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 mazelike 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 massive un-Inkling crimson Inns, 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.

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 hitch 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 fila-ments 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…’

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, fero-cious surge sent him sprawling, tumbling across the floor.

Awakening the Dying God. 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-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 God.

Who, finding himself face to face with Mother Dark-with the Elder Goddess in the flesh-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.’

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.’

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 un-derstand. 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 god 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, trem-bling, 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.’

Against this, the Dying God had no defence. In this embrace, the Dying God 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 God simply… 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, si lent 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?’