Cyrus waited as the others filed out. Curatio was the last, sending a final look at Alaric that was as mysterious as it was brief. When the door closed, he spoke. "How did you know that Bellarum guided me to my sword?"

"Not now," came the knight's quiet reply. His words came out even more weary than usual.

"But I-"

"I SAID NOT NOW!" Alaric's fury blazed, and Cyrus flinched back from the heat in his words. He hesitated, unused to fleeing from anything, but took slow steps to the door and shut it behind him, placing it between them like a shield, to protect him from the anger of the man who was the closest thing he could remember to having a father.

Chapter 52.

Vara stirred when he shut the door, even though he closed it as quietly as he could. Damned elven hearing. She rolled over to look at him, and he could see by her eyes that she had been crying again. In her sleep? She sat up, the fire in the hearth still crackling, spitting its warmth across the room. "Hello," he said.

She nodded at him. "How fares the Council?"

"Awash, athwart and abuzz."

She scrunched up her face, perplexed. "What?"

"Never mind. They're confused. Alaric is as upset as I've ever seen him. He yelled at me when I asked him a question. I can't recall him doing anything like that before."

She pulled her knees close to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "We did just kill a god. It's a rather heady feeling."

"Apparently I'm the only one excited about that," Cyrus said. "I mean, if you can kill one-"

"Don't. That road leads to madness; to a quest that has no good end and no real purpose."

"I suppose not." A moment passed, and he found the courage to speak the words on his mind. "In Death's Realm, you were ready to-"

"I was." She cut him off. "Perhaps I still am; I don't know my own heart at the moment. Things seem very dark indeed, as though all my hopes were drained along with my spirit."

"There's always hope."

She lowered her head. "No. There's nothing left now. My people are doomed. My parents are dead." Her hand reached up to her face, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. "My hope is gone."

"I know it seems that way right now," he said, a hand stroking her shoulder, feeling the cloth of her undershirt against his fingers, "but your life is long, and the black despair that covers you now will lift, given time and fortune. Trust me. I know."

"You didn't know your parents." Her words came out free of accusation, but they stung all the same.

"True," he recovered from the pain of her last statement. "But my wife left me, and I lost Narstron-"

"Let us not compare agonies. My last lover stabbed me through the back and then killed all my friends."

"I am not minimizing your pain," he said, trying to keep his voice soothing, "but you eventually recovered and continued living your life-"

"And that's worked out marvelously for me."

"It gets better," Cyrus said in a whisper.

"Does it?" Her words were bitter, tinted with the emotion within her. "Tell me, warrior of Bellarum, how it gets better? I realize that you got over your parents quickly and easily by burying your sorrows in the bosom of your 'blood family' when you joined the Society-" he rankled at her words, feeling the swell deep inside, wanting to correct the wrong of what she said, but he held it in-"but some of us don't open up that easily, don't have anyone to go to."

"You can come to me," he said, eyes burning. "I have been here for you."

"Can I?" She stared at him, dull, dead in the eyes. "Can I truly?"

"Yes!" He felt the words flowing over him, the feeling, and he let it take him. "I have loved you since the day I first saw you. I have dreamed about you, about what it would be like to be with you, and all I've wanted-all I've ever wanted-is to be with you, to love you...to have you love me."

She stared back at him, unflinching at his admission. "And in a hundred years, when you are dead and I yet live, who am I to go to then?"

He heard her speak the words, but they hit him with almost physical force, stunning him. "What?"

"In a thousand years, will you be there for me? In two thousand, will I have forgotten your name? The touch of you against my skin? Will my memories of you be vivid, painful and bright? Or will they dry up like water in the desert, and leave me without remembrance of the blue of your eyes, the lines of your face, the callouses on your hands?"

He felt dry in the mouth, and stilled himself lest a tremble make its way through his body. "What...are you saying?"

"It will not work, Cyrus. It can never be, you and I. For I am elf, and my life is long and my duties are as great as my sorrow. We will not, cannot be. Not ever."

He staggered off the bed, barely in control of himself, feeling drunk though he hadn't had a drop. "You don't mean that."

She looked at him coolly. "I mean every word of it. I thank you for trying to comfort me in my hour of need, but I'll have you take your leave now." She turned over in the bed and lay down, facing the window.

