She gripped the bard’s hand. “I am making you regents of Malachor, you and Melia both. I want you to keep things running. It won’t be hard—Sir Tarus pretty much does everything. All you have to do is put my stamp on things once in a while.”

Sorrow shone in Falken’s faded blue eyes. “So you’re leaving us.”

She nodded, unable to speak for the tightness in her throat.

Melia stood, her blue gown fluttering as she drew close. Tears streamed from her amber eyes, but she smiled. “Do tell Travis hello for us when you find him, dear.”

Then Grace was weeping, too, as she hugged them both.

Preparations for her departure began at once. Horses were readied, supplies packed, and a proclamation granting regent power to Falken and Melia penned, though Sir Tarus handled the majority of this, and mostly what Grace did was tell people they couldn’t come with her.

Aldeth and Samatha were the first, though the two Spiders were squabbling so intently over which of them should be the one to go south with Grace that they hardly heard her say that both of them were staying there, and she finally had to shout.

“But you’ll need a spy with you, Your Majesty,” Aldeth said, looking as if he had been slapped.

“The idea is to find Travis, not hide from him. Besides, Malachor needs you both. I won’t be able to focus on my task if I have to worry about what’s going on here.” Grace lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll sleep much better if I know you two are keeping an eye on . . . well, I dare not say, but you know exactly who I mean.”

By the look in their eyes, they didn’t have the foggiest idea who she meant, which was precisely Grace’s intention. Trying to figure out who she was referring to ought to keep them occupied while she was gone. Although, as the two Spiders vanished, she supposed she had just doomed everyone in the keep to weeks of constant spying.

Master Graedin came next, then King Kel, and even the witch Lursa. Grace thanked them but told each that they could not come on the journey, that this was something she had to do alone. She was taking a small retinue of knights with her for security on the road, but that was all. Both Graedin and Lursa were disappointed but wished her well, and while Grace feared King Kel would maul her after she refused his offer of company, instead he caught her in a bear hug.

“My little Queenie is all grown-up now.” He released her, then sniffed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Go on, then, fly from the nest. Have your adventure out in the world. But don’t you forget me, lass.”

Grace winced, probing her aching ribs. “I honestly don’t think that’s possible, Your Majesty.”

By late morning everything was ready for her departure, and the good thing about having to tell everyone they couldn’t come with her was that she had already taken care of all her good-byes. Or make that almost all, for there was one person who hadn’t come to her. She found him in the highest chamber of his tower, his face close to the runestone; both face and stone were covered with a webwork of thin lines.

“Your Majesty,” Master Larad said, looking up. “Forgive me—I did not see you there.”

She approached the runestone. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

“I found another piece sundered from it this morning.”

So the power of magic was continuing to deteriorate. “I think maybe I know what’s happening,” Grace said. “What’s affecting magic.”

“You mean the rift in the heavens.”

She stared at him. “You know about it?”

It almost seemed a smile touched his lips. “You were not the only one looking at the sky last night, Your Majesty.”

“I suppose this means,” she said, moderately perturbed, “that you’re not going to be at all surprised when I tell you I spoke to a dragon?”

He shook his head.

Giving up all hope of ever astonishing Master Larad, Grace told him everything Sfithrisir had said, and what she had decided to do. When she was done, his scarred face was expressionless. However, a light shone in his eyes, though it seemed more curious than alarmed.

“I am not certain how this knowledge helps me, Your Majesty. However, it cannot be chance that the rift has appeared just as the power of magic is faltering. I will focus my studies on it.”

She touched his arm. “If anyone can find a way to keep magic from getting any weaker, it’s you, Master Larad.”

He pulled away. “Dragons cannot lie, Your Majesty. You must find Travis Wilder. Is it not time for you to depart?”

She moved to a narrow window. From there she could see the keep, blue banners bearing the white star of Malachor snapping above. “Yes,” she murmured. “It istime.”

“You sound as if you’ve decided something, Your Majesty.”

Grace hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but she longed to tell someone what she had been thinking. She looked down at the people moving in the bailey below. They were her subjects, yet at that moment she felt so distant from them. They were like patients who had been discharged from Denver Memorial Hospital; they didn’t need her anymore.

“Melia and Falken will be good regents,” she said, “but in time I think the people of Malachor should elect a leader.”

“Elect?” Larad said, a note of scorn in his voice. “You mean let the people choose who their ruler will be?”

“Yes.” She turned to face him.

His eyes narrowed. “And whom do you think they would choose?”

“You, perhaps.”

Almost never had she seen Larad laugh, but he did now, a sound at once ironic and genuinely mirthful. “I think not, Your Majesty. Yours is a keen mind, but I think in this matter reason has eluded you. I have heard what you speak of before—the absurd notion that common people are capable of choosing their own ruler wisely.”

“It isn’t absurd,” Grace said, a little angry now. “People canmake wise choices for themselves, if they’re given the chance.”

“Perhaps,” Larad said, though he did not sound convinced. “But even if the people of Malachor did choose their leader, whom do you think they would select? A man who spends all day studying runes in a tower? The people do not follow you because they have to, Your Majesty, but because they wish to. They have already made their choice. There is no need for them to elect a—”

The Runelord staggered back, gripping the window ledge for support. “You’re not coming back. You’re leaving, and you don’t intend to return to Malachor, do you?”

So he had seen the truth—the truth which, like a dragon, she had concealed in a fog even from herself. She crossed her arms over her chest, her heart beating with anguish. Or was it excitement?

“I don’t know if I’ll come back, Larad,” she said softly. “I honestly don’t know.”

He said nothing. She had finally managed to astonish Larad, but already his shock was gone, or at least concealed, and his eyes were hard and unreadable once again.

“Farewell then, Your Majesty,” he said.

Grace found she had no words to reply. She nodded, then descended the stairs, leaving the tower of the Runelords.

A short while later she mounted Shandis beside the gates of the keep. Four stern-faced knights sat ready on their chargers. There was no wagon for supplies, only a packhorse that carried the absolute minimum, for Grace intended to ride fast. She arranged her riding gown over the saddle, then sighed. Now came the hardest good-bye of all.

“No, Sir Tarus,” she said as the red-haired knight placed his foot in a stirrup, ready to mount his charger.

He turned around. “Your Majesty?”

She could not bring herself to speak the words, but by his stricken look he understood her. He drew close, clutching the hem of her gown, and shook his head.

“No, Your Majesty.” His voice was ragged with despair. “Please do not do this thing to me. Do not command me to stay.”

She had to keep her voice hard, or she would not be able to speak at all. “You must, Sir Tarus. Melia and Falken cannot run this kingdom without your help.”