A/N: This is the last instalment -- thanks so much to everyone who has read and reviewed:) :)
Disclaimer: Invented by Tamora Pierce; embroidered upon by me. Also, the title of #61 is the first line of a poem by Andrew Marvell.
57. A Daughter Just Like You
In some ways, Sarralyn is very much like her mother. So much like, in fact, that Daine loses track of the number of times she has crept into the children's bedroom, after a day full of petty, childish quarrels, to kiss her sleeping daughter and murmur broken apologies, words of love. She knows, now, what her mother meant when (in a moment of frustration) she wished on Daine "a daughter just like you".
58. Lessons
Sometimes Rikash learns his lessons a little too well. This must be one of those occasions, Daine concludes when, rounding a corner a hundred yards from her own front door, she hears a familiar bellow: "Rikash Salmalín! What have I told you about mind-capturing your sister?"
59. Someday
"People will talk," Onua warns her.
"Let them," she retorts. "In any case they've been talking for ten years or more. Might as well give them something to talk about."
"The way people talked about you, back in your village." Her friend's voice is gentler, now, trying to take the sting from the ugly words.
The sting remains. Can she do that to her child—their child?
"But it isn't a fair choice. I don't want us to be … trapped together. Married is forever, Onua, whether you're happy about it or not—"
"Have you ever not been happy about it?"
She thinks about this.
"It's been eight years, Daine. If you were going to decide he was too old, or too tall, or too … strange, wouldn't you have done it by now?"
She thinks some more, then at last she nods slowly. A smile—compounded of relief and gratitude and sheer, unexpected joy—lights her face. "We could have it on the Equinox," she says, "so my Da and Ma can be there. Who knows? Maybe they'll take the hint …"
60. Reunion
It has been an age since he saw her last—days, weeks, months—he hardly knows. War does this to a man. Cavall's squire takes his horse's reins, which he scarcely notices until the lad touches his sleeve, speaks to him, gestures to the watchtower—she's up there, he says, waiting for you.
He is surprised at how quickly he covers the distance: perhaps he is not as worn out as he thought. He takes the stairs two at a time, then three, and in only a moment, it seems, he is in the doorway, looking at her across the empty observation deck. Another moment, and she is in his arms.
———
"We'll miss supper," she murmurs slyly, lifting her head from his bare shoulder to nuzzle his ear.
"I don't care."
"You need to keep up your strength, love." There is mischief in her tone.
"I've plenty of strength left, thank you," he retorts, and to prove it he rolls onto his elbows, pinning her under him, and kisses her thoroughly. "In fact," he adds, when she is too breathless to protest, "I don't think I'd much mind missing breakfast as well."
61. Had We But World Enough, and Time
"It was her time, Sarra." Rikash helps his sister to her feet and holds her tight, waiting for her sobs to quiet. "She was ready. They're together now—she was never the same after he died, you know."
Sarra can hear what an effort he is making to keep the reproach from his voice. Rikash is too good for this world, she sometimes thinks; it's he who has watched at their mother's bedside these past weeks, he who has been here all these years, working, studying, raising his family … belonging in a way she never has.
It amazes her that her curly-headed, impetuous baby brother has grown into this tall, strong, steady man. That he is comforting her, now, as once she was accustomed to comfort him.
"There's so much I didn't get to say," she tells him. But she can't bring herself to go further; it isn't his fault that she is destined to grow old and die alone. That there was only one man in the mortal realms mad enough to love a shape-shifter, and that man has been dead these fifteen years.
"But you came back," he says, squeezing her shoulders. "And that's what matters."
She tries hard to believe his words are true.
62. Mistakes Made
Young dragons, it turns out, do not make particularly good child-minders. Numair and Daine realize after the fact (surveying the storm-swept disaster area of Sarralyn's bedroom) that, given prior experience, this should have occurred to them. But sometimes, after being up half the night at an emergency Council meeting and the other half with a colicky baby, parents need an afternoon nap.
63. For Your Information
"Da?" Sarralyn asks. "Why do some antelopes have twisty horns, and some have straight ones?"
Numair thinks carefully about this before embarking on a fifteen-minute disquisition on the various species of antelopes. "Why do you ask, love?" he inquires, when he has run out of information.
"Oh," says his daughter, airily, "Just to know."
64. When I'm Sixty-Four
The King and Queen host an elaborate banquet for her fiftieth birthday. Rikash comes to Corus with his wife and young daughter, and Sarralyn, doing her best to look congratulatory, is there too; the Baron of Pirate's Swoop is also in attendance, as are the King's Champion and the Commander of the Riders. Messages from distant well-wishers are ceremoniously read aloud; the Emperor and Empress of Carthak have sent gifts, as has the mysterious spymaster of the Copper Isles.
Daine is flattered and pleased; but, as she looks around the hall, she can't help dwelling on the missing faces. Many of those who gathered here for Numair's fiftieth birthday are absent now, or have changed out of all recognition. This was bound to happen, she knows that, but somehow it doesn't seem much of a celebration without them.
A hand touches her shoulder; she looks up into Thayet's smiling face. "I know you would have preferred a smaller gathering," says the Dowager Queen of Tortall. "But the children insisted. Roald admires you so, you know, ever since he was a child."
"It's lovely," Daine says. "I appreciate it, truly. I only wish …"
"I know." Thayet's smile is infinitely sad. "So do I."
The Dowager Queen moves off, toward her seat beside the white-haired Lioness. Daine stands quite still for a moment, watching and remembering, with a little smile, her first meetings with those formidable ladies.
"Mithros bless!" says a warm baritone voice from somewhere behind her. "You look very pretty. Happy birthday, Magelet."
She turns, and smiles, and – eyes closed – nestles into her husband's arms. Some things, thank the Goddess, haven't changed a bit.