Daylight had diminished Grace’s dread a fraction–the rift was invisible against the flawless blue sky–and she gave Melia a crooked smile. “News travels fast.”
“No, dragons travel fast,” Falken said, his hair disheveled from sleep. He poured a cup of maddokand handed it to her.
Grace sighed as she breathed in the rich, slightly bitter aroma, then sat in a chair opposite Melia while Falken perched on the windowsill.
“You’re blocking my sunshine, dear one,” Melia said in the kind of pleasant tone that demanded immediate attention.
“I thought I was your sunshine,” Falken said dryly, though he hastily hopped off the windowsill and retired to another chair.
A black cat sprawled on the carpet, licking a paw as it regarded Grace with moon‑gold eyes. It had finally outgrown its seemingly eternal kittenhood over two years ago. Grace should have realized then that Melia was no longer immortal.
“So what did the dragon speak to you about?” Melia said, her amber eyes as curious as the cat’s.
Grace gripped the hot cup. “Nothing.”
A frown shadowed the lady’s brow. “If you’d rather not tell us, that’s your prerogative, but please don’t speak a falsehood, Ralena. Sfithrisir is not one for idle conversation. I doubt the dragon flew all the way here from the Fal Erenn simply to tell you about nothing.”
“But that’s it,” Grace said, struggling to find a place she could begin. “That’s exactly what the problem is. It’s nothing at all.”
Falken raised an eyebrow, glancing at Melia. “I think the dragon addled her wits.”
“They’ve been known to have that effect,” the lady agreed.
Grace set down her cup and stood. “It’s the rift in the sky,” she said, shaking with frustration and fear. “It’s growing. It’s going to annihilate this world, and Earth, and any other world that lies close to them, and when it’s done, there won’t be anything left. There’ll be nothing. Nothing at all.”
Melia and Falken were no longer smiling. As precisely as she could, Grace recounted her conversation with Sfithrisir. When she was done, both the bard and the lady stared, their faces ashen.
“This cannot be true,” Melia said, shivering. The sun had gone behind a cloud. “Things cannot simply . . . cease to be.”
Grace looked at Falken. “You’re the one who told me dragons can only speak the truth.”
“That’s so,” Falken said, doubt in his faded blue eyes. “But you have to be wary of what a dragon says. They speak the truth, but they also twist that truth to their own ends.”
Grace thought about this, then shook her head. “He was afraid, Falken. I know that seems impossible, that a creature that existed before the world was even created could feel fear, but he did, I’m sure of it. Whatever the rift really is, Sfithrisir is terrified of it, and he can’t stop it.”
“And you believe Travis can?” Melia said.
“I have to.”
Falken rose from his chair. “What will you do, Ralena?”
She gripped the bard’s hand. “I am making you regents of Malachor, you and Melia both. I want you to keep things running. It won’t be hard–Sir Tarus pretty much does everything. All you have to do is put my stamp on things once in a while.”
Sorrow shone in Falken’s faded blue eyes. “So you’re leaving us.”
She nodded, unable to speak for the tightness in her throat.
Melia stood, her blue gown fluttering as she drew close. Tears streamed from her amber eyes, but she smiled. “Do tell Travis hello for us when you find him, dear.”
Then Grace was weeping, too, as she hugged them both.
Preparations for her departure began at once. Horses were readied, supplies packed, and a proclamation granting regent power to Falken and Melia penned, though Sir Tarus handled the majority of this, and mostly what Grace did was tell people they couldn’t come with her.
Aldeth and Samatha were the first, though the two Spiders were squabbling so intently over which of them should be the one to go south with Grace that they hardly heard her say that both of them were staying there, and she finally had to shout.
“But you’ll need a spy with you, Your Majesty,” Aldeth said, looking as if he had been slapped.
“The idea is to find Travis, not hide from him. Besides, Malachor needs you both. I won’t be able to focus on my task if I have to worry about what’s going on here.” Grace lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’ll sleep much better if I know you two are keeping an eye on . . . well, I dare not say, but you know exactly who I mean.”
By the look in their eyes, they didn’t have the foggiest idea who she meant, which was precisely Grace’s intention. Trying to figure out who she was referring to ought to keep them occupied while she was gone. Although, as the two Spiders vanished, she supposed she had just doomed everyone in the keep to weeks of constant spying.
Master Graedin came next, then King Kel, and even the witch Lursa. Grace thanked them but told each that they could not come on the journey, that this was something she had to do alone. She was taking a small retinue of knights with her for security on the road, but that was all. Both Graedin and Lursa were disappointed but wished her well, and while Grace feared King Kel would maul her after she refused his offer of company, instead he caught her in a bear hug.
“My little Queenie is all grown‑up now.” He released her, then sniffed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Go on, then, fly from the nest. Have your adventure out in the world. But don’t you forget me, lass.”
Grace winced, probing her aching ribs. “I honestly don’t think that’s possible, Your Majesty.”
By late morning everything was ready for her departure, and the good thing about having to tell everyone they couldn’t come with her was that she had already taken care of all her good‑byes. Or make that almost all, for there was one person who hadn’t come to her. She found him in the highest chamber of his tower, his face close to the runestone; both face and stone were covered with a webwork of thin lines.
“Your Majesty,” Master Larad said, looking up. “Forgive me–I did not see you there.”
She approached the runestone. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”
“I found another piece sundered from it this morning.”
So the power of magic was continuing to deteriorate. “I think maybe I know what’s happening,” Grace said. “What’s affecting magic.”
“You mean the rift in the heavens.”
She stared at him. “You know about it?”
It almost seemed a smile touched his lips. “You were not the only one looking at the sky last night, Your Majesty.”
“I suppose this means,” she said, moderately perturbed, “that you’re not going to be at all surprised when I tell you I spoke to a dragon?”
He shook his head.
Giving up all hope of ever astonishing Master Larad, Grace told him everything Sfithrisir had said, and what she had decided to do. When she was done, his scarred face was expressionless. However, a light shone in his eyes, though it seemed more curious than alarmed.
“I am not certain how this knowledge helps me, Your Majesty. However, it cannot be chance that the rift has appeared just as the power of magic is faltering. I will focus my studies on it.”
She touched his arm. “If anyone can find a way to keep magic from getting any weaker, it’s you, Master Larad.”
He pulled away. “Dragons cannot lie, Your Majesty. You must find Travis Wilder. Is it not time for you to depart?”
She moved to a narrow window. From there she could see the keep, blue banners bearing the white star of Malachor snapping above. “Yes,” she murmured. “It istime.”