They spent that night at a small, cheerful inn, though Larad hastily retreated to his room, hand to his mouth, when the innkeeper set a foaming tankard before him. The next day the road descended a rocky valley, following the course of a noisy stream, and by evening they made camp on the edge of greener, gentler lands. As they set out the next morning, Grace found herself leaning forward in the saddle, and it was afternoon of the day after that—their fourth out from Galt—when they crested a rise and she finally caught sight of what she had been straining to glimpse: a castle with seven towers rising on a distant hill.

“Calavere,” she murmured, her heart quickening. Shandis let out a snort, and even Glumly pricked up his long ears. They cantered the last league to the castle, not afraid of tiring their mounts, for despite their haste Grace intended to stay there for a day. It would be good to rest—if only for a short while—in the company of friends.

When they arrived at Calavere’s gates, they found Aryn, Teravian, and Lirith waiting for them.

“How did you sense we were near the castle?” Grace asked as she gripped Aryn’s hands. “I can hardly reach more than a hundred paces with the Touch these days.”

I don’t need magic to sense when you’re coming, sister, came Aryn’s warm reply over the Weirding. My heart knows.

Grace laughed, holding the other witch tight, and for the first time in days she thought nothing of dragons or rifts or shadows. Teravian and Lirith pressed forward then, and there was a good deal of embracing all around—so much so that even Master Larad could not escape a hug or two, despite the Runelord’s best efforts.

However, that evening found them all in a grimmer mood as they gathered in Teravian’s chamber for a private supper. Though the fare set on the table by the servants—roasted goose, golden loaves of bread, berries and fresh cream—was far more sumptuous than anything they had gotten on the road south, Grace found she had little appetite as she listened to Aryn and Teravian speak of affairs in Calavan and Toloria.

There had been a good deal of unrest already that summer. The weather had been unusually hot; it had seldom rained, and when it did the storms were violent, pounding the crops in the fields to pulp. A two-headed calf had been born at a farm not far from the castle—an event considered an ill omen by most folk. Stranger still, stories told that the old witch who had gone to dispel the curse that hung over the farm had dropped dead when she tried to weave the spell.

“But can that be, sister?” Lirith said, looking at Aryn.

The young queen hesitated, then nodded. “It could, if the threads of the Weirding tangled around her tightly enough. Her own thread might have been strangled.”

Lirith clasped a hand to her mouth.

“A week ago, my castle runespeaker tried to speak the rune of purity at dinner,” Teravian said. “Only he couldn’t. ‘My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth every time I try to speak a rune,’ he told me. The poor man was nearly in tears. He returned to the Gray Tower the next day, saying that he would have a replacement sent to Calavere right away.” He looked at Grace. “But I don’t suppose one will come?”

“Not if the rift keeps growing,” Grace said, trying not to think of the witch who had been strangled by her own spell. “Have you seen it here? I don’t know if it’s visible this far south yet—the last few nights have been cloudy.”

Teravian picked up a glass of wine but did not drink. “Yes, we’ve seen it. Ten nights ago, it appeared in the north—a dark hole in the sky, just like you described.”

“Are people afraid?” Grace said.

Teravian frowned. “That’s the peculiar thing. I thought they would be. I thought there would be fire and panic, and I was ready to send my guards out to stop it. Only there was no need. The people go about their daily lives as before. They tend to their fields, their shops, their children. Only there is no joy to it, no meaning. They’re going through the motions, that’s all. Folk have stopped leaving offerings at the shrines of the Mystery Cults. They say the gods have abandoned them, only they do nothing to bring the gods back. It’s as if they’ve run out of—”

“Hope,” Aryn said softly. She sat in a chair near the window, her left hand resting on her full belly. “They’ve run out of hope.”

Teravian set down his goblet and knelt before her. “There ishope, Aryn.” He laid his hand over hers. “It’s right here.”

Despite the dread that seemed to be a permanent fixture in her chest, Grace found herself smiling. Aryn and Teravian hadn’t chosen one another. If fact, given a choice, surely either would have selected almost anyone else. All the same, in the three years since their marriage, love had grown between them, and it was all the more precious because it had been so un-looked for, like a flower blooming in the midst of winter.

Aryn had bloomed herself. The lovely but tentative young woman Grace had first met in this castle was gone, replaced by a beautiful and regal queen. Her blue eyes were still vivid, but tempered with wisdom now, and her raven hair framed a porcelain face that was sharper than before, but no less kind. She seemed complete: a woman, queen, and witch in the full of her power. Even her withered right arm, so small and delicately twisted, was a part of the whole.

Teravian had changed as well. Although he would never be brawny like his father, King Boreas, his lean frame had filled out, and he no longer hunched his broad shoulders. He wore a black beard now, like his father had, and when he bared his teeth in a grin, he reminded Grace of bullish King Boreas indeed—so much so that she felt a pang of grief in her chest. However, when he grew serious and thoughtful, which was far more often, it was his mother, Queen Ivalaine, who was reflected in the young king’s visage.

“What I hope,” Aryn said, shifting in the chair and grimacing, “is that this baby comes soon.”

“It will,” Teravian said.

She glared at him. “You can’t know that.”

“Actually, I can,” he said, his voice growing testy. “I have the Sight, remember?”

“No, you don’t. I could be ready to explode, and you wouldn’t know it, because the Sight isn’t working anymore. Is it, Lirith?”

The dark-haired witch took a step back. “I believe I’ll stay out of this one, sister.”

Grace didn’t dare demonstrate her mirth, but inwardly she laughed. Although Aryn and Teravian had found true love, that didn’t mean they had entirely forgotten how to argue. In fact, they seemed to remember quite well. Fortunately, their quarrel was interrupted as Taneth began to cry.

Master Larad held the baby out at arm’s length, a distasteful expression on his face. “I think it wants something.”

“Perhaps to be held like a child rather than a sack of grain,” Lirith said, hurrying over to the Runelord.

“I do not believe giving it to me was a wise idea,” Larad said. “I have no talent for comforting children.”

“It doesn’t take talent, Master Larad,” Lirith said. “Only knowledge. Surely a scholar such as you is not afraid to learn something new.”

The Runelord glowered at her, but he did not disagree.

“Here, place your arm under him for support, and let his head rest in the crook of your elbow. And keep him close against you. Babies want to feel they are safe and loved. There now.”

Taneth had stopped fussing, and his eyes drifted shut. The corners of Larad’s mouth twitched in the hint of a smile, then he looked up and glared at the others. They all studiously turned their attention elsewhere. However, when Grace stole a glance a few minutes later, she saw Larad in the corner rocking Taneth with awkward but gentle motions.

All the next day, they spoke not of the rift and the weakening of magic, but of mundane things—babies, and weaving blankets, and the day-to-day drudgery of running a kingdom— which, with the help of much wine come evening, soon led to mirth.