To Grace, the journey was like a dream.

Time moved strangely, for one thing, just as it did when she was dreaming. One moment she might be standing at the prow of the white ship, watching the sun rise. Then, in the space between two blinks of an eye, the sun was gone, and a horned moon sailed in the black ocean of the sky. At times the stars wheeled dizzily around the invisible axis of the heavens, and at others the sun hung just above the horizon for what seemed hours and hours, turning the sea to molten copper.

Certainly the Little People who piloted the ship were like beings from a dream. It was almost impossible to catch sight of them directly. They were seen best from the corner of the eye, and if Grace quickly turned her head to gaze at one of them, all she saw was a silver shimmer on the air, then nothing at all.

There were a few times when they caught clearer glimpses of the ship’s crew. Once she stood with Beltan near the stern, watching in the light of the full moon as a circle of goat-men pranced around a trio of slender women with twigs for fingers and leaf-tangled hair. When the shaggy goat-men closed the circle around the tree-women, Grace was forced to turn away, her cheeks hot. However, Beltan only laughed, his eyes merry as he watched a dance of a different sort.

There were a few other encounters. Once, when Grace was alone, the withered little creature with the mossy hair came to her again and touched her hand. Before it left, it looked at her with eyes like black stones in its knobby face, and it seemed to Grace a look of sorrow, and of hope.

Another time, a greenman—short and stocky, his beard grown of oak leaves and his eyes brown as acorns—brought a wooden cup to Falken on a day the bard was not feeling well, and the liquid within, though it seemed to be only water, brought color back to his cheeks. On several more occasions, the greenman brought a similar cup for Vani to drink.

The T’gol appeared to be sick often. More than once, from a distance, Grace saw Vani leaning over the ship’s rail. Her skin often bore a greenish tint, and much of the time she walked with her hand pressed to her stomach and her shoulders hunched. Grace supposed the T’gol was seasick. Although the draughts brought by the greenman always seemed to restore her.

The sea through which they sailed was dreamlike as well. They passed floating islands of blue-green ice the elements had wrought into fantastic shapes that looked like castles and domed palaces, glittering in the sunlight. Then the ship veered southward, and the shore that appeared to port was more nightmare than dream.

Sheer black cliffs jutted three hundred feet out of the ocean, and the sea roiled and foamed about their base, as if cut upon the sharp rocks. From time to time, atop the cliffs, Grace saw jutting fingers of black stone. She assumed they were some kind of natural formation. Then she saw the yellow smoke pouring from the top of one of the spires.

“Watchtowers,” Falken said behind her. “And foundries.”

It was warm on the ship, but all the same she felt suddenly cold. “What land is that, Falken?”

“It’s Imbrifale.” The bard’s blue eyes were grim. “The Pale King’s Dominion.”

After that she kept her gaze to the east and north, until finally they left the jagged coast behind.

Although it was always the same balmy temperature aboard the ship, Grace was sure the sea was growing warmer. They saw no more icebergs, and birds circled above the dense forest that lined the coast. All the same, she sensed winter had cast its spell over the land. Once the ship sailed close to the shore, and she could see that the forest was green because its trees were coniferous—spruce and pine. Often they were white as well, dusted with snow. However, no matter how close the ship sailed to land, she saw no keeps, no farms. It was a wild land.

Twice more as they journeyed, she spoke with Aryn over the web of the Weirding, marveling at the way the young baroness was able to reach across the leagues. Grace listened, fascinated, as Aryn described all that had happened to her since their parting—and all that she had learned. Grace knew she would have to tell Falken the knowledge Aryn had gained from Ivalaine’s missive. But not just yet. After seven centuries of care and worry, the bard deserved a little peace.

As time went on, the travelers spoke less and less with one another. It was not due to weariness or strain; there simply seemed no need for conversation, as if the quiet conveyed their feelings with more clarity than words ever could. Sometimes Grace would sit with Falken and take his silver hand—warm and smooth—while they watched the forest slip by. At others she walked in silence with Vani, or rested on the deck with her head upon Beltan’s chest. They never really slept anymore; they felt no weariness, although at times it was good to lie down and be still.

Often Grace saw Beltan and Vani together. It seemed their enmity for one another had been left behind in Toringarth. Now Grace saw something new blossoming between them. It was not romantic in nature. That was impossible; both loved Travis Wilder with all their souls. Still, there was a fondness between them, even a tenderness. What had caused this change of heart? Had the strange air of the ship had something to do with it? It was a mystery to Grace, but she was glad all the same.

