“Does he know?”

“Not yet. But he will in time.” She touched Grace’s arm. “Please, Ralena. Let me be the one to tell him.”

“To tell who what?” Falken said, setting down three goblets and sitting next to the two women.

Grace drew in a deep breath. “To tell you how much we love you,” she said, and kissed his cheek.

The feast continued with much cheer. Falken and Melia danced until Kel cut in and began tossing the small, amber-eyed lady about as if he were intent on juggling her, much to both her and Falken’s mirth. Lord Olstin made a brief appearance and paid his respects to Grace, though he ate little and drank nothing, and soon retired. His nephew, Alfin, stayed a good deal longer, though Grace had little opportunity to speak with him, as Tarus kept the young Runelord largely to himself throughout the evening. Grace wondered if they had made it to see Larad yet.

Speaking of Master Larad, where was the Runelord? Of all her advisors, he had in many ways become her most valuable. Ever since they first met him, Larad had done what he believed was right regardless of what others wished, and regardless of the consequences to himself. While that trait—and his acerbic nature—made him difficult to endure at times, she always considered his point of view seriously.

At last she gave up searching the hall for Larad. However, she did come upon Lursa. The Embarran witch was married now; her handsome warrior had finally won that battle—or perhaps it was the other way around, for he had traded his sword for a plowshare. After her wedding, Lursa had become Matron of the witch’s coven at Gravenfist Keep. Grace wove with the coven when time allowed, but since that was almost never these days, she always enjoyed hearing from Lursa what patterns they had been fashioning.

Lately the witches had been working on spells to encourage crops to grow faster and bear more fruit. However, they had been having considerable trouble completing the enchantment. There was a gap in their weaving that would not be soon mended, for last winter the spry old witch Senrael had passed from the pattern of life into the warp and weave of memory. While another witch deemed old and wise enough had donned the shawl of Crone, Senrael was sorely missed.

“May I take my leave, Your Majesty?” Lursa said, her intelligent gaze straying across the hall. “I see Master Graedin, and I want to speak to him. Earlier this year, it seemed I was making progress in rune magic. Once I spoke the rune of fire, and I swear I made a candle flicker. But now I only seem to be getting worse. Lately nothing happens at all when I try to speak a rune.” She sighed. “I suppose it’s hopeless to think I ever could.”

Grace felt a note of concern. Lursa was usually brisk and cheerful, but her expression seemed dull now, even despondent.

“I’m sure Master Graedin will help you sort things out,” Grace said, and granted the witch leave to go.

Lursa crossed the hall to where Graedin stood against the far wall. The young Runelord was as tall and gangly as ever, and a grin crossed his face as Lursa approached, though his smile soon faded as they spoke. No doubt Graedin would help Lursa with her problem. He had suspected there was a connection between rune magic and the magic of the Weirding well before it was revealed that Olrig, patron god of runes, and the witch’s goddess Sia were one and the same—and were in fact simply two guises of the being known as the Worldsmith.

Except Olrig and Sia weren’t the Worldsmith anymore. The world had been broken, and the fact that it had been remade exactly as it was before didn’t change the fact that someone else was the Worldsmith now.

I miss you, Travis, Grace thought. And Beltan, too.

Sometimes when she thought of them her heart ached, just as her right arm did when she remembered standing before the Pale King. She missed them even more than she did Lirith or Aryn, for at least she could speak to the two witches from time to time, even if it was only across the threads of the Weirding.

Not that she had spoken to them often of late. Lirith was too far to the south for Grace to contact on her own; she could only do it with Aryn’s help. And Aryn had been too busy in recent times for idle conversation. She was a queen now, not of one Dominion but two. Teravian was not only King Boreas’s son, but Queen Ivalaine’s as well. As Ivalaine had had no other heir, Teravian was now king of Toloria as well as of Calavan, and Aryn was queen of both realms.

They spent their time traveling between the two courts, and by all accounts had done much to earn the admiration and loyalty of their subjects in both Dominions. But their labors had prevented them from journeying to Gravenfist save once, and Grace doubted future visits were in the cards, given that Aryn was now expecting her first child. Still, it was enough to get occasional reports, and to know that despite their labors both Aryn and Teravian were happy, and these days very much in love.

However, as much as she cared for all her friends, it was to Travis her thoughts most often turned.

I want so badly to talk to you, Travis, Grace thought, gazing into her goblet of wine and wishing she had the power to see a vision in it as Lirith sometimes could, wishing she could get a glimpse of him. I think you’d understand what I’m feeling better than I do.

Only what was she feeling? It was so strange. There was a sorrow, yes. But there was something else: a tinge of nervous expectation. But what exactly was she expecting to happen?

For them to not need you anymore.

It was the dry doctor’s voice that spoke in her mind, making its diagnosis. The thought startled her, but not so much for its suddenness as for how true it felt.

You did your part, Grace, you gave Malachor a second chance to be. But its people don’t need a queen, not anymore. They’ve built this kingdom themselves. Why can’t they rule it themselves?

Yes, it made sense. If Travis could create a world, then depart from it, why couldn’t she do the same with a kingdom? She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the rapid beating of her heart.

“Are you all right, Your Majesty?” spoke a sharp-edged voice.

Grace looked up from her wine to see Master Larad standing above her. He was clad in a twilight blue robe. His eyes glittered in a face that was made a fractured mosaic by a webwork of fine white scars.

She sighed. “Why does everyone keep asking me that tonight?”

He shrugged but said nothing. Larad never offered an answer unless he had a strong opinion.

“Did you speak to Alfin, the young man from Brelegond?” she said in hopes of changing the subject.

“Yes, for a few moments.” Larad’s expression soured. “Before Sir Tarus whisked him away. More confirmation will be needed, but I believe Alfin has significant talent.”

Grace smiled. “So, is everything well in your new tower?”

She had ordered a tower to be raised on the south side of the keep for the use of Larad and the Runelords, and construction had just recently been completed. The tower included a chamber on its highest floor built to house the three Imsari, for it was the mission of the new Runelords to guard the Great Stones. The tower also housed a runestone: a relic covered with writings of the Runelords of old, and which the new Runelords were actively studying. The runestone had been discovered beneath the keep last year, when the Embarran engineers performed an excavation in order to make some repairs to the foundations.

“It’s not my tower, Your Majesty,” Larad said, glowering. “It is yours. The Runelords dwell here at your pleasure.”

“No,” Grace said softly, tightening her right hand into a fist. “No, it’s not up to me. This is your home.”

Larad gave her a speculative look, but he did not respond to this statement. Instead he said, “I am sorry to disturb you during a time of merriment, Your Majesty, but I have made a discovery that I did not believe could wait.”