"Oh, hadn't you heard?" Chirenya spoke with the satisfaction of someone sharing forbidden knowledge. "It's on the lips of everyone in the city. The rumor is, the Kingdom has been selling all sorts of weaponry and food to the humans at very discounted prices that are supposedly financed out of the Kingdom's treasury. They're shipping them up the Perda and along the coast to Reikonos."

Vara was the first to speak. "Let us hope that the dark elves do not consider that an act of war."

"They may consider it whatever they like," Chirenya said. "If they try to begin a war with us they'll be beaten back and taught a lesson for their arrogance."

Vara stood. "That's all the time I have for bravado today. I believe I'll retire to my room." She shot a look at Cyrus. "Coming?"

He nodded to her and followed, prompting Chirenya to let out a self-satisfied guffaw. "Do try to take your time, ox; it will take all you have to relieve the tension she's building now. And don't forget your ventra'maq!"

Vara opened the door to her room, bristling. Cyrus followed and shut the door as the paladin collapsed face first on the bed. She turned her head to look back at him and he could see a tiredness on her fine features. "You may not remember much about your mother, but I daresay you'll never forget mine."

Cyrus did not respond, and after a moment she rolled over, her cheeks flushed. "I apologize. That was...unkind."

He walked to the window, brushing the curtain aside to look onto the darkened street. "You didn't speak any untruths. I don't remember my mother."

"That doesn't mean I was right to say it."

He looked back at her. "What she said...don't forget your 'ventra'maq'? It sounds familiar."

Vara buried her face in the pillow and her reply came back too muffled for him to hear.

He stared at her, in full armor, sunk into the bed as though she were a pouting teenager. "What did you say?"

Pulling her face out of the pillow, she turned back to him, her cheeks red. "Ventra'maq is a potion, mixed by an alchemist." Her face got redder as she spoke. "It's used by women who wish to avoid pregnancy." She propped herself up on an elbow. "You really are a bit of a naif, aren't you?"

He turned away. "I remember where I've heard of it; my wife used to take ventra'maq."

"Ah, yes, your elusive wife." She curled up on the bed. "I have wondered...divorce or..." Her words were soft, and drifted off mid-sentence.

"Divorce. A few years before I joined Sanctuary."

"I see," she said, staring off into space. "I shouldn't be surprised that you were married at some point, commanding physical specimen such as you are."

"What about you? Were you ever married?"

"Close, once," she admitted after a pause. "But it ended...rather badly." Her gaze softened. "How is your arm?"

He grimaced, reminded of the ache in his shoulder. "Better. Still hurts, but not enough to slow me down."

"Take off your armor," she commanded. "Curatio gave me a salve to apply to your wound. There's nothing magical about it, but it should aid the natural healing process." She turned and retrieved a small tin from the saddlebag she had left atop the nearby vanity.

"We're under threat of attack," he said. "Even ignoring the insinuations your mother just made, this is not the best time."

"I always ignore the insinuations my mother makes-and it's the time we have." She strode back to him. "Would you enjoy an infection? Perhaps you prefer to be bedridden for a month? Lose your arm?"

Grumbling, he slid the pauldrons over his head after removing his helmet and gorget. With her aid, he unfastened his breastplate and backplate and slipped the chainmail over his head. He stared at the spot where the assassin's dagger had broken the links.

"You should invest some of your growing fortune in stronger chainmail," she said as she steered him to a chair in the corner of the room. "Sit," she commanded as she walked behind him.

He complied. "There's no chainmail I've ever seen that can perfectly protect you from harm." He felt the cool sensation of the salve running across his skin, spread by her fingers, and let out an inadvertent gasp of surprise.

He looked up at her and she grinned. "Does that hurt you in some way?" Mischief caused her eyes to dance.

"No," he replied. "But your hands are cold." He shuddered from some combination of pain, chill and pleasure as her fingers rubbed the shoulder that had been in agony only a few hours before. She kneaded the tender muscle as she applied a healthy dollop of the salve, massaging the tender lip of skin where the assassin's dagger had pierced his flesh. He groaned as she applied pressure to an area that had not received healing thanks to the black lace. "Now that spot-that hurts."

"Tell me something." Her words were calm and soothing, like the ointment she was applying. "You've now trekked hundreds of miles out of your way, putting yourself in the path of countless dangers on my behalf..." She hesitated.

