There was silence in the Council Chamber, the flames licking at the logs in the hearth, consuming them, sending shadows across everything. Cyrus sat in his chair, wondering how the room had become so veiled in shadow when it was bright only a short while earlier. Vaste had broken the news with a simple, "Niamh is dead."

"Then resurrect her," Terian said with a flat laugh. "We've got a meeting to finish."

"She's dead..." Vaste's voice trailed off. "Permanently."

"What?" The dark elf's complexion darkened as though clouds had rolled in to obscure the light from his face. "She hasn't been gone over an hour, so if she's dead you could still use a resurrection spell-"

J'anda looked at them, wary disbelief cutting through his human illusion. "Was...her body destroyed?"

"No," Vaste said. "Her body is still quite intact, unlike her assailant."

"I don't understand." Terian's voice rose, taking on a timbre and quality of madness. "If we still have her body, and it's been less than an hour, why isn't she being resurrected?"

Alaric spoke in a low, quiet voice filled with sufficient authority to silence the Council. "There are some curses and magics that can prevent healing from taking place." He raised his head, his lone eye fixed on Curatio, who sat to his right. "Am I to assume that Niamh fell victim to something of this sort?"

Curatio seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking. "It was a poison, I believe, rather than a curse, but yes. Neither healing nor resurrection magic took hold on her and now she is simply...gone." He choked on the last word.

Cyrus felt the grief and misery close in on him as he pictured Niamh, happy and carefree, her laugh like the twinkling of a crystal wind chime and her eyes as green as the grass of the plains in late spring. His eyes fell on her seat to his left, and he stared at the empty chair, the black leather skin glossy in the dim light, as if it was some amorphous, oily surface of despair that would devour anyone who sat in it.

With a choking feeling he remembered the times she had saved his life-or as she had put it, "saved his ass"-and wondered if, when he remembered her, it would be the thought of carrying her body through the foyer and Great Hall while their guildmates wept and cried out around him. It had been a long walk; maybe the longest he'd ever taken, and when he placed her in the iced room in the back of the kitchen, the freezing chill had come to rest in his bones, causing an ache that permeated through him, settling in his heart.

He had set her down with care, closing her eyes, the green in them faded to a dull sheen. Her cheeks were fair and white, and he took his gauntlet off to wipe a drop of blood from the pristine, snowy flesh and was amazed at how warm she still felt to his touch. He smoothed her flame-red tresses around her shoulders, feeling the fine hair slip between his fingers while Larana stared on from behind him in numb shock. As he left the kitchen, facing an audience of refugees and guildmates, silent in their respect for the fallen, the only noise he could hear was Larana's sobs behind him.

A loud curse from Terian broke his reverie, catapulting Cyrus back to the Council Chamber. "Who did this?"

"An assassin," Vaste replied. "From the Inta'yrakhir."

"You say that name like it's supposed to mean something to me." Terian's words slipped out in a long, uninterrupted stream, each flushed with the hotness of his anger. "The only thing it means is that every single person who is associated with this organization will die horribly, with their heads mounted on pikes as an example of what happens when you strike at Sanctuary." He looked around the table, his long nose and spiked pauldrons combining with the dark clouds to give him an almost demonic look. "Who's with me?"

"Hold," Alaric said. "I must first confess I am not familiar with the Inta'yrakhir. What is this...'Hand of Fear'?"

"'Hand of Fear'?" Cyrus asked, still waiting to feel something, anything.

"'Inta'yrakhir' is elvish for 'Hand of Fear'," Curatio said, features haggard and worn. "Aisling seemed to indicate that it was an order of elvish assassins."

"Why would an assassin want to kill Niamh?" Terian's fist hit the table, shaking it. "She was the sweetest of us..."

"They didn't." Vaste's words seemed to echo through the chamber more than Terian's rage. "They weren't after her at all."

"I'm sorry," J'anda said. "Who was the assassin after?"

"Vara." Vaste's reply was cool. "He said his order would not stop until the 'shelas'akur' was dead."

The pause was broken once more by Terian, now approaching the height of screeching as he swiveled to face the elven paladin. "What did you do to bring this down?"

Vara, who had remained silent and expressionless, now swelled as she turned to Terian, looking as though she were an adder about to strike. "What did I do to attract the death warrant of a band of assassins? I'm not quite certain." Her sarcasm hung thick. "Perhaps you could track them down and ask on my behalf. If they attempt to stab you in the face, let them; it's merely a ritual required for entrance to their good graces."

"I don't understand how this assassin could be after you without you knowing why. Have you offended someone... um... maybe done something to agitate... uh..." J'anda held up his hands in exasperation.