Like speaking and sleeping, eating was something that was unnecessary. They drank the cool liquid the Little People left on the table at odd times, and that was more than enough to sustain them. Yet as strange as all of that was, there was another reason the journey seemed like a dream to Grace. The reason lay on the table in the center of the deck, cool and gleaming, and always eager for her touch. Fellring.

This must be a dream, Grace. It has to be. You can’t be a queen, and this can’t be your sword.

Only she was, and so was it.

Sometimes she dared to pick it up, and it seemed to hum in her hands. At some point its hilt had been fitted with a grip of polished wood—another gift of the Little People. The wood was pale and hard, but light; Falken said it was valsindar. The grip fit her hand perfectly, and the blade was so skillfully balanced it seemed to swing itself.

Each time she picked up the sword, questions filled her. What did the runes carved on it mean? Was she truly strong enough to wield it? And how—why—had Sindar sacrificed himself in order to forge it again?

“He knew, Grace,” Beltan said one evening as stars appeared in the purple sky. He had been teaching her how to wield the sword again, and she was getting better.

She lowered the blade and looked at him. “Who knew?”

“Sindar. He knew that sometimes love means giving up everything you are.”

Grace’s knuckles went white around the hilt. No, it was too much. “Was this sword really worth a life, Beltan?”

“Drive it into the Pale King’s heart, Grace. Keep his army from marching across the Dominions. Stop him from finding the Great Stones and giving them to Mohg. Then ask yourself that same question.”

Beltan turned and left her then, and it was only as she watched his broad back fading in the twilight that she wondered if his words had really been meant for her. What if they had been meant for himself?

Sometimes love means giving up everything you are....

“No, Beltan,” she whispered. “Don’t give yourself up. Not for anything. Not for anyone.”

But her words were too quiet to be heard.

The ship sailed on into the east, until one day they reached a silver ocean. The ship turned southward, skimming past a rocky shore where gigantic trees reached twisting branches toward the muted sky. They came to the mouth of a great river, and on the north side of the broad estuary they saw a city.

The city was carved of white stone, and in its center rose a slender spire as silver as the ocean. At first they gazed at the city in wonder. Then the wind picked up, and a banner unfurled itself atop the tower. The banner was red as blood.

“Eversea,” Falken murmured, his voice thick with sorrow.

Grace put a hand on the bard’s shoulder. It was there those who fled the fall of Malachor had come, to the tower raised by King Merandon centuries before with the help of fairies. They had built a shining city, one to honor the spirit and memory of the kingdom which they had been forced to flee.

Then the runelord Kelephon had come, like a snake in a garden, and paradise had rotted from within.

For a time they held their breath, fearing dark ships would sail from the city and race after them, crimson sails full to the wind. However, the white ship passed into a bank of mist, and by the time the fog cleared they had sailed far up the great river, and the city was lost to sight.

Falken was certain the river was the Farwander, whose headwaters lay hundreds of leagues to the east, near Kelcior in the Fal Erenn. At first the river was so broad Grace could barely see the shores to either side of the ship. However, as the days and leagues slipped past, the banks drew closer and closer.

At last, on a snowy day, they came to a confluence where a river from the south poured its rushing waters into the Farwander. The ship turned and sailed up this river.

“It’s the Silverflood,” Falken said, as the ship navigated upriver, propelled by no means they could discern. “To the east lies Eredane.”

The Silverflood was narrow and rougher than the Farwander, but still navigable by the fleet little ship. On the right bank of the river was a broad plain and, in the distance, the dark line of a forest that drew a bit nearer to the water each day. To the east they saw cities and castles. All were bleak, stained with soot and mantled by clouds of acrid smoke.

“By Vathris, Eredane was never like this,” Beltan said, as they watched one of the dreary cities go by. “What’s happened to this Dominion?”

However, their question was answered when they saw the long procession of people in black robes snaking its way toward the city. Grace could hear the chant rising on the air, but they were too far away to make out the words. However, she knew them all the same; in Omberfell she had heard a similar procession intoning the prayer to the Raven.

From time to time they saw more such processions. Where they were going and what their purpose was, Grace wasn’t sure, but it seemed most of the people of the Dominion were taking part in the pilgrimage, for the ship constantly passed abandoned dwellings and farms where the crops had been left to wither in the fields. They glimpsed several bands of men in black armor riding along the road that followed the east bank of the river. It seemed Kelephon’s knights were still in command of Eredane.

