“Times have changed,” Isabelle said. “Old secrets lose their sting. Just how much did you know about Kantelvar’s plans for breeding the Savior when you ordered Djordji to save Bitterlich?”

Grand Leon tugged at his gray goatee. “I guessed more than he thought I did, but I was less clever than I thought. I deduced he was engaged in selective breeding, but I believed his purpose was more political than it turned out to be.” He frowned into his cup and then looked at Bitterlich. “I learned that Kantelvar had arranged to have you killed. I believed he was trying to reshuffle the inheritance deck to put your cousin first in line to the family seat.” He paused and shook his head. “I did not know he meant to kill your family. I rescued you to guarantee the succession would go the way that I wanted it to. Then the death of your parents diverted that plan. There was no great secret scheme to it, just petty politics. The rest you know.”

Bitterlich said, “But by the time you assigned me to Isabelle, you had learned about Kantelvar’s Savior-breeding scheme.”

Grand Leon raised his bushy eyebrows. “Are you worried about the Prophecy? From what you’ve told me about the Vault of Ages, it sounds exceedingly unlikely a Savior will be born at all. As for why I put you together … are you displeased with the outcome?”

Almost against her will Isabelle met Bitterlich’s gaze. It was so very hard not to grin like a loon, especially when his ears pricked up like that.

“Just so,” Grand Leon said. “I planted a seed, but I have moved on. The orchard is yours. I will leave you two to tend it.”

The deck rocked under Jean-Claude’s feet. Marie’s homestone had brought him to Flotsam, and her fellhand status had gotten him an audience of sorts, a skymoot they called it, with the Seven Thunders clan—Dok and Aria’s people. He’d come to sing their endsong, which, fortunately, did not require any actual singing. Hundreds of people gathered round in their great stadium to listen under lightning-shot skies as he told how they lived and how they died at the last, still fighting for each other and for a future for their kin.

To his amazement, none of the Gyrine seemed to blame him for their captains’ deaths. Instead, they thanked him for the tale and named him clan friend.

“Everyone dies,” said Vote Capitaine Solo Dyne. “Not everyone has something worth dying for.”

The wake lasted a night and a day. Toasts were made and songs were sung and Dok and Aria were woven into Legend, may they not be forgotten while the wild winds yet blow.