However, they were all sober the next morning when Grace and Larad set out from Calavere—along with Lirith and Taneth. Aryn’s cheeks were dry, but by the redness of her eyes Grace knew she had been weeping.

I want to go with you, sisters, Aryn’s voice quavered across the threads of the Weirding.

And we want you to come, Lirith spun back, but you know you must stay. They both need you.

Aryn sighed, touching her belly with her left hand, and leaned her head against Teravian’s shoulder.

“Do you have everything you need for the journey?” the young king asked.

“We do,” Grace said. Glumly was once again laden with supplies, and looking forlorn as usual. “Thank you.”

Master Larad and the knights already sat astride their mounts. Lirith climbed into the saddle of her horse, and Grace handed Taneth up to her. She nestled the baby in a linen sling, so that he was held securely against her breast. It was time for Lirith and Taneth to return to their people; Sareth was waiting.

Grace embraced Aryn and Teravian, kissing them both and climbing onto Shandis before she could begin weeping herself.

Teravian’s face was grave, and tears shone in Aryn’s blue eyes. But all she said was, “Give Travis our love.”

The journey south was strangely pleasant. Grace was glad to no longer be the only woman in the party; Lirith’s company was a rare gift, and it was wonderful to finally meet little Taneth. The weather was fine and sunny, and as they rode through familiar lands they eschewed inns, instead camping in copses or dells, or more than once in the shaded enclosure of a talathrin, an old Tarrasian Way Circle.

The Way Circles were always built around a spring next to which grew alasai, or green scepter—an herb good for removing the taint from meat, and whose clean, sharp scent was a balm to the lungs. When she drank from the spring in a talathrin, Grace always remembered to sprinkle a few drops for Naimi, goddess of travelers, as Melia had taught her to do. Nor did she worry about the shadow that had been following them when she laid down to sleep. There was no magic in the Way Circles, but a goodness abided in them; nothing would harm them there.

Although they traveled from sunrise until late afternoon each day, it took a fortnight to reach Tarras. Grace let out a breath of wonder when she glimpsed the ancient city rising up from the azure waters of the Summer Sea in seven circles of white stone. People went about their business as they had for a thousand years. But why shouldn’t they? Magic was practiced by northern barbarians, not the civilized people of Tarras. And the rift was not visible there, so far south in the world. It had been many days since Grace had seen it last, low in the northern sky.

As they rode close to Tarras, Grace thought it would be good to go into the city, to ascend to the First Circle, and pay a visit to Emperor Ephesian—her cousin many times removed. However, there was no time for catching up with old acquaintances. They rode past without stopping.

Now, each day they journeyed, the air grew a little warmer, becoming gold and honey-sweet with the perfume of unfamiliar flowers. They followed the coastline, riding along a road lined with a green-gold colonnade of ithaya, or sunleaf, trees. Below, the ocean crashed against white cliffs while gulls wheeled above.

At last they could go no farther; they had reached the southernmost tip of Falengarth. As twilight fell—nearly a full month since they had set out from Gravenfist Keep—they ascended a bluff above the sea, passed through a grove of ithayatrees, and rode into a circle of painted wagons shaped like animals both ordinary and fantastic.

Before they even dismounted, Sareth was there. He caught Lirith and Taneth in his arms, pulling them down to him, and embracing them with ferocious strength. Nor was Grace forgotten, for after he finally released Lirith, Grace found herself hugging the Mournish man. She breathed in his spicy, familiar scent, and only then realized how much she had missed him and his deep, bell-like laugh.

The Mournish gathered around the travelers, leading them into the circle of light while music and the rich scents of cooking wafted on the air. Women in colorful garb approached Brael and the other knights, placing circlets of flowers around their necks, and even Master Larad was treated to a warm welcome. Perhaps warmer than the Runelord might have cared for. He was obviously flustered as three young women slipped necklaces of flowers over his head, and he looked as if he was about to speak stern words of reproach, only then a fit of sneezing took him, and he sat down hard on a stump. The women laughed and clapped their hands.

For a time, Grace let herself forget why she had journeyed there. She sat on a log on the edge of the firelight, eating nuts and drinking smoky wine, and swaying in time to wild music as many of the Mournish men and women whirled about the bonfire in a dance, scarves, jewelry, and smiles all flashing. Sparks rose up to the sky, and as Grace followed them upward she saw a point of crimson light. Tira’s star was not low to the southern horizon as it was in the north, but instead high in the sky.

“I love you,” Grace murmured like a prayer. Maybe it was at that, for the little red-haired girl was a goddess now, and the center of the world’s newest Mystery Cult.

And perhaps its last as well. Grace’s gaze moved northward. She could not see it, but she knew the rift was still there, and still growing.

The wind rustled through the leaves of the ithayatrees, and only then did Grace realize that the music had stopped. She lowered her gaze and was startled to see that the bonfire had burned low, and that the Mournish were gone. How long had she been gazing at the sky?

“Come, Grace,” Sareth said, kneeling before her. “My al-Mama is waiting for you.”

She looked around. There was no one in view save Sareth and Larad. “Where did everyone go?”

“Lirith has taken Taneth to his bed, and your knights have been shown to theirs. Come.”

Grace and Larad followed Sareth to a wagon on the edge of the circle. It was shaped like a dragon, its sinuous outline blending with the night. Sareth opened the door and indicated they should climb the steps and enter.

The cramped interior of the wagon was lit by a single candle. In the dim light it took a moment to pick the woman out from the various bundles of cloth and dried herbs. She look like a bundle of rags and sticks herself. Sareth’s al-Mama was far thinner than the last time they had met; her bones were prominent beneath skin as translucent and yellow as parchment. Grace didn’t need to probe along the Weirding to make her diagnosis. Jaundice. Liver failure.

“Yes, yes,” the old woman said testily. “I’m dying. And it’s about time. These old bones are long overdue for a rest. But that does not matter now. Come closer so these old eyes can see you.”

The old woman leaned forward as they approached. Though clouded with cataracts, her gold eyes were still bright. At last she nodded and sighed, leaning back on her pallet.

“So you have come, as has been fated. I am satisfied. You will find him, and you will help him reach it.”

Grace swallowed. “You mean Morindu.”

“Of course I mean Morindu!” the old woman snapped. “But who is this with you? I see a cloak of power about him, though its cloth is unraveling. A great wizard of the north, he is. Yet he is not the one. What role is his to play?”

“Can you not see in your cards?” Larad said, gesturing to a deck of worn T’hotcards scattered on a table.

“Bah!” the old woman spat. “The cards are useless now. The threads of Fate are all tangled. Nothing is clear. A darkness looms before us, and I know not what lies on the other side, if anything lies there at all. But this I do know.” She pointed a thin finger at Grace. “You will find him, and you will lead him to his destiny. I have summoned ones to help you on the journey. That is all I can do. As for the rest . . .” She lowered her hand and heaved a rattling sigh. “It is up to Sai’el Travis.”