Sometimes Grace feared that the knights would raise up a hue and cry as the white ship sailed past. However, if the knights saw the ship, they showed no sign of it.

At last, thankfully, they left Eredane behind. The western forest drew close to the river, which became narrower yet, filled with jutting rocks and frothing rapids around which the white ship nimbly maneuvered. Then, small as the ship was, it could go no farther.

It stopped at a place where three small rivers joined, becoming the Silverflood. None was large enough for the ship to sail into. Instead, it drifted to the western bank. Dim forms scurried in the failing daylight, and the white plank reached to the shore.

Falken shouldered his lute. “We go on foot from here.”

Grace picked up Fellring, and Vani and Beltan took packs of foodstuffs that had appeared when they weren’t looking. Then they left the ship behind.

They tramped south on foot, keeping to the narrow strip of land between river and wood. It was not bitter as in Toringarth, but the air was damp and chilly, and a dusting of snow seemed to fall almost constantly. However, the clothes they had bought in Galspeth served well to keep out the wind, and walking kept them warm, as did the clear draughts of fairy wine they stopped to drink from time to time.

That first evening, as they camped in the shelter of the trees, they saw silver lights winking in the forest.

“We’re not alone,” Beltan said.

Vani peered into the night with gold eyes. “I’ve been watching them. They’ve been following us ever since we left the ship, keeping to the shadows.”

But why? They had borne Grace to Toringarth. What more did they want?

“I think they want to make sure you reach your destination, Grace,” Falken said in answer to her unspoken question. “This journey isn’t over yet. And I think something’s going to happen at the end of it. Something important.”

Grace wondered what it could be. She polished Fellring with a cloth just to be ready.

Two days later, they reached the place where the tributary they had been following rushed out of a jumble of stones. Above rose a muted line of heather-gray mountains. The Fal Sinfath, Falken told them. They were almost there. By day they followed the line of low peaks south and east, keeping the mountains always to their left. At dusk, sparks of light danced in the forest to their right.

“What day do you suppose it is?” Beltan said as they gathered around the campfire that night.

His question completely startled Grace. Time had passed so fleetingly she had forgotten about it altogether. But time was important, wasn’t it?

“It’s hard to be sure,” Falken said. “But I’ve been doing my best to count the days as we journeyed.” He showed them a stick on which he had made a series of marks. “And I’ve been watching the stars, too. I’m fairly certain it will be Midwinter in two days. Which means tomorrow is Midwinter’s Eve.”

Panic flooded Grace. She started to rise. “We can’t sit here. We have to go! We have to—”

Vani gripped her arm, pulling her down. She pressed a finger to her lips.

“What is it?” Beltan said quietly.

Vani gazed around them. “Do you see it?”

“I don’t see anything but darkness,” Falken whispered.

“Exactly.”

The silvery sparks of light they had seen each night since leaving the ship were gone. The forest was dark and silent.

“Where are they?” Grace murmured, but no one had an answer for her.

Dawn came red as blood. The sky was clear, the air frigid, the ground blanketed with a hard crust of snow. None of them had slept; the darkness had seemed heavy, oppressive. All the same, they walked swiftly.

The day dragged on or flew by; Grace wasn’t certain which. Beltan broke a path through the snow, and the others followed in his footprints. Each step Grace took was agonizingly slow. In contrast, the sun seemed to skip across the sky. Time. They needed more time.

The sun rose toward the zenith, then began its descent. There was not a breath of wind; the world was still. No birds sang, no animals scampered about.

“I don’t like this,” Beltan muttered more than once.

Vani vanished and reappeared like a shadow. Grace knew she was scouting ahead, but if the T’gol saw anything, she didn’t say. The sun sank into the west, setting a bank of clouds afire. Fear rose in Grace’s throat, verging on a scream. They had to hurry. She flung herself forward, trying to move faster, but her lungs burned, and the snow dragged at her feet.

Finally, exhausted and trembling, she lost her footing and went tumbling down a snowy slope. She heard Beltan’s shout behind her, calling to her to dig her feet in to stop herself, but she couldn’t do it, she was too tired. Rocks loomed beneath her. She was going to be dashed against them.

The slope leveled out; she skidded to a stop scant feet from the rocks.

