"How did you know where we were?" Cyrus asked in puzzlement. The Ghost held up the small slip of parchment with the King's note. "Didn't realize I dropped it."

"You didn't," Alaric replied. "Aisling pulled it off of you and gave it to me once you departed."

Cyrus thought about it. "I didn't even notice."

"Hard to believe, engaged as you were with her thrusting her pelvis into you at the time," Vara said in a voice of quiet accusation.

"I didn't..." Cyrus started to say. He stopped when he realized that her voice had been as dead as her look. "Never mind. We need to meet with the Council."

"I am afraid that will have to wait until the morrow, when Ryin Ayend returns to us. Let us go home, my friends," Alaric said with a soothing demeanor, and turned to nod at Nyad, who seemed to awaken at his words and nodded back before casting a spell.

The light of the magic swirled around them and Cyrus felt the tingle as it consumed him, and he closed his eyes. When the bright flashes stopped, he opened them to find himself in a familiar setting that he hadn't seen in over a month. The fire roared in the hearth of the foyer and a pleasant buzz of activity filled the room.

In the lounge he saw Andren, a horn of mead in his hand raised in salute to Cyrus. He turned round to look into the Great Hall. No refugees were visible but he caught a glimpse of Larana within, who froze at the sight of him, staring unabashed, her face awash with relief. He turned from her, embarrassed, after nodding in greeting, and felt Alaric's hand come to rest on his shoulder. The Ghost had a hand on Vara in a similar manner. "Go to your quarters if you'd like; I'll send for you once I've assembled the Council for our meeting on the morrow." He gestured toward a couple of familiar warriors who were standing nearby at attention, and they both fell in line behind Vara as she made her way to the staircase.

"Vara," Cyrus called out, and watched her stiffen and turn to him.

Her face was wrought of all emotion, even the hostility that she wore in the early days he had known her. She had fallen once more to the exhausted, weighted state he had seen her adopt in Termina. "Perhaps later," she said, and turned away without further explanation. Her guards followed her up the stairs, Nyad a few paces behind them.

"Are you not glad to be home, brother?" Alaric stood at Cyrus's shoulder.

"I am," he said without enthusiasm. "But I can't help but recall the night I left, and the events of that day." He looked into the Great Hall, remembering the steps he had trodden with the burden in his arms, the red hair bouncing from his every step as he carried Niamh to her resting place.

"Yes," Alaric said, a pall hanging over him. "I was sorry that you missed Niamh's burial."

"I was sorry about that too, but it seemed more urgent to get Vara out of here before it could happen again."

"Agreed. That this threat has persisted as long as it has is disturbing." Alaric shook his head. "I cannot fathom the depths of this group's desire to kill Vara. They have continued to attempt strikes here, even after it is obvious that she is no longer with us."

"What do you mean?" Cyrus felt a sudden and intense burst of curiosity. "How many assassins have you rooted out in the last month?"

"A dozen," Alaric said. "Aisling tipped us to all of them, one by one, and we observed them carefully, starting the day you left. When cornered they attacked, causing grievous woundings. I doubt Curatio has left the Halls of Healing in weeks, so busy has he been tending to the injured. The last, however, was the worst," the Ghost said, "a female who posed as an applicant. She nearly killed Scuddar In'shara and hurt a half dozen others trying to gain access to the Halls of Healing."

"She did?"

"Yes," Alaric said. "We speculate that she thought that Vara had returned here after the fall of Termina and was trying to 'finish the job' as they say."

Cyrus felt his thoughts churning, in a jumble. "Makes sense. It wasn't obvious where we were, I guess."

"Aye," Alaric said with a small smile before clapping a hand on Cyrus's shoulder. "You look weary, Lord of Perdamun. You should get some rest."

Cyrus frowned. He caught a glimpse of Larana, staring once more at him through the open door of the Great Hall, and he looked away, back to his Guildmaster. "Didn't the Human Confederation give you a similar title to 'Ward of the Southern Plains' or somesuch last year? I'm sure I heard Pretnam Urides call you Lord Garaunt."

"Lord is an honorific in the Confederation, not a true title. They merely made me a steward," Alaric replied, his smile enigmatic, "without ceding any claims they have on the lands. I'm afraid it's not nearly as impressive as a Lordship and convincing a power that has claimed this land for some 10,000 years to cede their claim."

