Again Grace found herself speechless as Olstin described Queen Eselde’s offer of gold, resources, and men to help in the restoration of Malachor. Grace’s first instinct was to decline; Brelegond needed these things for its own rebuilding. However, a meaningful look from Tarus reminded her that Malachor’s coffers were rather empty at the moment, and there was much work yet to be done. So she accepted, with no qualms at expressing the humbleness she felt.
“I have one other thing to offer you,” Olstin said when the business had been concluded. He gestured to the young man who had listened silently and intently throughout their conversation. “This is my nephew Alfin. For many years, out of ignorance, we forbade our young people who displayed a talent for runes or witchcraft to pursue such arts. Perhaps, if we had chosen differently, we might have stood against the Onyx Knights. Regardless, we are changing that now. Alfin has learned much on his own, but he would join your new order of Runelords, Your Majesty, if you would accept him.” He glanced at the young man fondly. “I am partial, of course, but he has talent I think.”
“I believe that remains to be seen, uncle,” the young man said, blushing. The combination of humility, fine looks, and obvious intelligence made for a fetching combination that was not lost on Grace. Or on Sir Tarus by the way the knight gazed at the other man.
“I think he looks very promising, Your Majesty,” Sir Tarus said and, for the first time in a long time, smiled.
“Indeed,” Grace said. She was still no expert on the subject of human feelings–she never would be–but she had learned enough to see that Alfin returned Tarus’s smile with far more than polite interest.
“Come,” Tarus said to the would‑be Runelord. “I’ll take you to meet Master Larad.”
After the two men left, Olstin confessed his weariness from traveling, and as he pushed himself up from his chair Grace noticed the scars on his wrists; King Lysandir was not the only one who had been hung in a dungeon by the Onyx Knights. She had a servant show Olstin to a chamber upstairs, then found herself alone in the great hall.
Grace was often by herself these days. Being a queen was a lonelier job than she had imagined. But that was all right. She hadn’t become a doctor on Earth to make friends, and she hadn’t become a queen to make them, either. Although her job now wasn’t putting broken people back together, but broken kingdoms.
She glanced up. Hanging above her chair, near Durge’s Embarran greatsword and the shards of Fellring, was a banner emblazoned with a silver tower. When she first saw such an emblem, on the shield of the Onyx Knights, the tower had been set against a black background, and above it had been a red crown. However, this banner was as blue as the sea, and above the tower flew the white shapes of three gulls.
The banner had been a gift from Ulrieth, the Lord of Eversea. Two years ago, in this very hall, Grace and Ulrieth had signed a treaty, forging a peace between the lands of Malachor and Eversea. The treaty proclaimed that both kingdoms were equal and independent, that one should never seek to rule over the other, and also that should one face a threat, then the other would come to its ally’s aid.
It had been a triumphant day. Talking with Ulrieth, Grace knew that the dark spell the Runelord Kelephon had cast over Eversea was finally broken. The order of the Onyx Knights– who had slain Grace’s parents and caused so much strife in Eredane, Embarr, and Brelegond–had been disbanded.
“We are a people of peace now,” Ulrieth had said. He was a white‑bearded man who carried much sorrow–and much wisdom–on his brow. “We have no more taste for war. And we remember from whence we came.”
He had shaken Grace’s hand and, after seven hundred years, Malachor was finally whole again. For after Malachor fell, some of its people had fled to the far west of Falengarth, founding the kingdom of Eversea. Many others went south, forging the seven Dominions. Grace was Mistress of the Dominions, and so with this treaty all the descendants of Malachor were united once again.
The signing of the treaty almost hadn’t happened, though, because Grace had had a difficult time coming up with twelve nobles to be her witnesses. Her kingdom was so new it didn’t have nobles. Before the signing, she had hastily made earls and countesses, barons and baronesses, of those she relied on most: Tarus, the Spiders Aldeth and Samatha, the witch Lursa, Master Graedin (much to his delight), Master Larad (much to his chagrin), and of course Falken and Melia. Both the bard and lady had protested, of course–until Grace lamented she wouldn’t have enough nobles to sign the treaty, at which point the two had relented to becoming the count and countess of Arsinda, a fiefdom between Gravenfist and Tir‑Anon that these days was thickly overgrown with forest.
In addition to her own homegrown nobles, King Vedarr of Embarr had attended the ceremony; it had been good to see the grizzled old knight–now the ruler of Embarr–who had helped to defend Gravenfist so staunchly. King Kylar of Galt had also come. The king no longer looked so young, and while he still stuttered, people had stopped calling him Kylar the Unlucky. Rather, he was called Kylar the Rock, for during the war, and against overwhelming odds, he had held back the Onyx Knights who had tried to press into Galt from Eredane.
The new king of Eredane was also at the signing. His name was Evren, and he was a distant cousin of former Queen Eminda, who had perished at the Council of Kings. It had been hard for Eredane to find an heir to its throne, for the Onyx Knights had murdered virtually all in the royal line. However, the people of Eredane seemed to have done well in rallying behind Evren, for he was a thoughtful, well‑spoken man.
Grace had believed all was in order, but two days before the signing she found she was still one noble short. She had counted herself among the twelve needed to witness the document, only to discover Ulrieth had twelve in addition to himself. Luckily, at the last moment, she realized there was one more noble she could call upon. A messenger was sent with the fastest horse in Malachor down the Queen’s Way to the petty kingdom of Kelcior. Two days later, just minutes before the treaty signing, he arrived in all his bluster and swagger. He had burst through the doors of the great hall, and the first words out of his mouth were–
“Hello there, Queenie!”
Grace gasped as the booming voice shocked her out of her reverie, though for a dazed moment she wondered if he wasn’t a figment of her memory. But no, his burly figure couldn’t be anything but real. After three years of growth–and with the help of a witch’s potion, some rumored–his red beard was bushier than ever. And, if it was possible, he seemed even larger than the last time she had seen him.
His laughter rang off the stones as he strode through the doors of the hall to the dais. Something limp was slung over his massive shoulders, and only as he tossed it on the floor did she realize it was a stag.
“You look sad, Queenie,” King Kel thundered, “but I know something that will cheer you up.” He gave her a wink and rested his boot on the dead stag. “Let’s have a feast!”
10.
A visit from King Kel always raised her spirits, and by the time Grace stepped into the great hall that night, she found both the hall and her mood much transformed. Trestle tables had been pulled out to offer plenty of places to sit, and the high table now commanded the dais. Torches infused the air with smoky light, and the music of drone, lute, and pipe drifted down from the gallery, played by unseen minstrels.
“Let’s dance, Queenie!” Kel said, pouncing on her the moment she passed through the doors.