His eyes were closed, and he felt her hands working through painful areas of his shoulder and upper chest. He grunted in discomfort as her fingers moved from relieving tension to stabbing at an unhealed section. "Yes?"

The pressure on his shoulder stopped and he heard the rustle of her armor move beside the chair as she knelt next to him, looking up, her blue eyes wide. "Why?" She continued to stare at him, her eyes fixed on his. "What are you fighting for?"

Cyrus licked his lips. The searing sensation of the salve had worn off and suddenly he felt cold and hot at the same time. He stared back at her, into the eyes of the blond-haired paladin, and saw something beyond the usual intensity there, a hope that he both knew and feared, one that reminded him of the night that J'anda had shown him through magic what he desired in the deepest well of his heart.

"I..."

He started to speak, then stopped. Her hand was on the metal of his greaves, resting on his thigh, sending a thrill through him even though he could feel but a little of the weight. He searched for the words again, and halted, still struck by her eyes. I need to tell her, he thought. I've needed to tell her for years, and this is it...

He felt a very slight tremor, and wondered if his legs were shaking. "I...what?" Vara had stiffened, her eyes darting around. "What is it?"

She stood and brushed passed the bed, tossing his breastplate to him on her way to the door. She unlocked and opened it as Isabelle appeared on the other side. "Did you hear?" The healer was breathless.

"Yes. The cellar?" Vara tossed another look at Cyrus, who was sitting in the chair, barechested as Isabelle looked around the doorjamb at him. "Come on, get dressed."

"Why?" He fumbled with his chainmail, struggling to slide it on.

"Because," Vara said. "They're here."

Chapter 16.

"What?" Cyrus asked. "How did they get in the cellar?" Having looked around earlier in the day, he had found it to be empty, with no windows and no way in or out save for the staircase.

"Did you not hear that explosion?" Isabelle asked. "It shook the building."

Cyrus stood as he began to fasten his breastplate. "I felt...a tremor." He looked at Vara, mortified. "I thought it was me."

She ignored him. "Isabelle, did you get Mother-"

"Upstairs," Isabelle said. "We need to signal your people and mine-"

Cyrus turned and grabbed the chair that he had been sitting in. Raising it above his head, he heaved it at the window, where it ripped the curtain from the wall and broke the glass, flying onto the street, shattering the calm of the evening.

From a few stories below Cyrus heard shouts of "Alarum!" and turned back to Vara, who was looking at him with annoyance.

"You could have just opened the window and shouted for help."

He shrugged as he brushed past her, drawing his sword. "This was faster."

"What was that?" Chirenya's voice rang down the stairwell as Cyrus led Vara and Isabelle into the sitting room. "Ox, did you just destroy my home?"

"Only part of it. More to come."

"Mother, get back in your bedroom and lock the door!" Vara shouted. "They're coming!"

"Oh, all right!" Chirenya's voice was fraught with tension. "But tell your ox that he'll be paying for any of my possessions that he destroys!"

Cyrus stared at the landing below, watching for movement. He waited, focused until a flash running up the steps caught his eye just as a crash of breaking glass came from behind him on the second floor, followed by the sound of the door to the street splintering below.

He turned to see a half dozen black-clad bodies sliding in the windows behind him. Screaming could be heard on the floor above and Cyrus watched Vara rush the stairwell as the first of the assassins reached their floor from below. She lashed out with her sword, a massive, two-handed blade, raking it across the chest of the first assassin, causing him to fall backward and knock down the two that followed him.

Without waiting to see what happened next, Vara ran up the steps, Isabelle at her heels, sword thumping against the railing all the way up. Cyrus shot a quick look at the assassins piling up on the landing, shouts coming from below, and then glanced back to the ones that had broken through the second floor window and were advancing on him. With a muttered curse he turned and sprinted up the stairs, listening as havoc filled the house.

His metal boots clanked on every step. He flew up the stairs and burst through the bedroom door to find a bizarre sight.

The entire third floor was a large bedroom with windows that faced the street. Vara's father lay on the bed, unconscious, blankets tucked around his body. Vara and Isabelle stood in front of him, eyes fixed on the space on the other side of the bed. An orange, flickering light filled the room.