Grace rose onto her knees. She was cold and wet, and her back ached, but the only thing that seemed to be damaged was her pride. Grunting with effort, using one of the rocks for support, she stood up.

And stared into hungry yellow eyes.

“Oh,” Grace said.

She was so astonished she simply stared. The feydrim bared yellow fangs. A fetid reek washed over Grace. More spidery gray forms slunk across the rocks. The creature was not alone.

She thought she heard shouts behind her, coming closer. But they were too far away; they would never reach her in time. A growl emanated from deep in the feydrim’s throat; the others picked up the call. They tensed, ready to spring.

The sound of chimes shimmered all around. The feydrim snarled, raising their snouts to sniff the air, searching. The crystalline music grew louder, clearer. The feydrim hissed. They began to recoil, to scramble back over the rocks.

Silver light blazed to life all around them. It was so bright Grace was forced to covered her eyes with her hands. Through her fingers, she saw queer shapes moving against the glare. There was a chorus of high-pitched squeals, cut suddenly short. The light dimmed, and Grace blinked, trying to clear her vision.

“Grace!” a voice said beside her. “Grace, are you all right?” A strong hand gripped her. Beltan.

“The creatures are gone,” Vani said. “I believe those who have been following us took care of—”

The T’gol’s words fell short, then Grace heard a gasp.

“Look,” came Falken’s soft voice.

Grace rubbed at her eyes, wiping the tears away. Then she gasped as well. The line of trees at the top of the slope must have blocked their view. Not now. It rose above them on a low hill: a spire of black stone.

“We’re here,” Grace said, and the feeling of relief that filled her was so strong she thought she would weep.

“By the Blood of the Bull,” Beltan swore. “Look at that!”

Relief vanished, replaced by new fear. Dark, sinuous shapes slunk rapidly up the slopes of the hill toward the Black Tower of the Runebreakers. There were dozens of them. Hundreds. The sun was almost gone; the snowy ground was red as blood.

Falken clenched his silver hand into a fist. “Feydrim.”

“But why are they here?” Grace said, shivering.

“Maybe we weren’t the only ones who hoped to find Travis here,” the bard said. “Maybe the Pale King knows as well, and he’s sent his minions to gain Sinfathisar.”

“There could be more feydrim behind us,” Vani said, circling around.

Grace clutched at Beltan. “What do we do?”

“Follow them,” Beltan said, pointing.

The sun vanished behind the trees; blue twilight descended over the world. In the gloom, the sparks of silver shone clearly, far too many to be counted. They streamed toward the tower from all directions, closing in on the shadowy forms that loped up the hill.

“Come on!” Beltan said, tugging her arm. “Travis is in there!”

They lurched into a mad run, Vani and Falken on their heels. It was hard to see; the gloom was deepening. As they started up the side of the hill, it seemed shadows closed in around the tower, surrounding it in a perfect circle of darkness. Beltan pulled harder, nearly yanking her arm from its socket.

She forgot her pain. The ring of sparkling silver lights grew brighter. It closed around the darker circle, engulfing it. Gangly shadows writhed against the light. Shrill cries of pain and release rose on the air as the light grew brighter yet.

“Grace!” Beltan shouted. “The key!”

She squinted against the glare. Then the wall of light seemed to part before them, and she saw it: the dark arch of a doorway, and in its center a small hole. Grace groped beneath her cloak and pulled out the iron key that hung around her neck just as the four of them slammed against the door.

Beltan beat on the iron surface with both fists. “Travis!”

The light still blazed around them, but the shadows surged against it, pushing it back. Then the light grew purer, brighter, pressing the shadows against the walls of the tower. Inhuman cries rang out, shattering the cold air. Grace fumbled with the key.

“Please, Grace,” Vani said. “You must hurry.”

“Let me help,” Falken said, and his silver hand closed around hers, steadying it, guiding it.

The key slipped into the hole, then turned. As one, Beltan and Vani threw themselves against the door, and it flew open with a boom!

For one more heartbeat, the light shone all around. Then it dimmed, and Grace could see again.

Not five paces in front of them, a man clad in a black robe knelt on the tower floor. Either he had not heard the door open or he did not care. He pawed at a heap of brown cloth, then seemed to find what he was looking for. He stood up. In his hands was a disk of creamy stone. He turned it over, and for a second Grace saw the symbol carved into its surface: a dot with a line above it.