Cyrus waved him away, thoughts still swirling. "It's hardly impressive. Other than the pissing-for-distance competition that the elves, dark elves and humans held here last year, a major power hasn't held a serious claim to these lands for over a century."

"Still," Alaric said, "ceding an ages-old claim is not something that the Elven Kingdom would do in normal times. I'm afraid things have become dark indeed for them, that King Danay is acknowledging that the elves are not equal to the task of holding anything beyond the bounds of the river Perda." He shook his head. "A stunning admission. But a topic for another time."

Once more, he clapped Cyrus on the shoulder and the warrior felt the warmth of his Guildmaster's touch; not physically, through the plate glove and mail that separated them, but the affection of the Ghost for his "brother," in the way that Alaric Garaunt had always had for the charges under his command. "You are tired. Rest. I will send for you when I have assembled the Council."

"That's...not a bad idea," Cyrus admitted, letting his feet carry him toward the stairs. Every step was familiar yet foreign to him after his absence. How long was I gone? he wondered, his body still weary. I didn't sleep well in the palace, that's plain. Something tickled the back of his mind, some words spoken that he couldn't remember. There's something I'm missing, something I've forgotten. Gods, I wish I wasn't so tired.

His feet moved without his mind's assistance, up the stone stairs, past the floors that held the applicant quarters, the members' rooms, and the double doors behind which the Council met. The glorious stone that made up the walls and floors of Sanctuary blurred. The familiar smell of the wood fires burning in the hearths should have put him at ease, but all they did was remind him of Niamh, of the flash of red when she would whirl around, eyes aflame...

That was damnable, he thought. To lose her to some vile assassin... He felt a pang at the thought of the assassin hitting his true target. He remembered the night in Termina when they'd poured into the house of Vara's parents, had killed so many members of Endeavor, and of the dawn on the streets, after the battle for the city, when a lone assassin had struck down the most forceful person Cyrus had ever met...

And still they struck here in the aftermath of that. Attacked the Halls of Healing trying to get to Vara, because they didn't know where she was. He shivered as he turned the knob and opened the door to his room.

He stepped into the privy off his chambers. A small room, large enough for a tub, a metal plumbed shower in the corner, and a sink and full-length mirror. He stepped to the basin and turned the faucet, feeling the water run out as cold as a Termina morning. He splashed some over his face, which was still unshaven, and watched the droplets catch on his beard. He stared at his blue eyes in the mirror, eyes with dark lines beneath them. They didn't know where she was...

The buzz in his head was disrupted by a shock, and he straightened back to bolt upright. But they did know, didn't they? They sent assassins to Vara's chamber in the Palace; the guards killed two of them. How could they have sent assassins to her chambers, in an abandoned wing, if they didn't at least have an idea of where she was? He felt himself grow cold as words echoed in his head; the last piece fell into place, and he sprinted to the door.

Chapter 41.

Within a few minutes the Council had been summoned, absent the presence of Ryin Ayend, who was explained to be visiting family overnight in Reikonos. Cyrus looked at the small circle around the chambers-Alaric, his eye clear and bright, more visible with his helm removed; Curatio, staid but wan and with less sparkle in his eyes than he used to have.

J'anda and Vaste sat in close attendance with Nyad nearby, all three looking slightly rumpled. Longwell, on the other hand, was stiff and looked somehow to be standing at attention even though he was sitting in his chair. Erith looked bored and tired, and had taken the seat to Cyrus's left that had been occupied by Niamh until so recently. The addition of the officers gave the room a crowded feel, and Cyrus found himself bumping elbows with Longwell, who apologized for each occurrence.

Terian Lepos stared at Cyrus with a smug, self-satisfied grin, after nodding at the warrior when he entered. "Good to see you, man in black. I'm guessing after fighting off a constant rush of assassins and the entire dark elven army, a couple weeks in a palace must have been quite the vacation."

"I didn't find it all that restful, sleeping as I was on a fainting couch."

"They have beds the size of a commoner's house and you opted to sleep on the couch?" The dark elf shot him a look of revulsion and swung around to Vara. "I heard you finally caved in and locked lips with this lummox, but you couldn't find it in yourself to let him into your bed?"

