The bard had a point. "Is it time?" Grace said to the assassin.

Vani nodded. "My al-Mama is waiting for you."

Just as the last rays of the sun turned the gold domes of Tarras to copper, they reached the circle of slender ithaya trees atop the white cliffs north of the city. Here, a thousand feet above the harbor, the Mournish had camped for the last two months. Half-lost in the gathering shadows among the trees, Grace could just make out the fantastical shapes of their wagons: a hare, a snail, a crouching lion, and-coiled like a serpent ready to strike-a dragon.

Part of Grace had been reluctant to leave Sky at the villa. But he was sleeping, and all of her instincts as a doctor-and as a witch-told her his wounds were not serious, that he would recover. She had left one of the manservants outside the door of Sky's room with strict orders not to let anyone in.

Despite being weary from his long journey, Sir Tarus walked with them up the trail to see the Mournish.

"King Boreas ordered me to return to Calavere with Lady Aryn," the young knight said. "I'm not about to let some bunch of vagabonds steal her away. I've heard stories about the Mournish, and how they..."

His words trailed off as he noticed Vani's hard, golden stare. Beltan clapped his hand on Tarus's back. "And you've heard how they throw the best parties, and you don't want to miss your chance to see one."

As they entered the circle of trees, the last sliver of the sun vanished beneath the western horizon. At the same moment, to the east, the full circle of Eldh's enormous moon sailed above the edge of the sea. It looked to Grace as if the moon had actually risen out of the water, and its light made a silver road on the surface of the ocean.

Melia stopped and curtsied in the direction of the moon, murmuring something. Grace wasn't certain, but it might have been, It's good to see you as well, dear. Before she could wonder more, brown hands touched her arms, drawing her and the others into the circle of firelight in the center of the grove.

One thing hadn't changed: The Mournish still knew how to throw a party. Wild music swirled all around, and dancers leaped and darted like the flames. The smell of rich, roasted meat was thick on the air, and the cup in Grace's hand seemed eternally filled with fiery red wine. However, she wasn't really hungry, and she had never been much of a dancer, so she was content to sit on a pillow beside Aryn and Beltan and stare into the fire while the wine did its work.

At one point during the revel, one of the dancers-a voluptuous woman with smoky eyes-approached Grace.

"Where is your friend?" she said in a lilting voice.

"My friend?" Grace said.

"Yes, the dark-haired one with the solemn face and many muscles."

Grace blinked. "You mean Durge?"

"Yes, D'hurj." The woman smiled. "That was his name."

Grace felt a pang in her heart, and she wondered if that fragile organ could bear much more pain. "I'm afraid he's not here."

The woman was clearly disappointed. "I am sorry to learn it. He was a fine...dancer."

With a flash of scarves, the woman spun away.

The feast continued as sparks rose up to glimmer among the stars. Then-at some signal Grace could not detect-it was over. The dancers and musicians slipped away into the shadows. The doors of the wagons opened and shut. The companions were alone in the circle of firelight.

Not quite alone, Grace.

Gold eyes shone in a withered face, gazing at Grace. Propped on a heap of pillows beside Vani was a figure Grace had not noticed in the wildness of the revel. Her neck was as thin and crooked as a vulture's, and hair like cobwebs floated about her knobby head.

The ancient woman smiled at Grace, baring her one fanglike tooth. "I told you, did I not, that you would be the strongest of them all?"

Grace licked her lips. "Thank you for inviting us here. It was you who invited us, wasn't it?"

The old woman let out a cackle. "I had the idea, yes, though Vani spoke it before I could. I wished to speak to you before we departed. We will begin our wanderings again on the morrow. Such is our fate." Her eyes narrowed. "Just as you will begin your own journey soon-for such is yours."

Grace lifted a hand to her throat. "How do you know about that? Did Vani tell you?"

The old woman scowled. "Surely you must know the portents are clear and strong. The ruby star vanishes as suddenly as it appears; things go lost that must be found once more. And no matter how I shuffle them, the cards I draw are always the same. The Wagon, the Spire, and the Queen of Blades. I know not what this tower is, or what you will find. I only know that you will go there."

Falken jerked his gaze up from the fire. "Why did you call her that just now? The Queen of Blades?"

The crone shrugged knife-sharp shoulders. "It is her fate, is it not? Even I can see that much, dim though my eyes have grown. And I would have thought you of all people would know that, Falken Blackhand." She cackled again. "But not Blackhand for long. For that I've seen as well."

Falken flexed his gloved hand, but what he thought of the old woman's words he didn't say.

"Do you truly believe they can find Sareth and the others, al-Mama?" Vani said to the old woman.

"It is their fate to seek your brother and the rest. However, whether it is the fate of the lost to be found, I cannot say. Would that I could see what will become of the A'narai. But he has no fate, and my cards are useless in this. He is a mystery to me, as are all those near to him."

Tarus, who had been sitting quietly throughout the revel, glanced at Beltan. "Either I'm denser than I've always liked to believe, or the Mournish really do know how to cast spells of befuddlement. I don't understand a word of any of this."

