The First Stone by Mark Anthony Page A

descended to Eldh to work against the Necromancers, and though a goddess no longer, she was still immortal. What would happen to her once he was gone—once all of them were gone?
    “Are you certain you’re well, dear?” Melia said. Falken had gone to fetch them more wine.
    Grace hesitated, then decided to tell the truth. “I was just thinking about you and Falken, about how you’re . . . and one day he’ll . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to speak the words.
    Melia did. “How one day he’ll die, you mean?” She let her gaze follow after the bard, her expression full of love. “But that’s no reason to be sad, dear. That time is long off yet. Besides, we all must die one day.”
    She brushed a hand through her hair, and Grace saw it for the first time: a streak of white marked Melia’s blue-black hair. All at once the lady’s words struck Grace.
We all must die one
day. . . .
    She clutched a hand to her mouth, unable to stifle a gasp.
    Melia studied her, then nodded.
    “How?” Grace finally managed to speak.
    “I chose mortality when we were married,” Melia said.
    “You . . . you can do that?”
    “I can, and I did. It was the one power left to me. And nor can the decision be reversed.”
    “Does he know?”
    “Not yet. But he will in time.” She touched Grace’s arm. “Please, Ralena. Let me be the one to tell him.”
    “To tell who what?” Falken said, setting down three goblets and sitting next to the two women.
    Grace drew in a deep breath. “To tell you how much we love you,” she said, and kissed his cheek.
    The feast continued with much cheer. Falken and Melia danced until Kel cut in and began tossing the small, amber-eyed lady about as if he were intent on juggling her, much to both her and Falken’s mirth. Lord Olstin made a brief appearance and paid his respects to Grace, though he ate little and drank nothing, and soon retired. His nephew, Alfin, stayed a good deal longer, though Grace had little opportunity to speak with him, as Tarus kept the young Runelord largely to himself throughout the evening. Grace wondered if they had made it to see Larad yet.
    Speaking of Master Larad, where was the Runelord? Of all her advisors, he had in many ways become her most valuable. Ever since they first met him, Larad had done what he believed was right regardless of what others wished, and regardless of the consequences to himself. While that trait—and his acerbic nature—made him difficult to endure at times, she always considered his point of view seriously.
    At last she gave up searching the hall for Larad. However, she did come upon Lursa. The Embarran witch was married now; her handsome warrior had finally won that battle—or perhaps it was the other way around, for he had traded his sword for a plowshare. After her wedding, Lursa had become Matron of the witch’s coven at Gravenfist Keep. Grace wove with the coven when time allowed, but since that was almost never these days, she always enjoyed hearing from Lursa what patterns they had been fashioning.
    Lately the witches had been working on spells to encourage crops to grow faster and bear more fruit. However, they had been having considerable trouble completing the enchantment. There was a gap in their weaving that would not be soon mended, for last winter the spry old witch Senrael had passed from the pattern of life into the warp and weave of memory. While another witch deemed old and wise enough had donned the shawl of Crone, Senrael was sorely missed.
    “May I take my leave, Your Majesty?” Lursa said, her intelligent gaze straying across the hall. “I see Master Graedin, and I want to speak to him. Earlier this year, it seemed I was making progress in rune magic. Once I spoke the rune of fire, and I swear I made a candle flicker. But now I only seem to be getting worse. Lately nothing happens at all when I try to speak a rune.” She sighed. “I suppose it’s hopeless to think I ever could.”
    Grace felt a note of