Vara had remained silent thus far, her head down and preoccupied, but at the dark knight's jest her blank expression was replaced by a scowl. "I'm sorry, I was rather more occupied with healing a wound I suffered in battle, mourning the death of my mother and father, and thinking of the other two people who shared the room."

"Nothing wrong with having an audience," Erith said as she studied her nails. "It makes you perform better."

Alaric cleared his throat, drawing the attention of everyone at the table. "You summoned us with some urgency," he said, looking to Cyrus. "Is this about what the King told you and Vara?"

"No," Cyrus replied, his fingers folded in front of him, mailed gloves laying on the table. "And yes. I mean, what he told us was incredible, but-"

"It was nonsensical," Vara said.

"-I was just thinking," Cy continued, "about all that's happened in the time since we left, both here and to us in Termina, all the assassin attacks-"

"Perhaps you might fill us in on what the King told you that was so damned important," Terian said, his amusement gone.

"In a minute," Cyrus said. "But first, I have a question."

The dark knight threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Always with the dramatics. Can't you just cut to the point when you have one of your 'revelations' instead of dragging us unsophisticates through your mental hoops?"

"No," Cyrus replied, "because otherwise you might begin to slip into the accepted wisdom that all warriors are unthinking idiots and you'd stop appreciating me."

"If I appreciated you any less, it'd be quantified as hatred. Get to the damned point."

"Soon." Cyrus took a deep breath, looked once around the table, and stopped on the healer who sat at Alaric's right hand. "Curatio, how old are you?"

"You'll reinforce that assumption of 'unthinking idiot' yet," Vaste said.

Curatio sat forward, his tiredness tempered by a slight sparkle of amusement. "I am however old you think I am."

Cyrus leaned forward, not breaking eye contact with the elf. "I think you're at least ten thousand years old. How far off am I?"

J'anda let a loud, scoffing laugh while Terian snorted. Chuckles filled the air as Cyrus continued to stare down the healer, who did not blink, but whose smile had frozen on his face. "Damned far off," the enchanter said. "Elves only live six thousand years, after all. You know that." J'anda looked around the table, but his expression halted at Alaric, whose fingers were steepled in front of him, his eyes watchful and serious.

"You are off by quite a bit," Curatio said. He adjusted in his seat, not looking away from Cyrus, not breaking eye contact. "I don't remember the exact day I was born, and the calendar has shifted somewhat since then, but it was something on the order of 23,000 years ago-give or take a few."

Vara was staring at Curatio with open eyes. "'We will kill you...and the old one'."

"What?" Alaric straightened, turning his attention to Cyrus.

"Something one of the assassins said when we were in Termina," Cyrus replied. "I didn't report it to you, likely because the next day Santir was sacked and we were fighting for our lives. The assassin was posing as a man named Arbukant-" he turned to look pointedly at Curatio and watched a flicker of recognition fall over the elf's face, and for the first time he caught a hint of age behind the healer's eyes-"who was the second to last survivor of a group that the King claimed supported him and his father and grandfather before him as they put together the Kingdom; he said they were the 'old ones' of Elvish legend-the first elves, immortal."

J'anda was the first to speak after several seconds pause. "I can't believe..." He turned to Curatio. "You are one of these...an 'old one'?"

Curatio looked aged, solemn, for the first time since Cyrus had known him, and the voice he answered in was brittle. "The last of them, apparently."

"You were the one who saved us in the Realm of Darkness last year," Cyrus said. Curatio cocked his head at the warrior. "You used Nessalima's Light, but you have more experience using magic so it's brighter than that of others, and you drew on your immortal life to feed it once you ran out of magical energy."

"Aye," Curatio said with a nod. Every movement seemed to be ponderous, slow. "The expedition was in danger of being overrun...I couldn't chance that happening because, unlike Enterra, there was no possibility of rescue if we had fallen."

"You've been there," J'anda said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the Council table, his eyes wide and hungry. "You've seen history, the rise of the Elven Kingdom, of the Sovereignty, the wars between them-"

"Many have, that still live in the Kingdom," Curatio replied.

"But you were around for the War of the Gods!" J'anda's exclamation hung in the air, but caused the healer to sigh.

"I was," Curatio said after a moment. "10,000 years ago." He turned his head to look at Alaric, and almost seemed to be drawing strength from the Ghost, who sat silent, the lower part of his face hidden by the hands he had folded in front of him. "I have seen..." He hesitated. "Many changes, many wars...many things...I wish I had not."

