The layers of enchantments surrounding Berys came off slowly, almost physical in their intensity of evil. Some made him writhe, some made him scream—but none made him weaker.

I stopped to think. He saw this as weakness and struck out at me, snarling now like an animal. It was a very powerful attack, as though he were the stronger for losing the enchantments I had removed. I had to work a little harder to fend it off, and it drew blood.

The fool. I was in the midst of my Healers vision even as he attacked. Perhaps I did not defend myself as well as I might, but now I could see where much of his power was coming from. The shape of it, the flow of it, jogged my memory—where had I seen that? I sought that shape, that particular spell, hidden as it was among the others, woven around with misdirection. He attacked more viciously, managing to stand, but I paid only passing attention to what he was doing. Where was it now, a flow, almost like a funnel—a soul's memory of the smell of burning hair—got it!

Rathen. It was the other end of the flow of power that had been draining Rathen, that had so devastated him when I closed it from the wrong end. Close it from this end, though, and all the other Rathens would be free.

Berys fought me, furious now, sweating heavily, drawing every drop of power he could pull into himself. He gestured and a cloud of Rikti surrounded me. I dispelled them with a wave of my hand. His mouth moved, still caught in silence, and even then a dozen of the Rakshasa converged on me. I drew a deep breath and felt the Lady's power flow through me, from the great Mother earth, from the Crone now hidden in daylight, from the Laughing Girl—a sudden flash of that morning by the waterfall—fanning the white-hot fires of my soul let free at last. I gestured and bathed the Rakshasa in Her power. Screaming, they disappeared back to the Hells, where by rights they belong.

But I was being distracted. I held Berys still—it took more strength to do that than I had hoped—but still I could search through the stinking morass of his soul—wait. Something blue flashed in my vision. Was that some vestige of Berys's, own native power? Some particle of soul still uncorrupted? Surely not...

I looked deeper. Ah. No, it wasn't Berys. It was foreign to him: the funnel that supplied him with the reserves he needed to command so many of the Rakshasa. Rathen had escaped at his end by renouncing the pact. I could see no way of closing that source. I tried all the obvious ways, but nothing touched that vast river of strength. I could not close it or stop it supplying him with ever-renewed power.

I released Berys, allowing him to move. Instantly he drew out a demonline I had not seen and opened it.

"No," I said, and reaching out, crushed it.

It closed. They can only be used once. It disappeared.

Berys screamed and threw himself at me physically. I had not considered that, and it was not a trivial attack—he had the body of a man in his prime, and he easily outweighed me two to one. It might even have succeeded if he had had two hands. As it was, I was able to wrest his dagger from him and throw it over the side of the hill.

That was enough of that. Ruthlessly I stripped away his remaining armour, all in a moment, until all that remained to him was that source of power. He shook as he stood there, trying to say something.

I removed the silence. I was shaking myself. The power that raged in me felt as if it would tear me apart. I promised I would not kill him. I swore it, I must not kill him with this power.

The restraint threatened to unman me.

"Let me live," he said instantly, going down on his knees.

I sighed. Honestly, how stupid does he think I am?

"I can give you more power even than you have now," he said. 'There is a spell—I can give you all my own power, I will go through the world blind and weak, but let me live!"

"Fool," I said, and my own voice surprised me—it was deeper and more resonant, it was grown huge. I felt as if I were growing physically, as if my body could not possibly contain it all. "Are you even now so blind? Behold," I said, and let him See me. The flame that I had held caged those long years roared now, searing what it touched, blending with the Lady's healing power and reinforcing it. A lick of blue flame snapped out, of its own accord, and struck Berys like a physical blow. He fell back, measuring bis length on the ground.

"Master," he said, as if in awe. "You are the greatest Mage that has ever lived. Let me serve you!" He scrabbled to his knees. "I have ways of learning that which is hidden, I can help you to your heart's desire, I can give you that which no other knows of..."

"Be silent!" I commanded, angry with myself that I could still not stop the flow of the corrupted Healers' power to him. "You could have nothing that I would ever desire."

He smiled and reached inside his robes. "Indeed? What of this?'

He drew out—Goddess, it was a human heart! No, no, it was only shaped like a heart, made of that stone the jewellers call bloodstone, that seems to bleed red when it is cut. It was incredibly detailed, for a carven stone ...

Berys's eyes gleamed when he saw my curiosity. I realised full well that he was regaining his strength as he played for time, but I was intrigued. I did not fear anything that Berys could do to me.

"The Distant Heart," he whispered. "It is the Distant Heart of the Demonlord. Say you will spare me and it is yours."

Berys was down. He had been down before, screaming even though Vilkas didn't touch him physically, but he'd gotten up again and gone to stab the lad. He failed at that, too.

I thought at first I was seeing a cruel streak in Vilkas, playing with Berys like that, but in the midst of trying to keep out of the reach of demons, and as Vilkas dragged things out, I realised— he's barely twenty. He doesn't know what to do now he's got Berys in his power. And he's a Healer, they can't kill intentionally without corrupting themselves forever.

I, on the other hand, owed Berys recompense for half a lifetime of wrongs. I owed him for teaching Maran what fear was; I owed him for the demons he sent that chased her away from my side and kept her from knowing her daughter; I owed him for all the ills that had beset my Lanen this last year, and finally, least but greatest, I owed him revenge for the life of the innocent, nameless babe he and Marik had sacrificed to make the Farseer, without a thought to its parents, without a care for its wasted life, a quarter of a century ago. To a fiend like Berys, life was a game, and it did not matter who was murdered or trampled underfoot, so long as he won.

Berys was on his knees now, but I'd seen Varien's sword cut him in two with no effect. There had to be some way to get to him—oh. Oh, that might work.

I reached over to Lanen, who was fighting still but growing weary even as I watched. I must be quick.

I sliced open her scrip and caught the soulgem Kedra had given her as it fell out. She didn't have time to notice.

Somehow I didn't think old Shikrar would mind helping one more time.

It was harder than it sounds to stab Berys to the heart and push the gleaming red soulgem into the wound before it could heal, but I managed it.

At first Vilkas cried out nearly as loud as Berys, the difference being that Berys kept on screaming.

I have never in all my years before or since taken joy in ending a life, but by all that's holy, I did that day.

The edges of the wound began to turn black and shrivel. Berys was still alive, still screaming, as he began to smoke: Suddenly Shikrar's soulgem was surrounded by flame.

Berys was burning. He had enough strength to try to heal himself for quite some time, but there was never any question what the outcome would be. He was too terrified to realise that he was prolonging his own agony.