Chirenya was holding five assassins at bay in the open space between the bed and the windows. Her hands clutched a smooth black staff with a red crystal mounted at the top. The elven woman's blond hair was tucked behind her ears. With her back turned, Cyrus could not see her face, but as she gripped the staff it vomited bursts of fire, spheres of blazing flame spewing forth every half second, each flying with unfaltering speed at its target.

Five assassins had broken through the windows, all dressed in black attire with a cowl and mask to hide their features; something similar in spirit but far different in look than the assassins Cyrus had encountered thus far.

And every single one of them was screaming and on fire.

Cyrus stared at the spectacle of a lone elven woman defeating five skilled killers, then remembered that they were far from the only threats. He turned back to the door with a shout to Vara and Isabelle. "Coming up the stairs!" He positioned himself against the wall next to the door.

He led with Praelior, swinging as a blur of black came through the doorframe, his stroke catching the first assassin across the neck. The body dropped to the floor as the next entered, tripping on the corpse. With a step forward, Vara jabbed her sword through the second elf's back, causing him to writhe and then go still.

Cyrus moved to block the door but something exploded in front of him, knocking him aside. Smoke filled his eyes and lungs and he began to cough as he fell to the ground. Tears beaded up at the corners of his eyes and he felt a burning as he tried to blink away the smoky heat. Something whipped through the air above him and he heard a cry of pain, even as he crawled on his hands and knees away from the sounds of battle behind him.

His shoulder bumped something heavy and yet soft. The bed, he thought, grasping at the edge and using it to lever himself up, still unable to see through the pain in his eyes. With a tingle, he felt a healing spell run over his face and the tears stopped.

Blinking away the wetness, he rose and saw Isabelle at the edge of a cloud of smoke, her hand extended to him. An assassin appeared from behind her but before Cyrus could shout a warning she turned and a light flashed from her hand, bright enough to blot out the entire room in a blast of white. After it faded, Cyrus blinked and saw Isabelle with a dagger in her hand and the assassin in her grip. The knife came down on his neck again and again, and her white robes were sprinkled with red.

Where's Vara? Out of the cloud of smoke came a whirlwind of activity. Vara stumbled back, appearing at the edge of the billow, an assassin following. She was coughing, her sword extended with one hand while the other covered her mouth. The assassin raised his hands to strike a killing blow and before Cyrus could cross the distance between them, a tinkle of glass came from behind him while something whipped through the air, causing the assassin's head to jerk. An arrow rested in his eye, and the elf tried to speak but nothing came out as his body twitched and succumbed to gravity.

The cloud of smoke had begun to clear and assassins were pouring through the door. Cyrus moved to engage them, positioning himself between them and Vara. He could see Isabelle in the corner of his eye, her dagger extended with one hand while she cast a healing spell on her sister with the other.

Cyrus watched two assassins move to strike him. He blocked the one closest with a careful stroke of his sword, but left himself exposed to the other while he did it. The second came at him with a gurkha; a medium sized blade the length of Cyrus's forearm, the point dripping with a liquid that gleamed in the low light. He raised his right hand to block with the metal of his gauntlet and braced himself for the blow.

Another sound of air rushing heralded the arrival of another arrow, this one coming to rest in the assassin's ear. A strangled screech was cut short and he toppled toward the bed as Cyrus pressed the attack on the remaining assassin, who was joined by another arrival through the door.

Cyrus met the newest assassin with a sideways kick as he slashed at the other, keeping him on the defensive with Praelior's longer reach. The clangor of battle on the floors below was an uncertain quantity; he had no idea who was winning or even who was fighting-whether it was the assassins, Endeavor, Sanctuary or all three.

With another hard kick, Cyrus sent the assassin in the door backward and over the edge of the stairs. A scream was followed by a crashing noise of flesh on wood and then the sound of something breaking. He turned back to the assassin he had engaged with his sword to find him within reach.

Cyrus braced himself for the inevitable pain as the assassin brought his dagger up in a stabbing motion, aimed at the gap at the bottom of his breastplate. Cyrus pulled Praelior back in a motion that would strike little more than a glancing blow against his opponent's unguarded throat. Fortunately, with Praelior, a glancing blow would do all the damage necessary to end the fight. But will it be in time? The instinct and concept flashed in Cyrus's mind more than the actual words.

A sword blow struck the elf just inches before he landed the dagger at Cyrus's belly, knocking the assassin's arm aside. Vara's blade punched through the assassin's stomach, turning the leering look of triumph into one of exquisite agony and surprise as her blade ran him through at the same time Cyrus's slipped across his neck. A choked, gurgling sound made its way out of the elf's mouth as he dropped to the ground.

