Trees were all that was visible on the horizon. In front of him was a different sight, something he had not laid eyes on in nearly two years. Pharesia, the seat of Elvendom, was laid out before him, a massive, vine covered wall blocking all but the highest towers and minarets of the city from view. The wall stretched almost two hundred feet into the air, peppered with a window here and there, and complete with parapets, allowing defenders to fire arrows into any invaders while maintaining cover. The stones that made up the wall carried almost a white color, and shone in the sun.

The main gate was big enough that three titans could walk in on each others' shoulders, and wide enough for fifty wagons. Was it this big when last I was here? Oh, that's right, I met Nyad outside the city. They entered with a stream of other traffic onto a wide avenue. There were no street merchants but a great many shops on the boulevard. Bakers, armorers, a flower shop that offered a pleasing, familiar aroma were all there-but fewer than Termina or Reikonos, he thought.

Trees were in abundance, and every few buildings sat a garden filled with trees and lush grasses, flowers and the occasional water garden. Aquaducts flowed throughout the city, also vine-covered and with occasional offshoots that dumped water sluicing down the sides in waterfalls.

They passed one such garden, with water cascading down onto flattened circular rocks placed around a pool. Next to it was a grassy meadow sandwiched between two three-story buildings. It was a space bigger than two of the row houses Cyrus had seen in Termina, and it backed to the aquaduct's waterfall. Moss grew around the pond made by the falling water, and two gardens grew to either side of it with rich purples and reds, yellows and blues of the flowers blooming in the mid-morning light. A few elves sat around the park, eating, talking and waiting, enjoying the shade.

They stayed on the same road they had entered the gate on, passing through squares with buildings covered in vines, trellises hanging next to every window with blooming flowers and every sill containing plants of some kind. The residents of Pharesia take their greenery seriously.

On their right came a large square, fountain at the center, in an odd design that threw off the symmetry of the street. At the far end of the square was a building larger than any other thus far in the city; a squarish structure with towers at all four corners, domed minarets atop each. "It's the Museum of Arms," Nyad whispered. "You remember, where-"

"Where they kept Ventus, the Scimitar of Air, until the Dragonlord decided he needed it more than the elves," Cyrus said. "It's an impressive building." He looked up, where a large domed glass skylight rested.

The horses trudged along in silence. Cyrus suspected Nyad would have made an excellent tour guide, but the elf seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts. The noise of the wheels clacking against the streets precluded the possibility of conversation with Arydni, so Cyrus contented himself with taking in the varied and beautiful architecture. Though he was certain that most of it had been built thousands of years ago, every building in Pharesia maintained a look of good repair.

The road made a slight turn, and before them Cyrus could see a colossal building. That has to be the palace. At each corner of the grounds sat one of the massive trees that made up the Iliarad'ouran forest. They stretched above the walls that encircled the building. Dozens of towers jutted into the sky-some short, some tall, so many he found himself dizzy from the counting. They weaved in and out, asymmetrical, each topped with a minaret of a different color, giving the rooftop a rainbow hue.

As they grew closer, Cyrus saw that the walls surrounding the palace were only half as high as those around the city. The road carried them to the main gate, where they were ushered through with only a nod from the guards. Other wagons were stopped and searched, their occupants staring jealously at Cyrus as they passed.

Once through the gate, the world opened up before them; the palace grounds were even more luxuriant and green than the city. The palace was a mile distant from the wall, Cyrus reckoned, and the space between was all greenery, the only sign of mortal interference being the trimmed hedges, grasses, trees and the tended flowers arranged in beds. Streams flowed through the area and the colors were intoxicating.

"They're beautiful at night as well," Nyad said from beside him. "Father had the gardeners cultivate a night garden where all the flowers within bloom in the evening. As the sun sets above the wall, the colors reflect off the pools and the stone. He has a few plants and flowers from exotic places that glow phosphorescent in the moonlight." She sighed. "I haven't spent more than a week here since I left home; and only then when our exile was rescinded last year. It truly is the most beautiful place I've ever seen."

"I thought the Sanctuary garden was impressive, but this..." He took a deep breath. "This puts it to shame."

Ahead was the palace. Before them, the road divided to run on either side of a reflecting pool and the two roads reunited before a covered entry. "We're going to the north wing," she said, pointing to an offshoot of the main building that sat to the left of the massive central, towered structure. "We'll have it almost all to ourselves." Cyrus steered the horses down the path Nyad indicated, veering away from the main covered entry to a smaller one around the corner. There, a guard greeted them and two more opened the double doors.

