EPILOGUE
The thrushes came back early that year.
Among the commonfolk this was taken as a good omen. It meant the spring would be mild, the summer long and fruitful; autumn would bring a rich harvest. Around the castle town, people made a game of strolling through the woods and listening for the flutelike, repeating whistles of the thrushes’ song. The last crusts of snow, flecked brown with dirt and pitted by raindrops, still clung to the land, but people talked and laughed as if spring were already blooming on every bough.
Odosse was glad to join them. She wasn’t familiar with the folklore of thrushes; in Willowfield they’d never treated that bird as a herald of spring. But even if there wasn’t a grain of truth to the legend, she thought this year’s harvest had a better chance than most of overflowing their granaries.
For this year, unlike any other she could recall, the border was peaceful. The bridges of Tarne Crossing stood wide open; the shallows of Seivern Ford were unblocked. Soldiers on both sides of the river, many from other domains and untouched by the old grievances of Verehart and Bulls’ March and Cleavehill, were under strict orders to keep the peace—and they were obeying.
It wasn’t perfect, of course. Nothing Celestia’s children did on their mortal earth could be. But there hadn’t been any major clashes since Albric’s confession became known. No lord, Langmyrne or Oakharne, wanted to be the one whose weakness allowed the Thorns’ plots to take root. Fear of the Maimed Witches made allies of old enemies, and from that grudging beginning calmer heads could work toward something more lasting.
Yes, this spring carried a rare promise. Even Odosse, at the periphery of a border court, could see that. And someday—someday, if all went well—her son, Wistan Auberand Galefring of Bulls’ March, might inherit a more prosperous throne than either his real father or his named one could have imagined.
She wished Brys could have seen him. The sellsword was gone, though: as soon as he was well enough to walk, he’d taken a purse of silver solis and struck out eastward, searching for something he wouldn’t name. He hadn’t told her what he sought, and she hadn’t asked. They’d been strangers chance met on a road, no more. Now that the road had come to an end, so had their loyalties to one another. She’d expected nothing else.
Still, Odosse wished her son could have met the man when he was old enough to understand that he owed his life and lands to a mercenary. She wished, too, that Wistan could have learned a little swordcraft at his side.
No matter. If Celestia willed, their paths might cross again. If not, Cadarn could teach him that, as the new swordmaster of Bulls’ March, or maybe Ulvrar Wolfheart, who had saved his life on the road. There were so many other things Wistan needed to learn, and people he needed to know. His grandparents would visit soon: Reinbern and Alta de Marst had sent word that they would come as soon as they saw their spring ships off to the sea. Leferic said those ships traveled on the same warm winds as the thrushes, so they might arrive any week.
They would love him. Odosse was confident of that. They would love him as she did.
“They will. And you’ll learn your letters and your numbers and you will be a great man,” she whispered to the baby on her back, as she had whispered in the woods a full lifetime ago. He burbled his agreement, and she laughed and spun him around, because now she could make those promises come true. She could.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many people helped, directly and indirectly, with the making of this book. Without their assistance and guidance, it would have remained a sad, shapeless puddle of virtual words. Here is where I get to say thanks to them! Which is not nearly adequate repayment, but it’s the best I can do in a page.
I’d like to thank Jennifer Heddle, my editor, for her enthusiasm, skill in shepherding this manuscript to a finished book, and patience with a clueless noob. I also owe great thanks to Marlene Stringer, my agent, for her persistence, unflagging good cheer, and almost terrifying competence in all matters agently. None of this would have been possible without them, and I am deeply grateful.
I’m indebted to the early readers who were generous enough to read various drafts and offer their comments: Dan Andress, Nathan Andress, Robert Davis, Stacy Hague-Hill, Ian Hardy, Cliff Moore and Dustin Tkachuk. Thanks for helping to dig out the good bits and remove the bad ones. Any remaining flaws and errors are entirely mine.
Finally, thanks to Zig and Andy Carota for their generosity and support (and for letting us waste entire weekends blowing up geth on the XBox instead of, you know, being productive), and to my parents for putting up with near thirty years’ nerdage (teach a kid to read with dinosaurs and hobbits, and this is what you get).
And to Peter, of course. But you knew that.