He staggered away and through the door, not bothering to shut it behind him, letting the guard do it instead. The world seemed to carry a strange hum, loud enough in his ears that he couldn't hear anything around him as his feet carried him down the stairs to the foyer. There was still a gathered crowd, and a great many hands slapped him on the back as he passed. He felt them dimly, as though they touched him in a dream.

He found himself sitting in a chair in the lounge, staring out the front window into the darkness. Did she ever feel the same as I did? Was she just confused after having so many emotions running through her for so long? Is this because of that bastard Archenous Derregnault? If I killed him, maybe...

He looked up in surprise when he realized Longwell had spoken his name several times. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Didn't mean to disturb you," Longwell said. "I wanted to say farewell."

"Farewell?" Cyrus tried to shake off the veil of confusion that hung around his head. "Where are you going?"

"Home," the dragoon said. "I leave on the morrow. My father's kingdom is invaded and the situation is grim. My father finds himself at war against long odds against our neighbors. He sent one of his knights to bring me home."

"Where is home?" Cyrus asked the question almost ruefully, as much to Longwell as himself.

"Over the Endless Bridge, across the Strait of Carmas, in the Land of Luukessia. It's a large place, but only humans live there; three kingdoms forever jousting back and forth over territory." He looked down at his boots. "I hoped to escape that life of constant, pointless combat, but my father calls, saying things are dire. Luukessia has been deadlocked for a thousand years, and it seems the northern kingdom of the mountains has grown strong enough to upset the balance. My father needs every hand he can find."

"Does he?" Cyrus said. "Could he make use of me?" He looked up at the dragoon, finding Longwell's eyes startled.

"I daresay," Longwell replied. "My father could use any able sword he could get, to say nothing of the fiercest warrior in all Arkaria."

"Keep talking like that and you'll swell his head." Terian spoke, crossing to join them from where he had been seated by one of the hearths. In his hands was something familiar, a scabbard, the one that held the sword that Aisling had brought Cyrus from Termina.

"That's mine," the warrior said, pointing at the weapon in Terian's hands.

"Oh?" The dark knight's voice was suddenly cold. "How so?"

"Aisling brought it back from Termina for me," Cyrus said. "I was set upon by a dark knight, and we battled. I killed him."

"Ah," Terian said with a bow. "In that case, here is your prize, good sir." He knelt with exaggerated pomp and proffered the hilt as a squire would, holding the scabbard for Cyrus to draw the sword.

"It's all right," Cyrus said with a shake of the head. "I kept it because I thought one of our brethren could use it; it's a finer sword than most any and it seemed a shame for it to fall into disuse or be sold."

Terian looked back at him, emotionless. "Aye. I've been looking to put aside my axe for a while. If you'd be amenable, I'd take it off your hands until a day comes when you have need of it."

"I doubt that day will come," Cyrus said. "Use it freely. I gift it to you."

"A princely gift. I hope the day comes when I can repay you for what you've done." Terian took the scabbard and fastened it into his belt, then turned to Longwell. "Would your father have need of a dark knight in this Land of Luukessia?"

"My father would find use for any who came with me," the dragoon said. "His letter asked me to bring along any assistance I can provide. As I said, we know no magic in those lands, so anyone who fights with the aid of it, as you do, would be worth a hundred or more ordinary soldiers."

"Then I will go with you into the east," Cyrus said.

"We leave on the morrow," Longwell told him. "We have a long ride ahead of us; I hope to have a wizard teleport us-"

"To the portal on the beach on the Sea of Carmas?" Cyrus asked.

"You know of it?"

"I've seen the Endless Bridge, once," Cyrus said. "I wondered where it went at the time."

"To another land," Longwell said. "A green and beautiful place, but a long journey. It's two days' hike south on the beach, then five long days across the bridge. We must be provisioned amply before crossing, for there is no fresh water nor food to be found on it. At the other side lies the first kingdom of the three. They would let one man pass-perhaps two or three. Any more and we will be challenged. All told, it will take us near two months to make it to my father's lands from here."

"I'll pack my things," Cyrus told him, "and see you on the morrow."

After nodding farewell to Terian, he climbed the stairs and hesitated at the landing where the doors to the Council Chamber were. After a moment of doubt tugged at him, he stopped. I owe him at least an explanation.