A steward waited within, a man who was perfumed and scented, his hair gray all over in spite of the fact that his flesh was still youthful and unwrinkled. He wore silken robes of blue and green, and seemed to walk on the air itself. His eyes were alight with glee at the sight of guests and he bowed and harrumphed while leading them from the entryway into an open foyer four stories tall. A chandelier hung in the middle of the room, twice as big as Cyrus was tall, a circular arrangement filled with a thousand candles, light reflected by the hanging glass on each ring.

He ushered them through labyrinthine corridors. Cyrus carried Vara in his arms, Arydni and Nyad behind him. Beyond the smell of the perfumed man was a scent of a building in disuse. The air was stale and though the hallways were free of cobwebs, Cyrus could sense that they had not been used in quite some time.

"This wing was used to house the immediate members of the royal family," the steward said, his finger running along the wall. "But the immediate family is not so large as it used to be even a thousand years ago, and thus the north wing sits empty." An unmistakeable sorrow filled his words.

The steward led them to a suite, opening the double doors with a flourish to reveal a large living space, the central hub of several rooms. There was an open-air balcony before them, a fountain in the center of the room, and doors on each side. Cyrus set Vara upon the bed in the largest bedroom in the suite. Once he had set her down, he drew a blanket with care and covered her with it, reminding him of when he had done the same in Termina only days earlier.

"When will we see the King?" Nyad asked the steward.

"Mmmm," the steward said, his voice high and equivocal. "He's very busy."

"I'm his youngest daughter," Nyad said with a flush to her cheeks.

"What's he busy with?" Cyrus asked, drawing an amused look from the steward.

"Whatever he wants," Nyad said. "He has advisors that handle most of the affairs of state so he spends his time lurking the palace, prowling through hidden passages, listening to hear what people are saying, playing hiding games with the half-elven children here on the grounds, courting additional wives-"

Cyrus blinked. "Elves can have multiple wives?"

A voice came from the bed behind them; strong, though a bit hoarse. "A product of an archaic bygone age." Cyrus turned to see Vara staring at him, eyes half-lidded. "The only elven men with multiple wives nowadays are royalty-and only because they marry highborn women so singularly useless that they can serve no other function but to adorn a man's arm-and bed."

Nyad flinched at Vara's assessment, her ears reddening under her long hair.

Cy crossed to the bed, kneeling at the side. Arydni sat next to Vara on the other. "How do you feel?" he asked, his gauntlet finding her uncovered hand.

"Not half as poorly as you are dressed," she answered, staring at his helm. "You look absolutely ridiculous, by far more than usual." She cleared her throat and looked around. "What happened? Where are we?"

"The Royal Palace," Nyad said, stepping up behind Cyrus, the steward a step behind her.

"Do you remember what happened?" He removed the helm from his head and felt his long hair cascade around his shoulders.

"My head feels a bit foggy," she said. "But I remember..." Her voice trailed off and when it returned, it was hollow. "Everything." She looked first to Arydni, who nodded, and then to the steward and blinked. "Who the blazes are you?"

He bowed again. "My most pleasurable greetings, shelas'akur, I am but a humble steward of the Palace-"

"You are no more a steward than I am a dancing gnome," she said, her eyes narrow. "I remember your face from the days when I was in the Holy Brethren. You spoke with me the first week that I was there and I never saw you again afterward."

He bowed again. "You have an excellent memory, since that was sixteen years ago and I looked much different than now."

"I thought it curious at the time, as you seemed to be known to the elven members of the staff and yet I never saw you again after we spoke." Cyrus listened to Vara but watched the steward, his hand already on Praelior, every hair on the back of his neck standing on end. "You asked questions no one else had the gall to ask-if I was happy with my parents, or if I was dissatisfied in some way with living in the Kingdom."

The steward guffawed. "I suppose it would be curious; I came that day to discern your reasons for entering the Brethren so far in advance of what was expected. But it was not the first time we had met."

Vara sat up in bed, grimacing as she did so. "Oh? Pray tell, I cannot recall any others."

"We have a long association, you and I. I was present on the day of your birth, and have seen you many times throughout your childhood. In any of those times, I was not garbed in such a way as you would have paid any mind to my face," he said. "In fact, I suspect that even those among you who would normally recognize me cannot do so outside of my customary outrageous attire."

He nodded at Nyad, who was staring at him, curious. "Your mother, after all, taught you never to look the palace help in the face when you spoke with them; it's unbefitting a highborn to look in the eyes of their lessers. I would never have taught you that, but this particular game of royals has helped me play my own game unnoticed for nearly three thousand years, so I dare not discourage it."

Nyad still stared, puzzling at him. Cyrus looked to Vara, who frowned in confusion, while Arydni wore a serene expression, the look of a woman who had figured it out. "What?" Cyrus asked her.

