The empty bottle shatters when it falls from Norrington's hand, scattering jagged shards of glass across the floor. The tiny sounds of the glass pieces hitting one another are the last to quieten before the room falls silent.

The Rider stands tall in the middle of the room, a pillar of darkness in the lit room. He spreads the fingers of his right hand commandingly at the two still figures on the floor, one after the other. From his mouth comes the Spell-Speech of the Dark, momentarily dimming the light of morning that streams in through the window, and sharpening the chill of autumn into that of winter. "Forget", the Rider commands, a cold sneer twisting his mouth. "Forget."

Almost as an afterthought, he tosses the bloody dirk to clatter to rest beside Wellard's prone form. Before it comes to rest, however, the Rider is gone.