Teravian picked up a glass of wine but did not drink. “Yes, we’ve seen it. Ten nights ago, it appeared in the north–a dark hole in the sky, just like you described.”
“Are people afraid?” Grace said.
Teravian frowned. “That’s the peculiar thing. I thought they would be. I thought there would be fire and panic, and I was ready to send my guards out to stop it. Only there was no need. The people go about their daily lives as before. They tend to their fields, their shops, their children. Only there is no joy to it, no meaning. They’re going through the motions, that’s all. Folk have stopped leaving offerings at the shrines of the Mystery Cults. They say the gods have abandoned them, only they do nothing to bring the gods back. It’s as if they’ve run out of–”
“Hope,” Aryn said softly. She sat in a chair near the window, her left hand resting on her full belly. “They’ve run out of hope.”
Teravian set down his goblet and knelt before her. “There ishope, Aryn.” He laid his hand over hers. “It’s right here.”
Despite the dread that seemed to be a permanent fixture in her chest, Grace found herself smiling. Aryn and Teravian hadn’t chosen one another. If fact, given a choice, surely either would have selected almost anyone else. All the same, in the three years since their marriage, love had grown between them, and it was all the more precious because it had been so un‑looked for, like a flower blooming in the midst of winter.
Aryn had bloomed herself. The lovely but tentative young woman Grace had first met in this castle was gone, replaced by a beautiful and regal queen. Her blue eyes were still vivid, but tempered with wisdom now, and her raven hair framed a porcelain face that was sharper than before, but no less kind. She seemed complete: a woman, queen, and witch in the full of her power. Even her withered right arm, so small and delicately twisted, was a part of the whole.
Teravian had changed as well. Although he would never be brawny like his father, King Boreas, his lean frame had filled out, and he no longer hunched his broad shoulders. He wore a black beard now, like his father had, and when he bared his teeth in a grin, he reminded Grace of bullish King Boreas indeed–so much so that she felt a pang of grief in her chest. However, when he grew serious and thoughtful, which was far more often, it was his mother, Queen Ivalaine, who was reflected in the young king’s visage.
“What I hope,” Aryn said, shifting in the chair and grimacing, “is that this baby comes soon.”
“It will,” Teravian said.
She glared at him. “You can’t know that.”
“Actually, I can,” he said, his voice growing testy. “I have the Sight, remember?”
“No, you don’t. I could be ready to explode, and you wouldn’t know it, because the Sight isn’t working anymore. Is it, Lirith?”
The dark‑haired witch took a step back. “I believe I’ll stay out of this one, sister.”
Grace didn’t dare demonstrate her mirth, but inwardly she laughed. Although Aryn and Teravian had found true love, that didn’t mean they had entirely forgotten how to argue. In fact, they seemed to remember quite well. Fortunately, their quarrel was interrupted as Taneth began to cry.
Master Larad held the baby out at arm’s length, a distasteful expression on his face. “I think it wants something.”
“Perhaps to be held like a child rather than a sack of grain,” Lirith said, hurrying over to the Runelord.
“I do not believe giving it to me was a wise idea,” Larad said. “I have no talent for comforting children.”
“It doesn’t take talent, Master Larad,” Lirith said. “Only knowledge. Surely a scholar such as you is not afraid to learn something new.”
The Runelord glowered at her, but he did not disagree.
“Here, place your arm under him for support, and let his head rest in the crook of your elbow. And keep him close against you. Babies want to feel they are safe and loved. There now.”
Taneth had stopped fussing, and his eyes drifted shut. The corners of Larad’s mouth twitched in the hint of a smile, then he looked up and glared at the others. They all studiously turned their attention elsewhere. However, when Grace stole a glance a few minutes later, she saw Larad in the corner rocking Taneth with awkward but gentle motions.
All the next day, they spoke not of the rift and the weakening of magic, but of mundane things–babies, and weaving blankets, and the day‑to‑day drudgery of running a kingdom– which, with the help of much wine come evening, soon led to mirth.
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.