Vara's hand slapped onto the table, her hue crimson with rage. "Let me repeat this for those of you who may be struggling with substandard intellects: I...DO...NOT...KNOW! I have no idea whether this is some personal grudge or related to..." She reddened further but her voice faltered. "Other...aspects of my life."

She halted and Cyrus watched her lip quiver. "I don't know why that bloody bastard felt the need to kill Niamh rather than restrict his murderous activities to me. I am...sorry for it." Her face fell. "I would have preferred that if someone had to be caught on the end of that blade it be me instead of her." Her chin came up and she looked around the table. "But it wasn't. Please don't ask me to apologize for being alive."

"No one faults you for that, lass." Alaric's voice was soothing, filled with authority. "In our grief, we are trying to understand something that, without more facts-and possibly even with them-will be incomprehensible."

"Yes, well, let's try more facts," Terian said. "This assassin, he said he was after Vara?"

"No." Cyrus spoke up, ending his silence. "He said 'shelas'akur'." He had heard other elves refer to Vara by the name "shelas'akur" but none had ever been willing to discuss what it meant, not even Andren.

Terian stared Vara down. "And you can't tell us what that means."

"We do not discuss it with offlanders-non-elves," she replied.

"It means 'last hope'," Cyrus said, drawing looks of surprise from Vara, Alaric and Curatio. He frowned and looked back at them. "What?"

"I was not aware you spoke elvish, brother," Alaric said.

"I don't know much," Cyrus replied.

"A point on which we can all agree," Vara said. "But regardless, it remains a matter of internal secrecy to the Elven Kingdom."

"Your matter of internal secrecy just cost the life of an elf, and while that wouldn't much trouble me if it happened inside your damned Kingdom," Terian replied, voice rising once again until he was yelling, "it happened here! In Sanctuary! To one of our officers! To our friend! And I want to know why she's dead!"

"I DON'T KNOW, YOU IGNORANT SODDING JACKASS!" Vara exploded at Terian, standing with such violence her chair flew back and broke into pieces on the floor.

"Perhaps," J'anda stood, cold fury radiating from his eyes but his voice as smooth as steel, "you could give us some idea of why an elvish assassin might want to kill the...shelas'akur."

"I DON'T KNOW! Are you deaf or merely addled by casting illusions on yourself so frequently that you can no longer remember who you are?"

"There is no good reason why an elvish assassin would want to kill Vara," Curatio said. The elf tried to smile but failed, grimacing instead. "She's a symbol to our people of...well, hope."

"Leaving the 'why' of that aside for now," Vaste said, "there are plenty of reasons that someone might want to kill a symbol of hope." He began to tick them off on his fingers. "They have a grudge against your government and want to send a message; they dislike something she stands for; they want to upset your entire race..."

The grimace remained on Curatio's face. "Without getting into much detail, Vara's never associated herself with the Kingdom's government in any way, so that doesn't fit-"

"Perhaps someone in the government is displeased with that?" J'anda raised his hands in a questioning manner.

"Seems a bit much, sending an assassin because she doesn't endorse the monarch," Curatio said with a shrug. "King Danay I has been in place for about four thousand years and he's not unpopular. The political situation in the Kingdom is stable; no major upheavals, no challenges to the powers that be..." He shrugged again. "I don't think that's it. The likelihood that someone is trying to dishearten the entire elvish race is much more likely...and rather sad."

"This is all bullshit," Terian said, seething. He pointed at Vara, hand shaking so hard it waved at her. "You should tell us everything. She trusted you, she died for you; the least you can do is give us the full facts so that we can find out what this is all about and slap this 'Hand of Fear' to a bloody pulp."

Vara stood silent at Terian's rebuke. Cyrus watched her, and for the first time he realized that she was trembling-ever so slightly, but there it was. "If Niamh were here, she wouldn't tell you," Cyrus said, drawing Terian's stinging glare. "She always refused to tell me about this 'shelas'akur' business."

Alaric folded his hands on the table in front of him. "In spite of having suffered a great loss we should remember that Vara is one of us and her loyalty to Sanctuary is unquestioned. Were she aware of any reason why these assassins were after her, I am certain she would tell us."

"I would," Vara affirmed, even though no one had looked at her. "I may not wish to discuss internal elven matters, but be assured, I would not put any of you in danger if it could be avoided." Her hand came up to her neck and rested there; to Cyrus's eyes it looked as though she were preparing to strangle herself.

"I do not wish to discuss this further until we have had time to settle," Alaric said with finality. "Nor will we argue any longer. This is a time to pull together, remembering the friend and officer we have lost. Niamh would not wish to see us divided; nor should our guildmates have to suffer from our distraction."

