“They did it,” Count Calderon breathed. “By all the furies, they did it. They killed the Queen!”
Ehren couldn’t hear what Calderon said next. Months of horror and despair had all come down to this moment. He found himself sitting on the stone floor of the balcony, sobbing and laughing at the same time. He had never believed, never really believed, that the vord could be defeated. Not after so many retreats, so many deadly surprises.
But here, in the Calderon Valley, they had finally done it. They had endured the heaviest blows the enemy could deliver and survived. The Realm had survived. The Realm would survive.
It would survive thanks to the sacrifice of Cereus, and to the rather unassuming backcountry Citizen who now knelt beside him, putting a brawny arm around Ehren’s shoulders. “Easy there, son. Easy. Come with me. I could use a drink. I’ve given orders to the Legions to keep rotating fresh troops in. Now all we have to do is wait this out.”
Ehren nodded several times. “A drink,” he said, his voice thick. “I don’t drink very well.” Then he added, “But if you can’t drink to this, what can you drink to? Let’s go.”
EPILOGUE
History will eventually claim that the appearance of the vord was a water-shed moment, that it was the best thing that ever happened to Alera. The vord forced us to exceed our limits, to grow after centuries of stagnation—and to look beyond ourselves. It is certain that because of the vord, we have gained a host of new enemies, in the Canim sense of the word. May we keep them and meet many more.
But history is a cold and distant observer. Those of us who must face today have goals far more finite: We must mend our wounds, mourn our dead—and survive the winter. Crows take what the historians think.
History will attend to itself.
“It’s too tight,” Tavi complained, tugging at the neck of the tunic. “And it’s ridiculously overdone. Honestly, people are starving, and they’re trying to deck me out in gems and cloth of gold?”
“No one is starving,” Max said. “They just wish they were.” He wore his new suit of armor, marked with the black crow of the First Aleran Legion upon a field of red and blue, and his dress uniform beneath it, including a captain’s cloak of red velvet. “Bloody clever way to get rid of the croach if you ask me. Let people eat it up, especially as we’re short on food and all.”
“A bit too clever. I’m sick of the stuff.”
Max snorted, slapped Tavi’s hands out of the way, and started fastening the collar. “Stop eating it, then.”
“I can’t tell half the people in the Realm they’ve got to eat bug wax until next spring and not eat it myself, Max.”
“Sure you can. You’re the First Lord.” Max arched an eyebrow. “You must not hate it all that much. This tunic fit you at your confirmation, you know.”
Tavi grunted in discomfort. “It might taste terrible, but it’s apparently good for you. Plus I’m not wearing armor around every day, now.”
“And it shows,” Max said cheerfully. He got the collar fastened with one last, hard tug, then eyed Tavi carefully. “Why is your face turning red?”
Tavi idly slid an effort of will into the cloth of gold, metalcrafting its strands to stretch out a bit. Once the collar had loosened, he was able to exhale without making an effort. “There. How’s that?”
“Oh, ah,” Max said, looking him over judiciously. “You look like… a First Lord.”
“How descriptive. Thank you.”
“Anytime, Calderon,” Max said, grinning.
“Max,” Tavi said. “Have… have you heard from Crassus?”
Max’s grin faded. “He’s… not coming. Officially, he’s helping his father and mother get the situation in Antillus under control. But he’s still upset about… well. Everything.”
Tavi nodded, frowning. “I’m glad Antillus took Dorotea back.”
Max grunted sourly. Then said, “She’s gotten almost human over the past couple of years. I suppose she might do some good up there.”
“Certainly, Crassus is in good hands, as far as healing is concerned. I… I wish I knew what to do to make it right.”
“Stop thinking you can fix everything,” Max said bluntly. “Give it time. That might help. Or not. But you’ll only make things worse if you push.”
Tavi nodded. “Thanks.”
“Always happy to explain the obvious to you, Calderon. Now if you’ll excuse me? Nothing makes a girl want to be seduced more than a wedding. I’ve got plans. I’ll see you at the ceremony.”
“Veradis is here, isn’t she?” Tavi asked. “Do you honestly think she’s going to change her mind about you because of the social environment?”
Max grinned. “No telling until I try, is there?” He paused by the door, and said, more seriously, “I’ve been looking in on her, since her father died. Making sure no one’s been giving her a hard time, or anything. I might have spoken a few words into the ears of some of Cereus’s clients who were not, shall we say, appreciative of the sacrifice he made.”
Tavi smiled at his friend and inclined his head to him, not saying anything. Back in the Academy, he’d listened to Max describe beating the owners of crooked gambling houses in the same terms.
“You look fine, Calderon,” Max said.
“Thanks.”
Max saluted, giving the gesture more formal precision and grace than he usually did. He winked and departed.
No sooner had he left than there was a knock at the side door to the chamber, which was the largest suite of the largest private home in Riva. Its previous owner had died in the battle to cover the retreat from the city. Tavi had felt somewhat ghoulish moving into the house, but he’d needed the room. There was an absolutely astounding need for staff and support for the First Lord, and all of that help needed somewhere to work and sleep. The Rivan-style tower proved more than roomy enough, though Tavi felt somewhat conflicted about residing on the top floor. With his windcrafting, stairs weren’t really an issue—which he was sure was part of the point of Rivan Citizens residing in towers. There was a real temptation to feel somewhat smug about that.
“Enter,” Tavi said.
The door opened, and Ehren came in, looking much as he always did—neatly and plainly dressed, smudged with ink stains, and carrying a quill and a stack of paper. Even then, though there hadn’t been a vord sighted within a day’s march of Riva in months, Tavi could sense that Ehren still carried half a dozen knives on his person, out of sight.
“Good morning, sire,” Ehren said. He plopped the stack of papers down on Tavi’s desk. “I’ve brought the daily reports.”
“I’m getting married in an hour,” Tavi said. He crossed the room to sit down behind his desk and gestured for Ehren to sit in the chair across from him. “Summarize anything new?”
“You’re going to love this,” Ehren said, settling down comfortably. “We’ve got no less than three steadholts who have objected, violently, to our Knights attacking ‘their’ vord.”
Tavi’s eyebrows went up. “Excuse me?”
“They’re communities that surrendered when the Queen gave them the option. Apparently, the croach just grew up around the perimeter of their fields and moved on. It’s guarded by a crew of warriors and tended by spiders, apparently operating under orders to protect the holders as well as guarding them—and they’ve kept doing it, up to and including defending them from the rogue vord who scattered when the Queen died.” Ehren shook his head. “The holders have painted their vord in various colors, so they can tell the difference.”