A thundering clamor filled the air as another three assassins entered the room. Their blades were sharp and their steps quiet as they unfolded in a line along the wall toward Vara's father, prompting the paladin to move toward the one closest, her sword rising. As she cut in front of him, Cyrus could see her porcelain face twist with fury.

Her hand came up and a cry of unholy rage left her lips as the assassin closest to her father raised his dagger over the sleeping figure. A concussive blast of force rocked the room as her spell flung the offender into the wall; Cyrus heard the elf's skull crack, and he slid to the floor leaving a smear of blood down the wall.

Cyrus swept forward, bringing Praelior down in a crosswise swipe that knocked the assassin closest to the door's dagger aside as it cut him from his right shoulder to left hip and sent him spinning to the ground.

Cyrus turned his attention to the last of the assassins and watched as a gout of flame engulfed him, wrenching a scream from his lips as another arrow whipped through the window and hit him in the chest, causing him to fall to the floor, still on fire.

"All clear!" came a shouted voice from the stairwell. Heavy footfalls on the steps ended as Thad entered, his sword in hand. "Everyone all right?"

Cyrus looked around the bedroom. Vara was leaning over her father, her hand on his cheek, whispering while Isabelle leaned against the wall behind Cyrus, taking labored breaths.

Chirenya, on the other hand, peered at the body still on fire on the floor before pointing her staff at it. The flames were drawn up in a whirlwind and reabsorbed back into the crystal that crowned her weapon. "I'm quite all right, but tell your friend with the bow across the way to stop putting these killers out of their misery before I'm done with them." She indicated the bodies of the assassins that had come through the windows. Each of them had an arrow through their torsos, their skin charred and blackened where it had been exposed.

"That was my wife," Thad said with a grunt. He raised his hand in a wave across the street. Cyrus turned, and in the third floor of the house where the Sanctuary force had been staying, a familiar elven face stared back at him, barely visible in the moonlight.

Cyrus looked back to the assassins that Chirenya had dealt with and frowned. "I thought there were five of them. I count three bodies."

"Oh, yes," Chirenya said. "Two of them jumped out the window; I presume they were of a mind to end their suffering before I intended it."

J'anda appeared at the door, flanked by several warriors that Cyrus did not recognize. He shot a look at Isabelle, who nodded at him. Her skin, by its nature, was not as pale as Vara's-but she was drawn, her mouth in a grim line, and her complexion was white.

"Isabelle...?" Cyrus said in a hushed voice.

"I'm all right," she said, each word forced. Her robes, normally pure, still bore the stains of blood from her actions during the fight. Except, Cyrus noted, one of the spots at her side seemed to be growing. "I might," she conceded as she began to slip down the wall, "need a little help..."

He rushed to her, catching her before she fell. Cyrus lowered her to the ground as a call went down the stairs from one of the members of Endeavor, a shout for help. She stared up, her eyes fixed on his.

"Vara," he called out. He looked up to see Chirenya swoop down beside him.

"Isabelle," Chirenya said with a lightness he would not have imagined possible. "Dear, why don't you heal yourself?"

The healer's expression was pained, her hand gripping her side. Cyrus pulled up her robes to find the flesh punctured where a kidney would be on a human. "Magic's not working." She tilted her head to look at Cyrus, every word struggling to get out. "Black lace?"

He nodded and looked to Chirenya. "I don't suppose you have any rotweed?"

Chirenya looked back at him with a scowl. "I don't know what that is, but I would never have anything that sounds that foul under my roof." She looked around, surveying the damage. "At least until you and your kind showed up."

"That," Cyrus replied, keeping his voice even for the benefit of Isabelle, who was staring at him with glassy eyes, "is what we need to counteract the effects of what she's been poisoned with."

"Didn't know these...assassins...were using it." Isabelle spoke through gritted teeth. "Endeavor has bloody tons of it." She looked down at her hand, clutching at her wound. "I would have brought some."

"Fear not," came a deep voice from the door, "I have quite a bit." Thad parted the crowd of Endeavor guild members to make way for Vaste, who was wearing a heavy cloak to hide his troll features. As he slipped the cowl back to reveal his green skin and overlarge teeth, Chirenya recoiled, using her body to shield her daughter.