J'anda's eyes narrowed as he focused on Alaric. "What will we do about this threat?"

"The assassin was disguised as a refugee," Cyrus said. "We close the damned gates." He looked to Alaric for confirmation.

"Agreed," Alaric said with a deep sigh. "We will assign guard forces to watch the more sensitive areas of Sanctuary, and we will find a way to assist the refugees without compromising our security. Perhaps we can set up aid tents outside the walls."

"Before I came up here I tasked Aisling with finding some trustworthy guildmates to set up guard at the applicant, member and officer quarters," Cyrus said.

"Which means that by now all the good items will have been stolen," Vara said under her breath.

"We know nothing about these assassins," Cyrus went on, ignoring Vara's jab. "It seems unlikely that the Hand of Fear will send another assassin so soon after the failure of the first-"

"Unless they're already here," Terian said, his voice filled with disgust.

"-but it doesn't hurt to be prepared," Cyrus finished. "After all, we know next to nothing about them."

"Too true," Alaric said with a quiet exhalation. "Let us be the source of strength for our brothers and sisters in this sad hour."

"And when we track down these Hand of Fear bastards, let us be the hammer of bloody vengeance for our fallen comrade," Terian said, pushing away from the table, leaving without saying anything else.

"Alaric," Cyrus said. "Did you know the disturbances caused by the enchantments get worse the closer you get to the cause of the problem?"

Alaric's face remained impassive. "Alas, my friend-there are things about Sanctuary that remain a mystery even to me." He turned his head to face Curatio. "Old friend...we have matters to discuss. Go. I will wait for you in my quarters." The Ghost of Sanctuary stood while the rest of the officers filed out one by one. Alaric began to fade, his armor turning insubstantial as a thick white mist filled the room and then dissipated, leaving Cyrus alone.

How could this happen? he wondered. Niamh was one of the first people I met from Sanctuary; the thought of her gone...

He pulled to his feet, the weight of his grief making his armor seem like stones strapped to his body. He made his way to the door and past two sentries to the staircase leading up to the officer's quarters, high atop the center tower. The seams in the stone walls blurred together as he climbed, and he was almost in a world of his own, dazed, by the time he reached the top of the staircase and entered the hallway leading to the officer quarters.

A potion that nullifies magic? With a blade coated in black lace, no one would be safe, he thought. All the rules that we've built our adventuring lives on change with something so simple and deadly as that. He shuddered at the thought of real, permanent death.

He paused at the entrance to his quarters. A deep, unsettled feeling in his stomach gave him pause. I'm going to be seeing trouble around every corner. In our own foyer, of all places! He shook his head. How are we supposed to feel safe here? How can we get things back to normal after watching...her...die like that? A bitter unease filled him. Things may never be normal again.

A sound from one of the far rooms stopped him before he turned the handle. A long, rattling cacophony filled the hallway as every door shook with explosive force and the torches lit off in a burst of fire that stretched to the high ceilings. Cyrus sprang forward, sword in hand. He burst into the room two doors down from his own, not stopping to consider the privacy of its occupant. The door crashed, broken, and he collided with someone as he flew through the frame.

Two someones.

An elven male shrugged out of his traveling cloak as Cyrus grabbed him around the neck and slammed him against the wall. A thin length of chain whipped across Cyrus's face, freed from where it had been coiled around Vara's neck, followed by an obsidian dagger that raked him across the cheek, only missing his throat courtesy of the enhanced reflexes granted him by Praelior. His gaze caught the dagger and found the same insignia that had been on the weapon of the assassin that slew Niamh.

A scream cut through the night air from behind Cyrus and he glanced back to see Vara clutching her neck, a red mark creasing it all the way around. He brought his sword forward in time to block the dagger as the elf spun free of his grasp, dancing away from him through the broken door, blade in hand.

Cyrus followed, interposing himself between the assassin and Vara. She remained on the floor behind Cy, gasping for air after the garrotting that the elf had given her. He felt breath force its way between his teeth and realized he was livid with the elven assassin. The elf, for his part, smiled and twirled his dagger.

Doors began to open in the hall, and a scream of utmost fury echoed as Terian burst forth from his room, sandwiched between Cyrus and Vara's, a battle axe raised above his head. Before Cyrus could react, the dark knight brought his weapon down as the fleeing assassin tried to dodge away from both Cyrus and Terian and backed into another door opening behind him.

