by Ann Aguirre
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.
Most locals would dismiss the folklore entirely, except that once a year—on the Day of Peace—the pilgrimages commence. People travel from as far away as Gaspard, from Winterville, Otterburn, Lorraine, and Soldier’s Pond, all over the free territories—and they bring gifts. For three days and nights, they camp outside the cottage in Rosemere, hoping to meet the Huntress and He Whose Colors Will Not Fade. Once a year, these two tell the tale in their own words, not Morrow’s, to those who care to listen.
Because these two believed their actions mattered, because the Huntress chose peace, forgave her enemy, and laid down her knives, the territories changed forever. That is the lesson of ultimate courage, taught by Tegan of the Staff, who devotes her life to learning in honor of a sacrifice made so very long ago. This is the story written in the bones, and that homage will continue as long as the world turns, until it loses its ragged edge, and new heroes arise.
But those are other stories.
Author’s Note
This book required extensive research on what a ground war would be like, set in conditions similar to the American Civil War. I read endless articles on provender, weapons, field medicine, survival rates, and privations unrelated to actual combat. For Tegan’s role, I learned about herbs, primitive remedies, and a vast number of ailments. I now know what a chilblain is and that it’s literally possible to walk your boots to leather tatters. Some of the data didn’t make it into the story because it didn’t fit Deuce’s point of view, but it was fascinating.
For more information, try these sites: www.civilwarhome.com/strategyandtactics.htm and www.historynet.com/civil-war-soldier. The following books are excellent too: Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era by James McPherson, American Heritage Picture History of the Civil War by Bruce Catton, and for military buffs, I recommend The Twentieth Maine: A Classic Story of Joshua Chamberlain and His Volunteer Regiment by John J. Pullen. War isn’t glorious, however, and I tried to convey that in Horde. There’s a reason Deuce is ready for peace.
Town names in the territories are taken from actual settlements in present-day Maine and Canada, but their locations have been shifted to suit certain catastrophic events. I chose these familiar names to lend the land a certain verisimilitude, which roots readers in reality as I created a new world for them to explore. For those who are curious, the action takes place between present-day Maine, New Brunswick, and Quebec, though the topography has definitely changed over the centuries. If you use Google Maps, type in “Cabano, Témiscouata-sur-le-Lac, QC, Canada” to get an idea where they started out in Salvation. All the towns are arrayed from there. Marching west as they did, you’d reach Soldier’s Pond, whereas Gaspard lies to the east.
I promised you’d have all the answers about the Freaks by the end of the saga, and I think I covered everything, but if you still have questions, feel free to e-mail me.
This is how the world ends … and begins again. Thanks for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoyed the ride.
Acknowledgments
Here’s where I mention all the people who have helped along the way, starting with Laura Bradford, who believed I could pull this off. She’s never once told me I’m crazy (though I clearly am), and for that, I’m sincerely appreciative. Thanks for everything.
Next, there are the wonderful folks at Feiwel & Friends: Liz Szabla, Jean Feiwel, Anna Roberto, Ksenia Winnicki, Rich Deas, Kate Lied, sales, marketing, PR, and the rest of the stupendous staff. Finishing the trilogy has been pure joy. It’s rare that I can say I look forward to copyedits, but I adore working with Anne Heausler, whose efforts are peerless. All told, this team creates the most beautiful books and I’m so proud to partner with them.
Now I send a thank you to my early readers: Karen Alderman, Sarah Fine, Majda Čolak, Robin LaFevers, Rae Carson, and Veronica Rossi. That’s a seriously star-studded beta group, and if there’s anything wrong with Horde, blame me, not them. Their advice was awesome.
Thanks to the Loop That Shall Not Be Name
d, though I may not look directly at you, lest I go blind from your glory. You’re my dearest friends, and I love you more than pancakes and racing frogs. Thanks for your support while I went quietly insane and tried not to gibber on the Internet.
Much gratitude to my phenomenal proofreader, Fedora Chen. She always makes my work shinier.
Thanks to my fabulous family, who put up with all kinds of crap. It can’t be easy to live with a workaholic who forgets what day it is, but you fill my real world with sparkly unicorns, rainbows, and puppies. Mostly puppies.
Finally, thanks to my readers; you’ve taken my books to your hearts and for that, I will always keep you in mine. Don’t forget to write.
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