The door creaked as Cyrus entered. The hearth burned with a fire that warmed the room, and the smell of wood burning gave him a last sense of home. Alaric remained standing where Cyrus had left him earlier, and did not turn when the door opened. "Samwen Longwell is going back to his homeland, Luukessia, to help defend his father's Kingdom, which is under attack. I wanted to let you know that I'll be going with him, as is Terian."

The Ghost turned, and Cyrus saw neutrality on his face. "The land of Luukessia is torn by war?"

"Aye," Cyrus replied. "Longwell's father has a kingdom there. They are in need of able hands to wield swords."

"Enrant Monge." Alaric's words were quiet. "Very well. We have a problem to attend to before you leave."

"Oh?" Cyrus rested a hand on the back of his chair.

"Because of our rising fortunes and the notoriety you garnered in your defense of Termina, we have accumulated over a thousand applicants who have little to no combat experience. Without a general to lead them, they will languish. Indeed, the attack on the Realm of Death was the first taste of battle for some of them, yet most were not even through the portal by the time the fight was over." He walked to the table and leaned over it. "If you are to be absent for...as long as you are likely to be gone...we will need these new recruits trained."

Cyrus stiffened. "If you have to appoint a new general, I understand-"

"I will put out a call for volunteers to join you; you will take as many of them with you as will come," Alaric interrupted him. "They are of no use to us until they have known combat, and we are unlikely to be engaging in any invasions in your absence. A land without magic is a good place for them to learn what battle is about. You will assemble forty to fifty experienced veterans and magic users, and I will send word to the newest recruits, whose experience is lacking, and see who is willing to accompany you."

"I'm...certain Longwell's father will be pleased at any additional assistance we can offer."

"His son has earned our loyalty." Alaric gripped the back of the chair. "We will repay that fidelity in kind; we will help stave off the ruin of their kingdom and it will assist us in preparing our forces."

"We'll likely be gone for several months," Cyrus said, looking away from the Ghost's piercing gaze. "You're certain you're all right with that?"

"Whatever calamity comes our way will not be dissuaded by whatever inexperienced warriors go with you. We can defend Sanctuary against most any danger with even a few hundred defenders." He looked at Cyrus, unblinking. "But I suspect your absence will be...noticed."

"I'm not so sure of that," Cyrus said under his breath.

"Before you go..." Alaric held out a hand, as if to stop Cyrus. "I know the revelation that the gods are not invincible intrigues you. I do not want you to use the Army of Sanctuary against the gods in the future, do you understand? I want your word."

"My word?" Cyrus blinked in disbelief. "Do you really think my mind is on that right now?"

"I think I am about to send you across the world at the head of an assemblage of our forces, and I want your word that no matter what happens, you won't go after the gods." Alaric's eye burned with a fire and he closed the distance to Cyrus. "We were lucky that Mortus is so ill-favored among his own kind, lucky to kill him without any casualties. That luck may not extend to another god, and I don't want you getting the idea that hunting deities is anything other than utter foolishness."

"He died so quickly Alaric-"

"We...were...lucky!" The Ghost reached over and seized Cyrus by both shoulders, shaking him. "If you lead your guildmates into battle with another god, there will be death. Put aside your pride and listen to what I am telling you!"

"All right," Cyrus said. "I...won't go after them."

"I want your word." Alaric's hands still rested on Cyrus's pauldrons and he held firm.

"I promise," Cyrus said, his words coming out soft and low.

"Very good." Alaric looked away and strode back to the window. "Assemble your veterans. I will give the orders for the recruits to meet you in the yard on the morrow. Take at least five wizards or druids with you to send messages back with your progress."

"Thank you," Cyrus said. He paused, uncertain what else to say. "I'll...see you in a few months." He turned to leave but Alaric's voice halted him at the door.

"Farewell," the Ghost called out.

"Goodbye," Cyrus returned. "We'll see you then."

As the door closed behind him, Alaric's reply was nearly lost, but Cyrus could have sworn, underneath the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth, he heard a whisper.

"No...you won't."

Chapter 53.

The day dawned bright, sunny and glorious, with just the hint of bitterness that accompanied late winter. The warmth of the sun was offset by the chill of the morning air. As Cyrus made his way down the steps, he found the foyer in a state of odd quiet. I'm late, he thought, but the rest of the guild must be sleeping it off; undoubtedly they had a celebration.