Vaste's staff lowered against the assassin's neck and the elf, almost a foot shorter than Cyrus, was lifted into the air by the troll. The assassin's black blade came down on Vaste's forearm, burying itself to the hilt and bringing forth no more than a grunt from the troll as he spun the elf about and rammed him into the wall thrice in rapid succession. When the assassin went limp in his arms, Vaste dropped him to the ground and stepped on the elf's chest.

"Vaste," Cyrus said with a quiet resignation, pointing at the dagger buried in the troll's forearm.

"Yes, it hurts," the troll said, plucking it out with nothing more than a grimace. The blade looked small next to his massive arm, like a black needle buried in a green ham.

"It probably had black lace on it." Cyrus looked up at the troll's dark eyes, feeling a rattling breath of exasperation leave his chest. Not you too, Vaste...

"Were I fatally injured, I might worry," Vaste replied with a look of greatest unconcern. "I can't heal it with a spell, but this wound won't kill me."

"I can bandage it; staunch the bleeding." Terian's axe was slung over his shoulder but his eyes were focused on the elf unconscious beneath Vaste's foot. "We need to get him to the dungeons and under guard." A flash of annoyance ran across the dark elf's features. "I don't know why there wasn't a guard on this hallway; it is the officer quarters-you know, the living space of this 'Hand of Fear's' supposed target."

Cyrus looked back at Vara, who had pulled herself to the bed and was rubbing her throat. Her hand glowed with the light of a spell, faint blue magics of healing wrapped around her neck.

"They were posted downstairs," Cyrus replied. "I didn't think about an assassin having already made their way up here-until the doors rattled and I heard noise from Vara's quarters-which turned out to be-"

"This fellow, doing his level best to keep me quiet until he could run me through. He must have wanted it to go quietly so he could escape afterward." She was on her feet now, and joined them in the hallway, although her hand still hovered around her thin neck. She looked at Cyrus, her eyes softer than usual. "Your timing was impeccable; another few moments and I would have been unconscious and I suspect, shortly thereafter, quite dead."

"Two assassins in two hours?" Cyrus shook his head. He looked from Vaste to Terian and finally his gaze came to rest on Vara, who did not meet his eyes.

"This does not bode well for your safety," Terian said to Vara, voice much gentler than it had been during the Council meeting. "If we can't protect you here..."

The words hung in the air as the four of them looked around, the shadows of the corridors deep in all directions. If we can't protect her here, Cyrus followed Terian's unfinished thought, will she be safe anywhere in Sanctuary?

Chapter 6.

Cyrus sat, steeped in the early morning darkness of the lounge with only the small, flickering firelight of the hearth to keep him company. He watched the front entrance doors, bathed in shadow in both reality and thought.

They're going to keep coming for her until she's dead. Dark musings filled his mind, reminding him of a long ago revelation from J'anda's mesmerization spell. It had given him a vision of that which his heart desired most; Vara, coy and seductive, kissing him. The fact that he harbored deep feelings for her had thus far gone unstated. They're going to keep coming for her until she's dead. And we are going to have to button this guildhall up so tight that even the applicants may have to sleep outside until this is settled.

The torches had dimmed of their own accord sometime after midnight and the hearths with them. Only a trace of the smell of wood burning lingered, filling the giant foyer with the same scent that had earlier reminded him of home. Now it reminded him of Niamh, of death and loss.

A solitary figure moved through the room, a shadow stretching across the floor as they crept from the staircase toward the front doors. A slight smile creased Cyrus's lips. Nice to know my predictive powers haven't atrophied, he thought as the firelight glimmered off a shining silver breastplate.

"You didn't think you'd be able to slip out unnoticed, did you?" His words were scarcely above a whisper, but felt loud in the still quiet.

Vara froze, a half dozen paces from the doors, looking around in surprise until she saw him, at which point her eyes narrowed. "Seeing as two assassins have slipped through thus far tonight, I assumed that as an officer of this guild, I might be allowed to pass." She wore a satchel draped across her back and her sword was slung at her side. "Was I in error?"

He rose to meet her. "Yes. You were in error." He clapped his hands and a half dozen figures stepped out of the shadows, all members of Sanctuary that he had put on guard. "There are assassins out to kill you. I can't just let you leave."

Her face fell and her mouth wavered from its usual severe line. "May I speak with you in private? Perhaps just outside the doors?"

He looked around the assembled faces that were standing watch. "I'm going out. Keep guard." Extending a hand, he opened one of the doors to Vara and stepped out into the chill of the autumn evening.

Cyrus heard Longwell speak as he shut the door behind them. "But aren't we supposed to guard her?"

"You can't just leave," he said, preempting her as they walked down the front steps. "Assuming you manage to dodge these assassins as you make your escape, it's not as though they'll just stop coming after you-"