“You should have come to me at once, Your Majesty,” the Runelord said, his expression stern. “I could have spoken the rune of vision. We might have gotten a glimpse of it.”

These words startled her. “It was only a shadow, Master Larad.”

“If you wish, Your Majesty.”

However, rather than reassuring her, the Runelord’s words ate at her like acid all that day, and she resolved that if she saw something out of the ordinary again, she would alert Larad at once.

Only she didn’t, and as they continued their journey south, it became harder to maintain the same keen sense of urgency she had felt on setting out from Gravenfist Keep. Instead, the monotony of the journey dulled the edge of her fear as well as her mind. Every day was the same: The mountains rose up to their left, the plains swept away to their right, and the road stretched on before them: straight, predictable, and—as far as the eye could see—endless.

Her urgency might have been renewed each night if she could see the rift, only she couldn’t. The air in southern Eredane was moist, and at night all the stars were lost in haze. By day the weather was unseasonably hot and muggy, and she found the woolen riding gowns she had packed heavy and oppressive.

At last, on their twelfth day out from Gravenfist, the Queen’s Way veered sharply in its course, turning to zigzag its way up a steep ridge in a series of switchbacks. They had reached the juncture of the Fal Erenn and the Fal Sinfath, the Gloaming Fells.

All that day they climbed upward, and in some places the road was so steep they were forced to dismount and walk in front of the horses so as not to exhaust the beasts—though Larad’s mule plodded along as placidly as it had when the road was level.

They reached the top of the pass just as night began to fall. Before them lay the rock-strewn highlands of Galt, while behind and far below lay the rolling fields of Eredane. Grace panted for breath, for they had gone the last half mile on foot. Then she turned around, and her breath ceased. They had ascended far above the hazy air of the lowlands, and there was nothing to block her view.

“It has grown,” Larad said beside her.

A hard wind scoured across the highlands, evaporating the sweat from Grace’s skin. Though the stars were only just beginning to come out, there could be no doubting it: The rift had indeed grown, eating a dark hole in the northern sky. The dullness of boredom vanished; fear once again sliced into Grace’s chest with a sharp blade. She welcomed the pain, for it cleared her mind and reminded her of her purpose.

Larad touched her arm. “Look, Your Majesty. Down there.”

It took Grace a moment to see it in the failing light. Below them—far, but not so far as she might have liked—a dark blot moved along the road. It progressed rapidly, smoothly, ascending toward the highlands like a drop of dark liquid flowing up rather than down.

“It seems your shadow has followed us,” the Runelord said softly.

Grace knew it was anatomically impossible, but it felt as if her heart was lodged in her esophagus. “Can you see what it is?”

Larad held out his right hand. “ Halas,” he whispered. In the gloaming, the silver rune shone clearly on his palm: three crossed lines. At the same time his eyes glowed crimson, like those of an animal caught in the beam of a flashlight.

The night was deepening. Grace couldn’t be sure, but it seemed the shadow halted, then flowed toward a crevice in the rocks, vanishing.

She clutched the sleeve of Larad’s robe. “Did you see what it was?”

“No,” he said, the red light fading from his eyes. “Whatever our stalker might be, I think it realized we had detected it. Even as I gazed at the thing, it seemed to melt away into the rocks. I doubt we will see it again tonight. Or at all, after this. It is likely to be even stealthier.”

Grace wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “But why would someone be following us?”

Larad did not answer. The sound of boots against gravel approached. They turned to see Sir Brael walking toward them.

“The men have found a flat space just off the road,” he said. “A stone shelf affords some protection from the wind. Shall we set up your tent there, Your Majesty?”

Grace thought of the way the shadow had moved with liquid stealth along the road. “No,” she said, shuddering. “The moon will rise soon, and it’s close to full. We ride on to Castle Galt. We can be there by midnight if we hurry.”

17.

They reached Castle Galt just before midnight, as Grace had hoped. It was not a vast, walled complex like Calavere, but rather a blocky tower keep perched on a windswept spur of rock. They pounded on the gate, and though the guards answered, they were suspicious of any travelers who arrived so late, and would have turned them away. However, at that moment the king himself came downstairs, clad in a nightshirt and carrying a candle, drawn by the commotion. He recognized Grace at once, scolded his guards—though not too harshly, at Grace’s urging, for they were only doing their duty—and ushered the travelers inside.

Grace pleaded with the king to return to his bed, and not to let them be a trouble, but he would not hear of it, and called for a late supper to be set on the board in the hall. His twin sister, Kalyn, appeared—looking fresh-faced as ever, despite being disturbed from her rest—and served them bread, meat, and ale with her own hand. Grace was careful to take only a polite sip from the tankard of dark, foamy brew that was set before her. She had heard stories about Galtish ale, and most of them ended with falling down and taking a long time to get up again.

“C-c-can you tell us the reason for your j-j-journey south, Your Majesty?” Kylar said when they had finished eating. “I c-c-confess, I am surprised to see you here. Since the shadow appeared in the northern sky, most people k-k-keep close to their homes and do not stray far. These are strange t-t-times, to be sure. Goats go lost, and their owners don’t b-b-other to look for them. Old women stare at their looms as if they have never woven cloth in their lives. And it seems every other c-c-cask of ale my steward taps has spoiled.”

“I’m sure Queen Grace’s reasons for traveling are her own,” Kalyn said crisply. She glanced at Grace, concern in her gentle brown eyes.

“Of c-c-course,” King Kylar sputtered, looking mortified. The tassel at the end of his nightcap bobbed up and down. “P-p-please forgive me for b-b-being so rude, Your Majesty.”

Grace pushed away her tankard. “No, I won’t forgive you, because you have every right to ask, Your Highness. You’ve been so kind to take us in at this late hour. I want very much to tell you, and—”

Larad gave her a sharp look.

“And it’s best if you don’t,” Kalyn said, touching Grace’s hand. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. We know that whatever you’re doing, it’s for the greater good. We needn’t hear the particulars.”

Grace sighed. “Thank you.”

“Now,” Kalyn said, “there is one thing you must tell us, and that is how we can help you.”

After an abbreviated but welcome night’s rest, they set out again an hour after dawn. Grace considered telling Kylar to keep watch for their shadowy pursuer, then decided against it. Whatever the shadow was, it would not be lingering in Galt. The only thing Grace knew for certain was that it was following her.

“Is something wrong, Master Larad?” she asked as they mounted the horses. The Runelord’s face was gray and pinched, and he seemed unable to stand up straight.

She couldn’t understand his muttered reply, though she caught the words “hammer” and “skull.” Apparently he hadn’t heard the stories about Galtish ale.

They made good time that day—despite Larad’s indisposition—for King Kylar kept the section of the Queen’s Way that passed through Galt in good repair. The pack mule was now laden down with supplies from Kylar’s larder and wore something of a betrayed expression on its long face. The beast really hadn’t signed on for all this, Grace supposed. She had taken to calling the mule Glumly, for that was he how did everything, though he never balked and always kept pace with the horses.