A sardonic smile played across his lip, though the expression was self-deprecating now rather than arrogant as it once had been. “You are kind, Your Majesty. Kinder than you have either right or reason to be. Though it has been nearly five years, I have not forgotten how uncivilly I treated you at the Council of Kings, and I warrant you have not forgotten either.”

Grace winced, for it was true. She remembered well how Olstin had wheedled and cajoled, attempting to play her against King Boreas, and then—after she ordered him to step away from a serving maid he had slapped—had threatened her.

“You didn’t know at the time I was a queen, Lord Olstin.” She couldn’t help a small laugh. “Of course, I didn’t know I was a queen, either. So let’s call it even, shall we?”

“I don’t think so, Your Majesty,” Olstin said, approaching her. “You see, we are not even at all.”

Tarus cast Grace a sharp look, but she gave her head a small shake. “And why is that, Lord Olstin?”

“Because Brelegond owes you something, Your Majesty. It owes you its gratitude, and its allegiance.”

Grace was too astonished by these words to reply, but Sir Tarus took her arm, led her to the chair atop the dais (she refused to call it a throne), and sat her down. Additional chairs were placed for the guests on the step below Grace, and Tarus found a servant to bring them all wine, though Olstin chose water instead. Gradually, Grace’s shock was replaced by fascination as she listened to Olstin speak. Little news had come from the Dominion of Brelegond these last three years. It was farthest of all the seven Dominions from Malachor, and during the war it had been sorely damaged by the Onyx Knights.

The rebuilding had been slow, according to Olstin, but over time much had been accomplished. King Lysandir, who had been chained in the dungeon beneath Borelga after Brelegond fell to the Onyx Knights, had never truly recovered from his ordeal, and had passed away last winter. His niece, Eselde, had been crowned queen, and under her rule Brelegond had regained its former strength; indeed, it was stronger than it had been before the war.

“The gods know we were a foolish people, ruled by a foolish, if not unkind, man,” Olstin said. “We were the youngest of the Dominions, and so became caught up in fostering the appearance of prosperity and importance, rather than doing anything to truly beprosperous or important. However, young as she is, Eselde is quite practical. Even before her uncle died she was ruling in all but name, and she has accomplished much in a short time.”

“I’m glad,” Grace said, and she meant it. “But now, Lord Olstin, you must tell me what you need.”

Olstin laughed, wagging a finger at her. “No, Your Majesty, this rudeness I will once again do you: You must not dare to offer Brelegond help, at least not now. Much news has come to us these last years, and we are quite aware of all you have done. You have helped Brelegond, and all the Dominions, quite enough. Now it is our turn. My queen knows Brelegond is the last of the Dominions to offer allegiance to you as High Queen. We hope we shall not be the least.”

Again Grace found herself speechless as Olstin described Queen Eselde’s offer of gold, resources, and men to help in the restoration of Malachor. Grace’s first instinct was to decline; Brelegond needed these things for its own rebuilding. However, a meaningful look from Tarus reminded her that Malachor’s coffers were rather empty at the moment, and there was much work yet to be done. So she accepted, with no qualms at expressing the humbleness she felt.

“I have one other thing to offer you,” Olstin said when the business had been concluded. He gestured to the young man who had listened silently and intently throughout their conversation. “This is my nephew Alfin. For many years, out of ignorance, we forbade our young people who displayed a talent for runes or witchcraft to pursue such arts. Perhaps, if we had chosen differently, we might have stood against the Onyx Knights. Regardless, we are changing that now. Alfin has learned much on his own, but he would join your new order of Runelords, Your Majesty, if you would accept him.” He glanced at the young man fondly. “I am partial, of course, but he has talent I think.”

“I believe that remains to be seen, uncle,” the young man said, blushing. The combination of humility, fine looks, and obvious intelligence made for a fetching combination that was not lost on Grace. Or on Sir Tarus by the way the knight gazed at the other man.

“I think he looks very promising, Your Majesty,” Sir Tarus said and, for the first time in a long time, smiled.

“Indeed,” Grace said. She was still no expert on the subject of human feelings—she never would be—but she had learned enough to see that Alfin returned Tarus’s smile with far more than polite interest.

“Come,” Tarus said to the would-be Runelord. “I’ll take you to meet Master Larad.”

After the two men left, Olstin confessed his weariness from traveling, and as he pushed himself up from his chair Grace noticed the scars on his wrists; King Lysandir was not the only one who had been hung in a dungeon by the Onyx Knights. She had a servant show Olstin to a chamber upstairs, then found herself alone in the great hall.

Grace was often by herself these days. Being a queen was a lonelier job than she had imagined. But that was all right. She hadn’t become a doctor on Earth to make friends, and she hadn’t become a queen to make them, either. Although her job now wasn’t putting broken people back together, but broken kingdoms.

She glanced up. Hanging above her chair, near Durge’s Embarran greatsword and the shards of Fellring, was a banner emblazoned with a silver tower. When she first saw such an emblem, on the shield of the Onyx Knights, the tower had been set against a black background, and above it had been a red crown. However, this banner was as blue as the sea, and above the tower flew the white shapes of three gulls.

The banner had been a gift from Ulrieth, the Lord of Eversea. Two years ago, in this very hall, Grace and Ulrieth had signed a treaty, forging a peace between the lands of Malachor and Eversea. The treaty proclaimed that both kingdoms were equal and independent, that one should never seek to rule over the other, and also that should one face a threat, then the other would come to its ally’s aid.

It had been a triumphant day. Talking with Ulrieth, Grace knew that the dark spell the Runelord Kelephon had cast over Eversea was finally broken. The order of the Onyx Knights— who had slain Grace’s parents and caused so much strife in Eredane, Embarr, and Brelegond—had been disbanded.

“We are a people of peace now,” Ulrieth had said. He was a white-bearded man who carried much sorrow—and much wisdom—on his brow. “We have no more taste for war. And we remember from whence we came.”

He had shaken Grace’s hand and, after seven hundred years, Malachor was finally whole again. For after Malachor fell, some of its people had fled to the far west of Falengarth, founding the kingdom of Eversea. Many others went south, forging the seven Dominions. Grace was Mistress of the Dominions, and so with this treaty all the descendants of Malachor were united once again.

The signing of the treaty almost hadn’t happened, though, because Grace had had a difficult time coming up with twelve nobles to be her witnesses. Her kingdom was so new it didn’t have nobles. Before the signing, she had hastily made earls and countesses, barons and baronesses, of those she relied on most: Tarus, the Spiders Aldeth and Samatha, the witch Lursa, Master Graedin (much to his delight), Master Larad (much to his chagrin), and of course Falken and Melia. Both the bard and lady had protested, of course—until Grace lamented she wouldn’t have enough nobles to sign the treaty, at which point the two had relented to becoming the count and countess of Arsinda, a fiefdom between Gravenfist and Tir-Anon that these days was thickly overgrown with forest.