In addition to her own homegrown nobles, King Vedarr of Embarr had attended the ceremony; it had been good to see the grizzled old knight—now the ruler of Embarr—who had helped to defend Gravenfist so staunchly. King Kylar of Galt had also come. The king no longer looked so young, and while he still stuttered, people had stopped calling him Kylar the Unlucky. Rather, he was called Kylar the Rock, for during the war, and against overwhelming odds, he had held back the Onyx Knights who had tried to press into Galt from Eredane.

The new king of Eredane was also at the signing. His name was Evren, and he was a distant cousin of former Queen Eminda, who had perished at the Council of Kings. It had been hard for Eredane to find an heir to its throne, for the Onyx Knights had murdered virtually all in the royal line. However, the people of Eredane seemed to have done well in rallying behind Evren, for he was a thoughtful, well-spoken man.

Grace had believed all was in order, but two days before the signing she found she was still one noble short. She had counted herself among the twelve needed to witness the document, only to discover Ulrieth had twelve in addition to himself. Luckily, at the last moment, she realized there was one more noble she could call upon. A messenger was sent with the fastest horse in Malachor down the Queen’s Way to the petty kingdom of Kelcior. Two days later, just minutes before the treaty signing, he arrived in all his bluster and swagger. He had burst through the doors of the great hall, and the first words out of his mouth were—

“Hello there, Queenie!”

Grace gasped as the booming voice shocked her out of her reverie, though for a dazed moment she wondered if he wasn’t a figment of her memory. But no, his burly figure couldn’t be anything but real. After three years of growth—and with the help of a witch’s potion, some rumored—his red beard was bushier than ever. And, if it was possible, he seemed even larger than the last time she had seen him.

His laughter rang off the stones as he strode through the doors of the hall to the dais. Something limp was slung over his massive shoulders, and only as he tossed it on the floor did she realize it was a stag.

“You look sad, Queenie,” King Kel thundered, “but I know something that will cheer you up.” He gave her a wink and rested his boot on the dead stag. “Let’s have a feast!”

10.

A visit from King Kel always raised her spirits, and by the time Grace stepped into the great hall that night, she found both the hall and her mood much transformed. Trestle tables had been pulled out to offer plenty of places to sit, and the high table now commanded the dais. Torches infused the air with smoky light, and the music of drone, lute, and pipe drifted down from the gallery, played by unseen minstrels.

“Let’s dance, Queenie!” Kel said, pouncing on her the moment she passed through the doors.

Grace’s first instinct was to curl up and play dead, as dancing with King Kel was much like getting mauled by a bear. However, she was too slow, and he grabbed her hands, proceeding to toss her about in a series of wild motions that could be termed dancingonly by a person of uncommonly generous spirit.

Fortunately, before the centrifugal force gave her an aneurysm, servants entered bearing goblets of wine. Kel liked drinking better than dancing, and the only thing he liked better than drinking was eating, and the servants had brought in trays laden with food as well. The gigantic man let Grace go in the middle of a spin and stalked toward the servants; they backed away like small, frightened animals.

Once she came to a halt, Grace found herself near the dais. Gentle hands helped her up the steps and sat her down in her chair at the center of the table.

“Thank you, Falken,” she said, giving the bard a grateful smile.

“Here, dear,” Melia said, handing her a glass of wine. “This should help you forget the ordeal.”

Grace drank, and after a few sips the room’s spinning slowed to a leisurely roll.

“So did he ask you to marry him again?” Falken inquired.

Grace sighed and nodded. Kel asked her to marry him every time he visited.

“I’m big, you’re pretty, and we’re both royalty,” he would say. “What match could be better?”

Melia patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure Sir Tarus will keep him away from you.”

“Actually,” Falken said, “I think Kel could stuff Sir Tarus in his pocket and use him as a handkerchief.”

Grace laughed. “It’s all right. I can handle King Kel.” After all, she had faced far greater perils. Besides, Kel was an important ally now that the seven Dominions had all agreed Kelcior was to be recognized as a sovereign kingdom. And while she had no intention of ever accepting them, she thought Kel’s proposals were sweet. After all, it wasn’t as if other men were beating a path to her door.

You know that’s not true, Grace, she chided herself. King Evren of Eredane would marry you in a heartbeat to gain a favorable alliance.

But that wasn’t what Grace had meant.

“Is something wrong, dear?” Melia said, concern in her golden eyes.

“I’m fine,” Grace said, and she tried to produce a smile, but it came out more as a grimace, so she took a sip of wine to conceal the expression. What was wrong with her lately? Ever since spring a gloom had kept stealing over her, even though she had every reason to be happy.

Two of those reasons were sitting next to her now. Grace didn’t know what she would have done without Falken’s and Melia’s advice these last years, or their company. She had never known her parents, but she often let herself imagine they had been like the bard and the lady.

Falken’s hair was more silver than black these days. In the time after the war it had become clear to all of them that the bard—who had lived for over seven hundred years—was aging. Though they hadn’t realized it at first that summer in Perridon, the curse of eternal life Dakarreth had cast on Falken was broken when the Necromancer perished. Falken was mortal again.

However, he was still the same Falken, and if he looked more wolfish than ever, he still had the same ringing laugh, and the same magical silver hand. Their work done at last—Malachor avenged, and the Necromancers destroyed—he and Melia had finally been able to acknowledge the love they had borne one another for centuries. They had wed two years ago, and they intended to live out the rest of their days here in Malachor.

The rest of hisdays, at least. For Melia was the last of the nine New Gods who descended to Eldh to work against the Necromancers, and though a goddess no longer, she was still immortal. What would happen to her once he was gone—once all of them were gone?

“Are you certain you’re well, dear?” Melia said. Falken had gone to fetch them more wine.

Grace hesitated, then decided to tell the truth. “I was just thinking about you and Falken, about how you’re . . . and one day he’ll . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to speak the words.

Melia did. “How one day he’ll die, you mean?” She let her gaze follow after the bard, her expression full of love. “But that’s no reason to be sad, dear. That time is long off yet. Besides, we all must die one day.”

She brushed a hand through her hair, and Grace saw it for the first time: a streak of white marked Melia’s blue-black hair. All at once the lady’s words struck Grace. We all must die one day. . . .

She clutched a hand to her mouth, unable to stifle a gasp.

Melia studied her, then nodded.

“How?” Grace finally managed to speak.

“I chose mortality when we were married,” Melia said.

“You . . . you can do that?”

“I can, and I did. It was the one power left to me. And nor can the decision be reversed.”