"He's the King," she said.

"No," Nyad said under her breath, "I would recognize..." A slight gasp of disbelief worked its way free from her, and she sat down on the edge of the bed in astonishment.

Cyrus looked to the wizard. "I take it you weren't...close...during your childhood?"

"As close as any father who has fifty children and a country to run," he said with a sad smile. "Even when I'm with them, I'm trapped in the absurd attire of the King, so ostentatious and yet beautiful and intricate I would swear the craftsman spent their entire lives designing them. It tends to draw the eye away from trifling details like my face, which is plain enough."

Cyrus looked to him and saw the truth of it; the King was plain. His cheekbones were average, but his eyebrows were more pronounced. He was not fat, but neither was he thin. The robes of the steward were bright enough to draw attention away from his average features; Cyrus could not imagine what the robes, crown and staff of a King could do.

The King's posture had been the somewhat stooped bearing of a steward. That was gone now, and something more majestic had taken its place. His shoulders were squared, back straightened, and he looked like a soldier at attention-or a King, about to make a pronouncement.

"Why come to us now, your grace?" Vara said. "Why like this?"

He nodded, a slow, careful nod. "Because this is the only way I can come to you, where we can speak without prying ears. The problem with putting yourself at the center of a monarchy is that all your subjects in court put you at the center of their lives. They all crave a minute of my time, then another, and another-and when they don't, you can be sure one of my wives does. There is no privacy for a King, no words or message that can be delivered that aren't listened for and heard by as many ears as can catch them."

He slumped once more, a subtle transformation, as the weight and gravity of the King disappeared and was replaced by the flighty, carefree spirit of the steward. "But no one cares about the pronouncements of the caretaker of the abandoned north wing. The members of the court and the viziers are too busy fawning over the King, trying to curry favor and hoard power to pay attention to me."

"What do you have to tell us?" Cyrus asked him. Nyad and Arydni shot him a prompting look that took him a moment to decipher. "...Your...uh...majesty," he amended.

"It would be 'your grace', as a general rule," the monarch said with a smile. "But since I am not here as the King, let us speak as though I were not one. You may call me Danay."

Cyrus felt a curious lightheadedness. Danay. As in King Danay the First, he thought. "What brings you to us?"

"Things that cannot be said in a public setting." He cast his eyes to the windows, saw they were shut, then looked to the door, which was closed, then back to Vara. "Your father is safe, only a few doors down the hall. He is not able to walk, but you may visit him at your convenience." He took a deep breath. "I must caution you, however; his age overtakes him. My physicians assure me that he does not have long to live; a few days at most."

Vara, already drawn and pale from her injury, seemed to grow even whiter at the King's words. She has to tell her father that Chirenya is dead, he realized.

If the King noticed Vara's discomfiture, he did not address it. "In a few days, when you have recovered," he indicated her and Cyrus in turn, "the two of you will come before the court and be presented with our highest honors for your defense of Termina. Our spies have told us that between all three spans, the dark elves lost nearly half their invading army and cannot fortify their positions as they originally planned."

His eyes glittered. "The Sovereign of Saekaj played us truly false on that, and his army and council are nearly as filled with spies as ours. His sealed orders for the attack on Termina went out with only two griffon riders, direct to his general, cutting out every member of his council and even the lower ranks of his military until the attack was in motion. We won't be able to easily remove them from this side of the river, but if not for your efforts, we might not have been able to remove them at all; they would have had a hundred thousand yet with which to defend Termina."

"But you will remove them, won't you?" The question came from Arydni.

"We will try," the King said. "We can scarce afford to suffer the losses it will take. My generals inform me that city fighting will be a much more difficult battle than meeting their armies on the open plains; our cavalry and experience counts for less in the narrow streets." He shook his head. "The sole advantage of an army as mature as ours is experience. Close-in melee does not benefit us. With wider spaces our mounted soldiers can perform charges that would cause their infantry to wither."

Cyrus swallowed heavily. "Can the Kingdom survive without Termina?"

King Danay looked at him with a grim amusement. "Not easily, no. Termina was the beating heart of the Kingdom's economy, producing most of the weapons, armor and other equipment that we've been sending to the Human Confederation. All our shipping ran through the city, a large part of our fishing came through the port, along with most of our exports and imports." He shook his head, deathly slow. "Without the taxes from all that, we'll have a shortage in the treasury in the next year. Fighting a war on this footing will be difficult. We'll be on the defensive, forced to focus on expelling the dark elves from Termina then protecting our borders, which is far from the kind of war I'd like to give them for their brazenness."

