Grace wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. “But why would someone be following us?”
Larad did not answer. The sound of boots against gravel approached. They turned to see Sir Brael walking toward them.
“The men have found a flat space just off the road,” he said. “A stone shelf affords some protection from the wind. Shall we set up your tent there, Your Majesty?”
Grace thought of the way the shadow had moved with liquid stealth along the road. “No,” she said, shuddering. “The moon will rise soon, and it’s close to full. We ride on to Castle Galt. We can be there by midnight if we hurry.”
17.
They reached Castle Galt just before midnight, as Grace had hoped. It was not a vast, walled complex like Calavere, but rather a blocky tower keep perched on a windswept spur of rock. They pounded on the gate, and though the guards answered, they were suspicious of any travelers who arrived so late, and would have turned them away. However, at that moment the king himself came downstairs, clad in a nightshirt and carrying a candle, drawn by the commotion. He recognized Grace at once, scolded his guards–though not too harshly, at Grace’s urging, for they were only doing their duty–and ushered the travelers inside.
Grace pleaded with the king to return to his bed, and not to let them be a trouble, but he would not hear of it, and called for a late supper to be set on the board in the hall. His twin sister, Kalyn, appeared–looking fresh‑faced as ever, despite being disturbed from her rest–and served them bread, meat, and ale with her own hand. Grace was careful to take only a polite sip from the tankard of dark, foamy brew that was set before her. She had heard stories about Galtish ale, and most of them ended with falling down and taking a long time to get up again.
“C‑c‑can you tell us the reason for your j‑j‑journey south, Your Majesty?” Kylar said when they had finished eating. “I c‑c‑confess, I am surprised to see you here. Since the shadow appeared in the northern sky, most people k‑k‑keep close to their homes and do not stray far. These are strange t‑t‑times, to be sure. Goats go lost, and their owners don’t b‑b‑other to look for them. Old women stare at their looms as if they have never woven cloth in their lives. And it seems every other c‑c‑cask of ale my steward taps has spoiled.”
“I’m sure Queen Grace’s reasons for traveling are her own,” Kalyn said crisply. She glanced at Grace, concern in her gentle brown eyes.
“Of c‑c‑course,” King Kylar sputtered, looking mortified. The tassel at the end of his nightcap bobbed up and down. “P‑p‑please forgive me for b‑b‑being so rude, Your Majesty.”
Grace pushed away her tankard. “No, I won’t forgive you, because you have every right to ask, Your Highness. You’ve been so kind to take us in at this late hour. I want very much to tell you, and–”
Larad gave her a sharp look.
“And it’s best if you don’t,” Kalyn said, touching Grace’s hand. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. We know that whatever you’re doing, it’s for the greater good. We needn’t hear the particulars.”
Grace sighed. “Thank you.”
“Now,” Kalyn said, “there is one thing you must tell us, and that is how we can help you.”
After an abbreviated but welcome night’s rest, they set out again an hour after dawn. Grace considered telling Kylar to keep watch for their shadowy pursuer, then decided against it. Whatever the shadow was, it would not be lingering in Galt. The only thing Grace knew for certain was that it was following her.
“Is something wrong, Master Larad?” she asked as they mounted the horses. The Runelord’s face was gray and pinched, and he seemed unable to stand up straight.
She couldn’t understand his muttered reply, though she caught the words “hammer” and “skull.” Apparently he hadn’t heard the stories about Galtish ale.
They made good time that day–despite Larad’s indisposition–for King Kylar kept the section of the Queen’s Way that passed through Galt in good repair. The pack mule was now laden down with supplies from Kylar’s larder and wore something of a betrayed expression on its long face. The beast really hadn’t signed on for all this, Grace supposed. She had taken to calling the mule Glumly, for that was he how did everything, though he never balked and always kept pace with the horses.
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.”