"Don't you?" the old woman said before Beltan could answer. She turned piercing eyes on Tarus. "Have you not seen signs of the coming darkness yourself?"

Tarus sat up straight, his blue eyes wide.

Beltan laid his hand on the young man's knee. "What is it, Tarus? I'd bet my sword you bring more news than just King Boreas's message for Aryn. What's happening in the Dominions?"

Tarus sighed. "I wish I could tell you. All I know are rumors. They started around the beginning of Revendath. At first it sounded like the kinds of stories peasants in the backwoods always tell-shadows in the wood, strange noises, weird lights on hilltops-that sort of thing. Only then..." He cocked his head. "You know the borders of the Dominion of Eredane have been closed ever since last Midwinter's Eve?"

Falken nodded. "Queen Eminda was murdered at the Council of Kings. Her chief counselor was an ironheart. We have no idea who's ruling Eredane now."

"Except I think we do," Tarus said. "For now it's not just Eredane whose borders are closed, but Brelegond as well. No one is allowed in or out. And it's said that guarding the roads are knights who wear black armor and black visors on their helms, and who strike down anyone who strays a half a league into that Dominion."

Tarus's words were a cold dagger in Grace's chest. A year ago there had been rumors of shadows like this, and the rumors had turned out to be true. Wraithlings and feydrim-servants of the Pale King-had stalked the land. And the Raven Cult that had swept through the Dominions had proved a front for the Pale King as well. After Midwinter's Eve, when Travis sealed the Rune Gate, the wraithlings and feydrim had vanished, and in the weeks that followed the newly founded Order of Malachor had stamped out the activities of the Raven Cult. It had seemed the dark days were over.

Except maybe now the dark days are returning.

"What of the other Dominions?" Falken said to Tarus.

"Things seem well enough," the knight said. "Calavan awaits the happy marriage of Lady Aryn. Galt stands uneasily in the shadow of Eredane, but I've heard naught of trouble there. Toloria is as you left it. And the word is that young Queen Inara has proved to be a strong leader in Perridon, ruling well in her infant son's name."

Melia smoothed the fabric of her kirtle. "You have forgotten Embarr, Tarus."

He shook his head. "No, my lady, I believe it is Embarr who has forgotten us-as well as the pact it made at the Council of Kings. The stories say that King Sorrin grows madder by the day. That I can't vouch for. But I do know he's pulled all of his knights from the Order of Malachor. Some say he's created his own order of knights, although what he names it, and what its purpose is, I cannot say."

Falken's expression was troubled. "That's strange news."

Tarus gazed at the old Mournish woman, boldly returning her stare. "So what does it all mean, if you can see so much in those cards of yours? Are these black knights connected to everything else that's changing?"

"All things are connected," the crone murmured, as if she had spoken the most profound truth. And perhaps she had at that.

Tarus, however, seemed less than satisfied. He glanced at Grace. "I have not seen Lady Lirith among you. Am I to take it she is one of the ones who was...lost?"

Grace's throat was too tight for words, so she nodded instead.

Tarus gazed down at his clasped hands. "I hope she wasn't right, then. I hope it's not already come to this. By Vathris, I thought they were just tales told by the priests. I never thought I'd be alive to see the Final Battle myself."

Grace didn't understand Tarus's words. However, she noticed that Beltan, Falken, and Melia all stared at the young knight with the same look of astonishment.

It was Beltan who recovered first. "This is dark news about the Dominions. But our task is still clear. We have to journey to the Black Tower."

"That may not be so simple as we think," Falken said. "The Tower of the Runebreakers stands where the range of the Fal Sinfath ends at the Winter Wood."

Beltan frowned. "But that puts it on the other side of Brelegond from us."

"Exactly," the bard said, expression grim. "And from what good Sir Tarus here tells us, journeying through Brelegond is not an option right now."

Beltan pounded a fist on his knee. "This is one time I'll agree with Vani's al-Mama and her cards. We all have to find a way to get there."

"No, not all of us," Aryn said in a soft voice.

The baroness sat on the edge of the firelight. Her face was touched by sorrow, yet there was a resoluteness to her expression. Grace let out a breath. In all their talk, they had forgotten about Tarus's message and what it portended for the young woman.

"My dear one," Melia said, taking Aryn's hand in her own. Aryn gave her a faint smile.

Grace reached out and touched the Weirding. It was easy to pick out Aryn's brilliant blue thread.

Please don't worry, Aryn. I'm sure it'll be all right.

Grace winced. The words were utterly worthless. But hopefully Aryn could feel what she meant.

I know it will, Grace, came Aryn's voice, strong across the web of the Weirding. Ever since I was a little girl, I always knew this would be my duty. And I won't fight it. It's just that so much is uncertain right now, and I promised Ivalaine- Grace felt a tug in her mind as Aryn hastily pulled her thread back, breaking the connection. What had the baroness been about to say? And why didn't she want Grace to hear it?

