“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 ev
eryone 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.
“It could be anyone,” Vara said. “For all their attacks, we still know next to nothing about the Hand of Fear.”
Silence reigned for a moment as Terian scratched his chin. “I know something.”
Alaric’s words cut through the quiet. “You tortured one of them, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.” The dark knight’s normally cool expression was even more reserved.
The fire crackled behind Alaric’s eye. “I specifically told you—”
“You keep me around to do the things you’re not willing to do yourself,” Terian said, blazing defiance. “Protecting this guild from outside harm is my only priority, and if it’s between bleeding some gutless assassin who had a hand in killing Niamh and waiting for the hammer to fall on another of my guildmates, it’s an easy choice. Besides, it didn’t even require that much effort. The last one we caught was human, a young one. Folded easy, because he wasn’t a true believer like the others.”
“Who’s the master?” Cyrus leaned forward, intent on the dark knight.
“Not sure,” Terian said, some of his smugness disappearing. “This human was seemed to be more of an initiate. Whoever they are, the Hand of Fear is running low on experienced assassins. This one was unsure of who they serve, only that ‘the master is great and powerful and mighty’ and all that crap. But he did know where the lair was, after some...” He looked away from Alaric’s piercing gaze. “...coercion.”
“I will not accept this sort of behavior, Terian,” Alaric said in warning.
“If anyone ever kills another one of our guildmates this way, I suspect you’ll accept it again,” Terian replied. “Unless you’d like to see us keep losing people to these murderers.”
“What you have done is beyond our code of honor.” Alaric’s voice carried a warning. “It is not how we comport ourselves in this guild.”
“No? When it’s them or us, I pick them to suffer and die every time. Sorry if that makes me cold, but that’s how it is.”
“We will discuss this further in private.” Alaric’s eye was narrow. “For now, we must eliminate this threat once and for all.”
“Their base is in Traegon, in the Elven Kingdom,” the dark knight said. “They used to have an army of master assassins. My sense is that they’ve gone through a lot of them lately, but we should still expect a tough fight. The initiate told me that there’s a closed door in their headquarters, that only the initiated are allowed inside, and that they come back from behind it with orders from the master.” He smiled. “So if we’re lucky...”
“There’s a portal just outside Traegon,” Nyad said. “We can get my father’s permission to strike; he might even add some of the army to assist—”
“No,” Cyrus cut her off. “Get his permission, but don’t let him tell a soul. Hand of Fear has shown a remarkable talent for learning things that they shouldn’t know; they must have spies in his court. We can take a small army and hit them and maybe we’ll catch this mysterious master at home.”
Alaric turned to Nyad. “Go now. Every moment we wait gives the enemy further opportunity to place assassins within our walls again.”
“Aisling is keeping an eye on everyone that walks through the door,” Curatio said. “She seems pretty good at singling out the ones that are here for nefarious purposes.”
“Which she should be,” Vara muttered, “since she herself is here for nefarious purposes.”
Alaric ignored her and turned his gaze to Cyrus. “Put together a small strike force—thirty or so of our most elite, in preparation to strike. Be ready to move as soon as Nyad returns.” Cyrus nodded and Alaric turned back to face the occupants of the circular table. “If we are fortunate, this may be the last day that we need concern ourselves with the Hand of Fear.”
Chapter 42
“I’m going, right?” Andren asked as Cyrus sat at a table in the Great Hall, nibbling on a turkey leg that Larana had wordlessly set in front of him. He had smiled and nodded at her in thanks, and she retreated, casting the occasional look back at him. Even now he saw her through the open passthrough in the wall where she was hard at work in the kitchen preparing dinner and sending him furtive glances, looking away every time he caught her.
“Yes,” Cyrus said, turning his attention to his oldest friend. “I need a few healers, so I think it’ll be you, Erith and Vaste.”
“Yes!” The healer pumped his fist. “Revenge for Niamh at last.”
“This isn’t for revenge,” Cyrus said, setting his quill down in the jar of ink. “This is to protect our guildmates from further harm. This Hand of Fear, they intend to kill Curatio and Vara.”