Nyad spoke up, her voice straining. "Who will take the blame for losing Termina?"

"Now there's an inconvenient truth of ruling," Danay said with a nod. "Nobody predicted this. No one thought that the dark elves would be foolish enough to attack us in the middle of a war with the humans, and yet who looks the fool now? Well, if the dark elves do it's solely because of your efforts, not ours. Also, those of that young Endrenshan, I suppose-Yemer's son, I forget his name..."

"Odellan," Cyrus said. "His name is Odellan."

"I'm afraid that it's irrelevant," the King said with a sigh. "His name means less than nothing now. He lost 4,500 soldiers in the defense of the Northbridge. My generals view that-as would the public of the Kingdom as an unsustainable loss. Never mind that he saved the lives of hundreds of thousands more, the fact that he lost such great numbers looks...well, it looks bad. Especially when coupled with the fall of the city." The King threw up his arms in a gesture of resignation. "The chattering classes have already gone wild with anger. Odellan is to be expelled from the Termina Guard, stripped of his rank and exiled from the Kingdom."

"That's ridiculous." Cyrus felt the heat of outrage rise within him. "Odellan is a hero. He led from the front and fought through the night the same as we did to protect the lives of the citizens of Termina. He was prepared to sacrifice his life to save the people and you ought to know it."

"I do know it. But do you assume I am all powerful in some way?" The King said it with a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "My generals and the people have spoken. All I could manage was to spare his life, which was quite a bit under the circumstances. It's not as if those lost can be easily replaced by recruiting the next generation of youthful soldiers."

"The grim political realities of running an empire," Vara said with unrestrained sarcasm. "Let no act of great courage go unpunished."

Danay shrugged. "I can do little enough about it. He'll be given transport out of the Kingdom to a place of his choosing, and some money. I suspect, as industrious as he is, he'll end up all right. But that's such a gloomy subject, and so far out of my control. We have more pleasant matters to discuss-such as the honors you're about to be given."

"I'll pass," Cyrus said. "The man you should be honoring is about to be exiled; he fought with a high risk of permanent death, and the gratitude you've shown him galls me. I care not for your honors." His voice was hot with contempt, raising the eyebrow of the King. "...Your grace."

King Danay straightened back into his royal posture, and his mouth became a tight line. Nyad cringed as he moved, and his voice was as unyielding as stone. "While you remain under my protection, you will at least do me the courtesy-"

"You mean give you the political hay-" Cyrus interrupted.

"-of accepting the honors I bestow. You will do so because I have a long and far-reaching relationship with your guild-"

"-every member of which was declared persona non grata in your country just a few months ago for a series of crimes we did not commit-" Cyrus went on.

"-and because it's good manners for a houseguest to humor his host."

"-And that's why we're leaving," Cyrus finished, a cold fury having overtaken him. "You can stick your hospitality straight up your-"

"Cyrus!" He jerked his head away from the rising tempo of his disagreement with the King at Vara's shouted command. Though she used only his name, he heard the implied message. Shut up. You're arguing with a King in his own palace.

He's a hell of a King, Cyrus raged internally. Odellan was the best leader he could have hoped for in Termina; any of his stodgy generals with more experience might have hesitated to evacuate the city, waiting to see if the dark elves made an aggressive move. For his part he gets exiled, cast out of his own homeland and spit on for doing the only reasonable thing he could have in the circumstances...

"I don't expect you to understand our politics," the King said, gathering up in his robes. "Odellan is not the first good man to be destroyed through no fault of his own, nor will he be the last. But while you are under my roof, you will accept my honors as well." His eyes narrowed. "It is possible you may even enjoy a few of them-titles and whatnot. We will make arrangements in the next few days. Until then, enjoy your stay." He bowed his head, not nearly so low as he had when playing the steward, and withdrew with a flourish, the door closing behind him.

Vara waited a few seconds after he left before rounding on Cyrus, her head whipsawing around as if it had been blown by a hard wind. "He's the King, you daft bastard. You don't address the monarch like that."

"Why?" Cyrus's teeth grated. "Because he has a royal title to excuse the fact that he just helped run an innocent man out of town?"

"No," she replied with heated words, "because he's the King and it's unseemly to do so. You're fortunate he was so forgiving else you might have found yourself hanging from the outer wall."

"Yeah, it would have been a real shame if I'd needed to kill a thousand members of the palace guard today," Cyrus said under his breath.

"The palace guard contains more than just warriors," Nyad said, her voice oddly hollow. "Because governments can only hire so many members of the Leagues, they hold back a disproportionate number to protect their most valuable holdings. Anyone who attacks the palace would be set upon by wizards, druids, enchanters and an army protected by healers." She stared off into space as though she were still shell-shocked. "I had no idea...he looked..."