“Travis, Durge!” Beltan shouted. “Hold on!”

Grace looked up, and joy and terror pulled at her heart so fiercely she thought the feelings would rend it in two. A staircase spiraled up the inside wall of the vast chamber. At the top were two familiar figures. Durge swung his greatsword as a knot of feydrim hissed and leaped out of the way. Travis lashed out with his stiletto, the ruby in its hilt blazing like a red eye. Just above them on the stairs, Lirith and Sareth held on to one another.

The figure in the black robe seemed finally to have noticed them. He looked up, but it was impossible to see his face in the depths of his cowl. Beltan started forward.

“Sar,” the man in the black robe said, holding out a hand.

The stone floor rippled beneath Beltan, softening, turning to mud. His boots sank in several inches, then the man lowered his hand, and the stone grew solid once again.

Beltan lurched to an abrupt halt; he tugged, but his boots were stuck in the floor. He reached out, but the man in the black robe had already turned to flee. He passed between two columns, reaching the far wall of the tower. “Sar,” he spoke again. A hole opened in the tower wall. The man slipped through, and like a mouth the gap shut behind him.

Beltan jerked his feet out of his boots. He dashed forward, behind Vani, who was already bounding up the stairs. One of the feydrim whirled around and sprang at her. She grabbed its head in her hands and gave it a sharp twist. A crunching sound echoed off stone; the creature went limp.

Another feydrim sprang at Beltan. He ducked, then quickly rose as the thing sailed over his back. It flew into space, limbs flailing, then crashed to the floor twenty feet below, landing in a crumpled gray heap. It did not get up.

Durge pulled his greatsword from the corpse of one of the creatures, and Travis had wounded the last remaining one with his stiletto. Vani finished it with a precise blow just beneath its skull, on the back of its neck.

It was over. The last traces of silver light faded away outside the tower. Night closed in, quiet and empty.

Beltan took a step up the stairs, his chest heaving as he struggled for breath. “Travis,” he said, his words hoarse. “I never gave up. Not even after the Etherion came crashing down. I never stopped believing I’d see you again.”

Travis stared, amazement on his face. Then all at once he grinned. “I came as fast as I could.”

Beltan laughed. Then Travis was racing down the last few steps. He caught the blond man in his arms, and they held on to one another with fierce strength. At last Travis tilted his head, his lips brushed against Beltan’s——and the blond man pulled away.

Travis frowned, his gray eyes puzzled. Beltan took a step down, looking suddenly uncomfortable. He cast a glance at Vani, then nodded. She took a tentative step up.

Travis’s smile returned, and in that moment Grace knew he truly did love them both.

“I am glad to see you,” the T’gol said, her gold eyes speaking more emphatically than her words. “All of you.”

Travis quickly closed the distance between them, enfolding her in an embrace that was gentler than the one he had given Beltan, yet no less urgent. She did not resist. However, even as he held on to her, Travis’s eyes moved to Beltan. The knight did not meet his gaze, and again pain and confusion flickered across Travis’s face.

Grace sighed. She would talk to Travis later. She would tell him what it was Beltan feared—and what Travis’s actions had just confirmed. However, it could wait.

“I believe there are others here who would like some hugs,” she said, hands on hips. “From all of you.”

Then Travis and Durge were running down the stairs, the others following after. Durge actually dared to try kneeling before Grace, but she caught him before he could, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his.

“Durge.” She said the word like prayer.

“My Fairy Queen,” he murmured, tightening his strong arms around her, and for the first time in a long time, she felt safe.

“Is Lady Aryn not with you?” Durge said when she finally let him go.

Grace smiled, thinking of the familiar voice she had heard over such a long distance. “In a way.”

Durge gave her an odd look, but she could explain later. Then she was hugging Lirith. “Sister,” the witch said, her voice warm with affection. Then, to her surprise and delight, Grace was twirled around by Sareth. He looked a bit gaunt to her, as if he had been ill, only now was much recovered. That was one more thing she would have to ask about. As well as where they had been all this time. Somehow she sensed much had happened to them.

As it has to you, Grace.

She turned and saw that Travis was gazing at the heap of brown cloth on the floor, the one the man in the black robe had pulled the stone disk from. Travis’s eyes, bright before, were now muted with sadness.

“I don’t know if you saw,” he said quietly. “It was Sky.”

Falken nodded. “I did see it for a moment. You’re right, it was indeed the rune of sky.”