“Well, yeah,” Andren said, looking insulted. “But I find no wrong in taking a bit of vengeance for our favorite druid.”
Cyrus did not respond; Curatio had entered the Great Hall and was making his way toward them. Cy nodded at his approach and the elder elf slid a chair out and sat down. “I’m going with you,” he said with an odd determination.
“I’m making a list right now,” Cyrus replied, feeling the need for a sudden caution. “I...believe it would be safest if you remained behind, along with Vara.”
The Healer shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I need to come with you.”
Cyrus exchanged a look with Andren. “I have several healers,” he began, “we can make it without your help.”
“It doesn’t matter how many healers you have. I’m coming along—exercising my prerogative as the Elder of Sanctuary.” Curatio stood; his words had come out the same way one might deliver a simple statement. With that said, he turned and began to make his way back toward the foyer.
“I doubt we’ll need your skills—” Cyrus said to his retreating back.
“Doesn’t matter,” Curatio called over his shoulder. “You’ll have them.” He disappeared through the doorway.
“I believe the Elder of Sanctuary just told the General how it is,” Andren said with barely contained glee. “I can’t remember you ever taking orders from anyone and liking it.”
“I don’t like it now, either,” Cyrus said. “But he’s more experienced than any of us and I’m sure he has his reasons.”
“So is it true?” Andren’s hand was wrapped around a horn of ale, and his light beard already dripped with the brew. “He’s an ‘old one’?”
“The last.” Cyrus dipped his quill back into the ink and added Curatio’s name to his list in small script at the bottom. “How would that feel, outliving everyone you’ve ever known?”
“Not fun. Not that all the elves I know are dead, but I’ve been shunning my own kind and hanging around you more-mortal races for a few hundred years now. While you certainly know how to have more fun than the elves, it tends to come to a damned abrupt stop far earlier than I’m ready for it to.”
“Which reminds me,” Cyrus said, a smile coming to his face. “We have a mutual friend; she helped me care for Vara and bring her back to health.”
“Oh?” Andren took a deep slug from his horn.
“Yeah, her name is Arydni—”
The mouthful of drink that the healer had taken erupted from his lips at the mention of the Priestess’s name, covering the table, the parchment and Cyrus’s breastplate. Andren made a
strange, deep choking sound, as though he had inhaled some of his beverage. “I guess you remember her,” Cyrus said.
Andren coughed, pounding himself on the chest before taking his hand away and clutching the table. “It’d be tough to forget that one. I haven’t seen her in about two millenia. Has she taken the turn yet?”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow at him. “You mean has she started to age to fit her years?”
“Yeah.”
A flash of Arydni in her priestess attire, with her supple flesh and ample bosoms, came to Cyrus’s mind. “She has not.”
“Really?” The healer’s voice carried a note of hope. “Maybe I should track her down after this. You know, reacquaint myself.”
Cyrus looked back to the blank spot under Curatio’s name on his parchment, dipped his quill and began to write another name. “I thought you had women enough to keep you occupied here in Sanctuary.”
“I do,” Andren said. “But Arydni was a whole different kind of woman. Not like these naïve human girls I’ve been playing around with; she was almost three thousand when I met her, and the things she knew how to do...” He shuddered, a smile cracking his face as he stared off into space.
“Keep it to yourself.” Cyrus shook his head. “I’ve already seen almost all of her; I don’t need to imagine what she’s capable of, it’ll give me...” He let his words drift off.
“Nightmares?”
“Quite the opposite, more like.” Cyrus shook his head. “Bellarum himself couldn’t help me if I got caught muttering her name in my sleep.”
“Yeah.” Andren scooted his chair closer to Cyrus. “What’s going on with you and the shelas’akur?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “She’s been distant since her mother and father died. I won’t crowd her now that she’s been through all this; I’ll just wait and give her time to figure things out.” He shook his head. “It’s not as though she’s going anywhere, and if I were in her position I think I’d be wrecked, losing my hometown and both my parents in the course of a week.”
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 35