"Yes, well, leaving aside the obvious questions about her sad and pitiful childhood-" Vara stared down Cyrus, ignoring the mortified look Nyad shot her-"it remains that you would do well to tone down your ego; even if you could kill the entire palace guard it would be for naught because you'd then be the enemy of the elves and be hunted throughout the lands, unwelcome wherever you go."

"Your King can't even defend his own lands, let alone hunt anybody in someone else's," Cyrus scoffed. He looked to Arydni, still at Vara's bedside, "What do you think?"

She shrugged. "The priestesses are always at odds with the monarchy. You haven't lived until you've told off the King."

"I meant about our next move."

"Vara will heal in a few days. You'll be better protected here than anywhere else and if you must accept some ribbons, lands and titles from the King in order to assure her safety until you can return to your guildhall, then bury your pride and dignity in a dark place for Vara's good health." She kept her expression neutral, but Cyrus detected the faintest hint of reproach in her words.

They'll throw an innocent man out of their Kingdom and I'm supposed to smile and accept accolades from a government like that? He looked around to find everyone staring at him. Vara's face was still drawn and her lips were pursed as though she were in great pain but trying to suppress it. She lost her mother, got wounded in a battle that cost us her hometown, her people are at war and she's still being hunted by the most secretive order I've ever run across. Shame burned his cheeks. I don't care for what they did to Odellan, but if I'm going to fight to the death over a matter of principle I'd have it be my death, not hers. "All right. We'll stay."

The days that followed dragged as slow as any Cyrus had ever lived. He carried Vara in his arms to Amiol and listened to her tell him that his wife was dead. The elder elf took it well, comforting his daughter, who was largely stoic herself. Even her face maintained a stony countenance while she broke the news to him; two silent tears were the only outward expression of her grief. Later that night, he swore he had heard a choked sob, though it might have been a noise outside. The soft, steady breathing of Arydni by the window and the gentle snores of Nyad on a nearby chair held him in place, kept him from going to her. In the morning, the news came from a palace messenger that her father had died in the night.

She took it without reaction, remaining in bed, staring, her knees pulled to her chest but with little more than a blank expression. As much as he wanted to talk to her, Arydni and Nyad were ever-present in her room. The Priestess maintained a constant watch on the paladin, taking no meals, very little liquid refreshment and less sleep than Cyrus, who had taken to resting for brief periods on the fainting couch in the corner of the room.

Nyad remained in close attendance as well. After recovering from the shock of her father's secret, she had prattled on about the palace, its history and the life of growing up in it until Vara had broken her silence and told the wizard in no uncertain terms to either shut up or leave. She had managed almost ten minutes of silence, after which she had begun to talk about Pharesia and the history of the city.

Days passed, then a week, then two. Servants brought meals of the finest elven delicacies; fresh vegetables from every corner of the Kingdom, citrus fruits garnishing and braising the meats that they supped upon. Everything was delicate, exquisite, and portioned so small that Cyrus had taken to asking for multiple servings to be brought with every cart lest he starve to death.

"The elven people are more about well crafted foods than abundances of it," Nyad sniffed when he mentioned it.

"Well I'm about eating what it takes to maintain my frame," he said. "Although that does explain why you lot are so small."

"And you've overfed both the fat in your belly and betwixt your ears," Vara had replied. Two weeks after they had arrived, her color had returned and Arydni was satisfied with the healing she was experiencing. "Though I suppose that dates back to your days in the Society of Arms, where they breed the next generation of war boars by dividing you neatly down the middle and telling you to kill everyone on the opposing side."

"That's not quite how it works," he said, calm. "But the training program does encourage healthy amounts of eating."

She rolled her eyes and then rolled off the bed. She had begun walking without his assistance only a couple days earlier. The King's Physician and the Chief Healer for the realm had both visited her at various junctures and conferred with Arydni in conversations that had involved dense elvish words that Cyrus did not know. After they had left, his companions had summed up what was said-that Vara was recovering nicely. Notice had been given that a ceremony would be held in the throne room in which Cyrus and Vara would be rewarded for their efforts, along with the other defenders of Termina.

"Brilliant," Cyrus breathed. "Won't a public ceremony draw the attention of the dark elves to the fact that we breached our neutrality and declared ourselves their enemies?"

"I think that the tens of thousands of dead bodies we left might have done it for us," Nyad said. "It's not as though we could keep secret what was done there; the surviving members of the Termina Guard that we saved told their family members and friends, some of the Termina survivors saw us taking up defensive positions-"