"My gods," J'anda said. "You were around when the Dark Elves came forth from the caves of Saekaj for the first time."

"I always heard that the dark elves were made from the torture of the first elves by Yartraak, the God of Darkness," Nyad said with a look of innocence.

Terian answered, his eyes narrowed in irritation. "That's a myth, one so insulting that I'm not going to respond to the notion that my entire race is nothing but a beleaguered offshoot of yours." He looked with sudden uncertainty to Curatio. "It is a myth, right?"

"Yes," the healer said. "But the dark elves interbred with several of the first elves and as a result gained longer life than your race originally enjoyed."

"So here's the question," Cyrus cut off any further digression. "Why does someone want to kill you and Vara, the oldest and youngest of the elves?"

Terian's ears perked up. "Wait, Vara is the youngest of the elves?"

"Oh," said Vaste with mild surprise. "That explains a lot, actually."

"That's supposed to be a secret," Nyad said, her voice strained.

"I expect we can keep that amongst ourselves," Alaric said. "And it does seem more than coincidence that the assassins are targeting the youngest elf and the oldest. The question becomes why? What do they have in common other than being at chronologically opposite ends of the elven populace?"

It was Curatio that answered. "It is hoped that Vara is immune to the curse of infertility that plagues our people; I and my fellow 'old ones' were immune, without doubt."

"You can have children?" Nyad stared at him, incredulous. "How do you...I mean...who...?"

The elder healer leaned forward on the table, neutral in his expression. "Seventy years ago, I fathered two children with a human woman. Since elven men are currently incapable of fathering children with anyone, it showed me that I was immune to the curse."

"Who was it?" Vaste stared at the Healer with a sly grin.

"No one you'd know," Curatio said, brushing him off. "The children, both girls, are in the Riverlands of the Confederation and will live close to a thousand years because they're my daughters-and are, in essence, as pure-blood as any elf that walks in the Kingdom these days."

"Then...you could save us!" Nyad's voice was almost a cry, a jubilant noise of broken despair.

Curatio was unmoved, indifferent. "No, I can't. Not like that."

"What?" The wizard's face registered shock as her jaw fell open. "Why not?"

Curatio took a deep breath and drew his hand to his face. "Because we made a pact, the other old ones and I. We vowed not intervene and become, as the only men capable of doing so, the saviors of the elven race. It was a calculated decision, to let human blood continue to intermingle with ours." He didn't look up from where his eyes were fixated on the table. "We had good reasons; it was a decision made by very wise men. And we were wrong, but it's too late to do anything about it now."

There was a long silence. Nyad looked almost collapsed at the other end of the table, Vara maintained her indifference, and Curatio had slumped in his seat, the most defeated Cyrus had seen him.

"So let's say you're immune to this...curse," Terian said, breaking the silence. "Which you say makes elven men infertile? Why would anyone curse the elves that way? Who would want to kill you?"

"When in doubt," Vaste said, "I blame Goliath."

"The infertility of the elves stretches back nearly a thousand years," Vara said. "I doubt even Malpravus would orchestrate a scheme that would not bear fruit for several millenia."

"Perhaps the Sovereign of Saekaj Sovar?" J'anda said, trading a look with Erith and Terian. The dark knight, for his part, looked murderous at the enchanter. Erith shook her head.

"Perhaps," Alaric said. "He does take a notoriously long view of the game."

"This is not a game," Nyad snapped. "This is our people-our lives."

"Not to him," Alaric said, calm.

"Who is this Sovereign everyone keeps being so damned mysterious about?" Cyrus looked around the table, irritation overwhelming him. Of all the mysteries I've run across since joining Sanctuary, this one annoys me the most.

"Sorry," Alaric replied. "Not yet. While it could be him, this is another secret that requires protecting for reasons that would become obvious if you knew the full details. And it may," he held up a hand to ward off Cyrus's response, "come to that, but not yet. Should we find the answer to who holds the chain of this Hand of Fear organization, I suspect all our questions will be answered."

"They have a master," Cyrus said, his hand curled into a mailed fist. "They've said he ordered the deaths of their victims."

"And we have no idea who it is?" Terian looked around.