Maybe it's because you weren't the only one who was listening, Grace.

Melia's golden eyes were fixed on Aryn, her visage unreadable. Aryn pulled her hand from Melia's and gazed into the fire. There was something the baroness knew, something she wasn't telling. Ivalaine had commanded Aryn to do something. Only what?

"We can't go through Brelegond," Falken said, "so we're going to have to find another way to the Black Tower."

Melia raised an eyebrow. "And why do I have the feeling you already know what that way is, Falken?"

The bard couldn't quite hide a wolfish grin. He reached into the case that held his lute and pulled out a book. It was Pagan Magics of the North, the book Grace had found in the university library.

"I've been reading this interesting little volume," Falken said, thumbing through the yellowed pages. "I'm still not certain who wrote it, but whoever it was, he or she knew a great deal about both magic and history."

Melia let out an exasperated breath. "Do spare us the dramatics, Falken. You've learned something in the book, and you know you can't resist telling us, so out with it."

The bard shut the book and looked up. "I know where we can find the shards of Fellring."

Grace listened in growing numbness as Falken explained what he had read in the book: how after the first War of the Stones, the broken shards of Ulther's magic sword Fellring- with which he had defeated the Pale King-were taken back across the Winter Sea, to his homeland of Toringarth.

"So you think we should go to Toringarth?" Beltan said dubiously.

The bard nodded. "Whatever Tarus's troubling stories mean, there's one thing we do know. Mohg, Lord of Nightfall, seeks a door back to Eldh. If we could find a way to reforge Fellring, we would have a powerful weapon we could use to fight him."

Grace nearly choked on her tongue. She knew very well what Falken had failed to say-that, according to the legends he loved so much, only Ulther's heir could wield Fellring. But whatever he might think, Grace knew she was not up to the task of slaying gods, no matter how old and decrepit they might be.

"It's nearly two months until Midwinter," Falken went on.

"What's more, we know we can't journey through Brelegond- and it's not any farther to the Black Tower from Toringarth than it is from Tarras. We can sail to Toringarth, then make our way to the tower in plenty of time for Midwinter's Day."

"But what about Eredane?" Beltan said. "Are not the black knights in command there? And what of Toringarth itself? No word has come from that land in centuries."

"We can stay between the River Silverflood and the Western Wood on our way south to the Black Tower," Falken said. "We won't have to set foot in Eredane."

"Yes, Falken of the Blackhand," al-Mama said in her hoarse voice. "Your words feel like fate to me. I believe you all must do as he says."

Grace touched the necklace at her throat. "These black knights." She glanced at Falken. "Do you think they're related to the Pale King somehow? I mean, they-"

She couldn't voice the rest of her thoughts, but she knew Falken would understand. It was the bard who told her the story, how a band of black knights had murdered her parents. And it made sense, didn't it? Wouldn't the Pale King want to stamp out all of the heirs to the throne of Malachor?

"I don't know, Grace," Falken said. "But if the black knights are linked to the Pale King, then it's all the more important we find a way to forge Fellring anew."

Grace tried and failed to swallow the lump in her throat. The idea of playing a fabled hero was absurd. However, when she saw the light burning in the ageless bard's eyes, she found she had no words to tell him he was wrong.

The last flames flickered atop the coals, then in a sizzle they vanished; it was time to go. They bid Vani and her al-Mama farewell, then rose and made their way from the circle of wagons to descend the trail in darkness.

"Don't worry, Grace," Beltan said, clasping her hand in his.

His grip was rough and strong. "Falken's plan is a good one, I'm sure of it. We'll find the pieces of your sword, and we'll still get to Travis in time."

Grace started to answer him, only she caught the flash of two gold eyes gazing in the darkness. Then the night rippled, folded, and the eyes were gone.

The moon was high in the starry sky when they reached the villa again. They had made their way back in silence. Grace had wanted to talk to Aryn, but she hadn't known what to say. As they stepped into the main room, Grace saw that the manservant still stood before the door to the side chamber.

"Thank you, Mahalim," she said, touching his arm. "Go get some rest now."

The man gave her a weary smile, then bowed and departed. Quietly, Grace pushed open the door and entered the room to see how her patient was doing.

"Oh," she said, stopping halfway into the room.

"What is it, Grace?" she heard Falken say behind her. Then came the bard's soft oath, and she knew she didn't need to explain anything.

Mahalim had guarded the door; she didn't doubt that. And the room's only window was small and barred with iron. All the same, the chaise was empty, and the blanket lay crumpled on the floor.

Sky was gone.

At dawn two days later, they gathered on the docks of Tarras to say good-bye.

They had already made their hasty farewells to Ephesian the evening before, in the vast throneroom of the imperial palace in the First Circle. The emperor hadn't taken the news of their departure well.

"This is ill news indeed, cousin," he said, glaring at Grace and crossing his arms over the great bulk of his body. "I should have you tossed in prison so you can't leave."

Grace bit her lip. "That isn't how one treats family, Your Magnificence."