Horde (Razorland #3)(124)

They were married that very day. And the next day they went together to the king and told him the whole story. But whom should they find at the court but the father and mother of Photogen, both in high favor with the king and queen. Aurora nearly died with joy, and told them all how Watho had lied and made her believe her child was dead.

No one knew anything of the father or mother of Nycteris; but when Aurora saw in the lovely girl her own azure eyes shining through night and its clouds, it made her think strange things, and wonder how even the wicked themselves may be a link to join together the good. Through Watho, the mothers, who had never seen each other, had changed eyes in their children.

The king gave them the castle and lands of Watho, and there they lived and taught each other for many years that were not long. But hardly had one of them passed, before Nycteris had come to love the day best, because it was the clothing and crown of Photogen, and she saw that the day was greater than the night, and the sun more lordly than the moon; and Photogen had come to love the night best, because it was the mother and home of Nycteris.

“But who knows,” Nycteris would say to Photogen, “that when we go out, we shall not go into a day as much greater than your day as your day is greater than my night?”

When he finished, I kissed him and whispered, “I love you, Fade,” because that was what I’d failed to say when I lay feverish in the wagon. Wearing a smile so broad it threatened to crack his cheeks, he scooped me up and carried me to a chair, a capacious seat with broad arms and fat cushions, cozy enough for two. Idly I wondered if Thimble had designed it for sparking. Today, my muscles ached from work more pleasant than constant fighting.

Silk was wrong, I thought. I have a Builder’s heart.

“I’m glad the story ends that way. So that even the king couldn’t part them. Like us.”

“What are kings to us?” Fade asked with a cocky grin. “We changed the world.”

Incredibly, it was true. I rose to set the book on the mantelshelf above the hearth. Then I added Longshot’s folio. “There. That’s perfect.”

“What will you do with those maps?” Fade asked, following me with his gaze.

“Give them to our brats,” I answered.

It was the best legacy I could envision, like giving them the world.

“I don’t want to wait to name them.”

By Fade’s expression, he felt strongly about that.

“Me either. We’ll follow topside tradition like Stone and Thimble.”

“Did you see how much food they put in our cupboards?” he asked lazily, changing the subject.

I was glad; it was a little soon to be talking about expanding our family. Cheeks hot, I shook my head. I’d been busy with Momma Oaks, making the place cozy. “A lot?”

Fade watched me with silent admiration. In a moment or two, it would ripen into desire, and we had every right to wander into the back room. Nobody would interrupt or summon us to other business. That was … astonishing.

“Enough for the whole winter, I expect.”

“We’ve earned a few months of leisure,” I told him.

“What will you do, come spring?” He reached for me then.

I sank onto his lap. Fade nuzzled my neck, and I put my hand to his jaw. “Be with you.”

And I kept my promise. Always.

Epilogue

On Evergreen Isle lies the town of Rosemere, and within the bounds of that village, there’s a white stone cottage where an elderly couple lives. Pink roses twine around a whitewashed lattice out front, and ivy climbs the garden walls in back. It’s a peaceful place, all sunlight and dappled green. There’s a cherry tree in the yard, and when he’s asked, “Why cherries?” the man who planted it years ago smiles and says, “Because she loves them.”

Inside the cottage, a frame on the wall holds an old scrap of paper and a playing card, the deuce of spades. Above the hearth, there’s a shelf, where two books sit between wooden statues. One is very old, produced by the world before, and its spine is imprinted with the title The Day Boy and the Night Girl. The other is written on parchment in a fine hand, illustrated in colorful inks, and hand bound in leather. The first page reads, The Razorland Saga by James Morrow. Though they have a library full of books to choose from, village children often ask for this story, for they’re enchanted by Tegan of the Staff, Stalker the Wolf, Deuce the Huntress, and He Whose Colors Will Not Fade. They’re comforted by these familiar legends and the account of how the world came to hold its current shape.

When he’s not reading to children who have stolen away from their chores, the man spends his days making armor for young people determined to seek their fortunes and see the world. Until recently, his wife taught those adventurers how to fight, preparing them for the journey. But now that his hair has gone white and hers silver, she prefers to tend her garden. They have children, this pair—long since grown and gone away, exploring through a legacy of maps. Sometimes they, too, visit with stories; they ask the boatman to bring them home, and their parents are always pleased, welcoming them with the same gladness they learned long ago from people who loved them too much to make them stay when the world was calling.

Tales abound regarding the role these two played in the War of the River, before the Gulgur rose from down below, before the Uroch signed the peace treaties, but as time wears on, their neighbors can hardly credit that this sweet couple is as dangerous as the legends claim. Therefore, folks suspect their friend, Morrow the Storyteller, must have exaggerated the accounts. Sometimes, a cloaked figure is spotted slipping in and out of the house, but nobody can say who it might be. This aged pair enjoys their small intrigues even yet.