Travis looked up, sadness replaced by puzzlement. “No, Falken. I don’t mean the rune. I mean the person. It was Sky. You remember him, from the Gray Tower.”

A needle pierced Grace’s heart. It wasn’t a heap of brown cloth. It was a brown robe.

Falken shook his head. “You must be mistaken. I saw it clearly. It was a bound rune. Tal, the rune of sky. The man in the black robe picked it up right there.” He pointed to the fallen garment.

They all stared at the brown robe, then at one another, struggling to comprehend.

“But it was him,” Travis said weakly.

Falken’s eyes were thoughtful. “And it was a rune.”

“Sky and sky,” Durge said in his rumbling voice. “Peculiar as it seems, there appears to be but one logical conclusion. Both rune and man were one and the same.”

Grace looked at Travis. “Sky showed up in Tarras the morning after Tira’s star vanished. He was wounded, and he told us to look for you here at Midwinter. Then he disappeared.”

“We saw Tira’s star vanish,” Travis said, his gray eyes surprised. “And we saw Sky that same night here at the Black Tower. He told us he was going to take a message to you, that he would be able to reach you quickly.”

“Very quickly,” Durge rumbled. “It seems it took him mere hours to reach Tarras. Although the feydrim surrounding the tower must have tried to stop him. He must have returned here today to help us.”

Lirith knelt beside the fallen robe, her dark face troubled. “The man in the black robe, we saw him stab Sky with a knife. We saw him die.”

“We only thought we saw him die, beshala,” Sareth said, placing his hands on her shoulders. “All we really saw was a flash of blue light, then Sky was gone.”

She looked up at him. “What are you saying?”

“Maybe he didn’t die when the other stabbed him. Maybe he was transformed.”

“From man to rune,” Lirith murmured. “But the man in the black robe—who was he?”

Grace felt weak, exertion and fear and joy all finally getting the best of her. She couldn’t stop shaking. “He was Runebreaker.”

Lirith’s eyes went wide.

Travis gave her a sharp look. “But I’m Runebreaker, Grace. We know that. The dragon said so.”

Grace gave a stiff nod. “And so was he. I can explain it later, but Aryn learned about him, and she told me while we were on the white ship that he would be here. I wanted to warn you, Travis, but I was too late.”

“Warn me about what?”

She drew in a breath. “There isn’t just one Runebreaker. There are two.”

They gazed at her, stunned.

“You mean Kelephon, right?” Beltan finally said. “He’s a runelord, and we saw him break runes. So he must be the second Runebreaker.”

Falken shook his head. “It’s more than just being able to break runes. Runebreaker is the one prophesied to break the First Rune and destroy Eldh.”

“It can’t be Kelephon,” Grace said, thinking of the man in the black robe. “Kelephon was bigger than that man. And I don’t think he could have gotten here before us. There’s no way his vessel could have kept up with the white ship.”

“Besides,” Beltan said, “Kelephon means to betray the Pale King, take the Stones, and rule Eldh himself. He wouldn’t want to destroy the world. It’s got to be someone else.”

Durge crossed his arms. “Then who is it?”

“I don’t know,” Falken said, his face haggard. “But whoever the second Runebreaker is, he has the rune of sky...”

“...which he can use to open a crack in the world and bring Mohg back,” Travis said, his gray eyes haunted.

Grace moved to him. “You know about Mohg? How he intends to get back to Eldh?”

Travis nodded. “And how he intends to use the Imsari to break the First Rune.”

She touched his arm. “But how do you know?”

“It was Brother Cy. I saw him, Grace, in—”

Ruby light filled the tower. They all turned to see a small figure pad through the open door on bare feet. The girl wore the same simple gray shift Grace remembered, and her fiery hair was as wild and tangled as ever. In her hands was a stone.

Not a stone. The Stone. Krondisar. The Stone of Fire.

It was from the Stone that the light radiated. It danced on the air like crimson fireflies, its touch warm and gentle. So that was why her star had vanished. She was here.

Grace’s heart melted. “Tira,” she said, smiling, even as tears streamed down her cheeks.

The little girl laughed and padded toward her. No, not toward her. Toward Travis. He knelt before Tira, and the girl held out the glowing Stone.

“Runebreaker,” she said, and laughed again.

Here ends Blood of Mystery, Book Four of The Last Rune. The story of the Final Battle for Eldh will continue in Book Five, The Gates of Winter.

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