Epilogue
“Our firstborn foal,” Aleksi beamed down at
his wife, who swiped a bead of sweat from her flushed cheeks.
“As handsome as his sire,” she muttered
wearily.
“He’ll have his mother’s grace and
speed.”
“And his father’s strength and stamina.”
Aleksi crouched beside Sahar. “You look worn
out, my beautiful wife.” He kissed her cheek.
“What I am is hungry. Labor works up an
appetite.”
“I’ll have Ursula cook you up a feast of all
your favorites.”
“I’d like that. Your mother taught her well.
Ursula’s running the kitchens here as smoothly as Anya did at my
parents’ palace.”
Aleksi plucked a sweat-plastered strand of
hair from her neck and leaned in for a nuzzle as a crowd of voices
approached.
“We heard the new arrival is here,” his
father called out as he entered the stables, flanked by Anya and
Vladimir.
Ten and four years of age now, Vladimir had
taken to his new family, and had confessed to his father and Aleksi
that the boy had dreaded ever becoming king. He was glad Aleksi had
been named heir. His mother had been allowed to stay and live in
the palace as the king’s second wife, and Vladimir had been as
happy as the palace servants to bid Theodesia and her waspish
daughter, Gertruda, good riddance. They’d gone to live with
Anastasia and her new husband.
Aleksi stood and stepped aside so that they
could see the new arrival for themselves.
“He is a handsome one, my son,” his father
said, slapping Aleksi on the back. “Congratulations.”
“He looks to be a fine combination of his
sire and his dam, does he not?” Aleksi said.
“As is your son, my son,” Anya said, handing
little Maks to Aleksi.
Born one year to the day he and Sahar had
first met, the child was, according to his grandfather, the
spitting image of Aleksi as a babe, except for the mass of
black-brown curls on his head. That hair was all Sahar. The
stubborn streak and willfulness Maks was beginning to show were a
matter of continuing discussion.
Juggling his chubby-cheeked son in one arm,
Aleksi held out his hand and helped a stiff-legged Sahar stand from
where she sat by Lasair’s head where she’d petted, soothed, and
urged the mare on throughout her labor.
Pyotr and Arman, his stable masters, though
perfectly capable of helping the mare give birth, had known better
than to try to talk Sahar into leaving the mare’s side until the
foal was born. They urged the mare to stand, and helped the golden
colt with black stockings to his unsure feet, grinning as the colt
latched on to his dam and began suckling with vigor.
Aleksi kissed his son’s curls and wrapped his
arm around Sahar’s shoulder, pulling her close, a surge of pride
welling up inside of him.
“Thank you,” he whispered in her ear. “My
tigress, my wife, my love.” He ran his hand down her arm and held
it over her blade’s hilt as he nuzzled her neck. “My kitten.”
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