Grace’s first instinct was to curl up and play dead, as dancing with King Kel was much like getting mauled by a bear. However, she was too slow, and he grabbed her hands, proceeding to toss her about in a series of wild motions that could be termed dancingonly by a person of uncommonly generous spirit.
Fortunately, before the centrifugal force gave her an aneurysm, servants entered bearing goblets of wine. Kel liked drinking better than dancing, and the only thing he liked better than drinking was eating, and the servants had brought in trays laden with food as well. The gigantic man let Grace go in the middle of a spin and stalked toward the servants; they backed away like small, frightened animals.
Once she came to a halt, Grace found herself near the dais. Gentle hands helped her up the steps and sat her down in her chair at the center of the table.
“Thank you, Falken,” she said, giving the bard a grateful smile.
“Here, dear,” Melia said, handing her a glass of wine. “This should help you forget the ordeal.”
Grace drank, and after a few sips the room’s spinning slowed to a leisurely roll.
“So did he ask you to marry him again?” Falken inquired.
Grace sighed and nodded. Kel asked her to marry him every time he visited.
“I’m big, you’re pretty, and we’re both royalty,” he would say. “What match could be better?”
Melia patted her hand. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure Sir Tarus will keep him away from you.”
“Actually,” Falken said, “I think Kel could stuff Sir Tarus in his pocket and use him as a handkerchief.”
Grace laughed. “It’s all right. I can handle King Kel.” After all, she had faced far greater perils. Besides, Kel was an important ally now that the seven Dominions had all agreed Kelcior was to be recognized as a sovereign kingdom. And while she had no intention of ever accepting them, she thought Kel’s proposals were sweet. After all, it wasn’t as if other men were beating a path to her door.
You know that’s not true, Grace, she chided herself. King Evren of Eredane would marry you in a heartbeat to gain a favorable alliance.
But that wasn’t what Grace had meant.
“Is something wrong, dear?” Melia said, concern in her golden eyes.
“I’m fine,” Grace said, and she tried to produce a smile, but it came out more as a grimace, so she took a sip of wine to conceal the expression. What was wrong with her lately? Ever since spring a gloom had kept stealing over her, even though she had every reason to be happy.
Two of those reasons were sitting next to her now. Grace didn’t know what she would have done without Falken’s and Melia’s advice these last years, or their company. She had never known her parents, but she often let herself imagine they had been like the bard and the lady.
Falken’s hair was more silver than black these days. In the time after the war it had become clear to all of them that the bard–who had lived for over seven hundred years–was aging. Though they hadn’t realized it at first that summer in Perridon, the curse of eternal life Dakarreth had cast on Falken was broken when the Necromancer perished. Falken was mortal again.
However, he was still the same Falken, and if he looked more wolfish than ever, he still had the same ringing laugh, and the same magical silver hand. Their work done at last–Malachor avenged, and the Necromancers destroyed–he and Melia had finally been able to acknowledge the love they had borne one another for centuries. They had wed two years ago, and they intended to live out the rest of their days here in Malachor.
The rest of hisdays, at least. For Melia was the last of the nine New Gods who descended to Eldh to work against the Necromancers, and though a goddess no longer, she was still immortal. What would happen to her once he was gone–once all of them were gone?
“Are you certain you’re well, dear?” Melia said. Falken had gone to fetch them more wine.
Grace hesitated, then decided to tell the truth. “I was just thinking about you and Falken, about how you’re . . . and one day he’ll . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to speak the words.
Melia did. “How one day he’ll die, you mean?” She let her gaze follow after the bard, her expression full of love. “But that’s no reason to be sad, dear. That time is long off yet. Besides, we all must die one day.”
She brushed a hand through her hair, and Grace saw it for the first time: a streak of white marked Melia’s blue‑black hair. All at once the lady’s words struck Grace. We all must die one day. . . .
She clutched a hand to her mouth, unable to stifle a gasp.
Melia studied her, then nodded.
“How?” Grace finally managed to speak.
“I chose mortality when we were married,” Melia said.
“You . . . you can do that?”
“I can, and I did. It was the one power left to me. And nor can the decision be reversed.”
“Does he know?”
“Not yet. But he will in time.” She touched Grace’s arm. “Please, Ralena. Let me be the one to tell him.”
“To tell who what?” Falken said, setting down three goblets and sitting next to the two women.
Grace drew in a deep breath. “To tell you how much we love you,” she said, and kissed his cheek.
The feast continued with much cheer. Falken and Melia danced until Kel cut in and began tossing the small, amber‑eyed lady about as if he were intent on juggling her, much to both her and Falken’s mirth. Lord Olstin made a brief appearance and paid his respects to Grace, though he ate little and drank nothing, and soon retired. His nephew, Alfin, stayed a good deal longer, though Grace had little opportunity to speak with him, as Tarus kept the young Runelord largely to himself throughout the evening. Grace wondered if they had made it to see Larad yet.
Speaking of Master Larad, where was the Runelord? Of all her advisors, he had in many ways become her most valuable. Ever since they first met him, Larad had done what he believed was right regardless of what others wished, and regardless of the consequences to himself. While that trait–and his acerbic nature–made him difficult to endure at times, she always considered his point of view seriously.
At last she gave up searching the hall for Larad. However, she did come upon Lursa. The Embarran witch was married now; her handsome warrior had finally won that battle–or perhaps it was the other way around, for he had traded his sword for a plowshare. After her wedding, Lursa had become Matron of the witch’s coven at Gravenfist Keep. Grace wove with the coven when time allowed, but since that was almost never these days, she always enjoyed hearing from Lursa what patterns they had been fashioning.
Lately the witches had been working on spells to encourage crops to grow faster and bear more fruit. However, they had been having considerable trouble completing the enchantment. There was a gap in their weaving that would not be soon mended, for last winter the spry old witch Senrael had passed from the pattern of life into the warp and weave of memory. While another witch deemed old and wise enough had donned the shawl of Crone, Senrael was sorely missed.
“May I take my leave, Your Majesty?” Lursa said, her intelligent gaze straying across the hall. “I see Master Graedin, and I want to speak to him. Earlier this year, it seemed I was making progress in rune magic. Once I spoke the rune of fire, and I swear I made a candle flicker. But now I only seem to be getting worse. Lately nothing happens at all when I try to speak a rune.” She sighed. “I suppose it’s hopeless to think I ever could.”