the weapon loose, and then straightened once more.