Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
That brought a blush to her face and a hearty laugh from the rest of the crowd. Titus looked up from the ground and wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing blood across both.
I looked hard at Martina. "Woman, see to your husband. Now!"
As she reluctantly crossed the floor, I addressed the rest of them. "This is how it shall be from this time forward. Any eligible Fisher will wed a Riveren and vice versa. All families thus united will be known as Knotts. All the wealth of all the families shall be commingled and shared. All business dealings will be held in common between the Fishers and Riverens until there are no more Fishers and Riverens, but only Knotts. That is the way it shall be, because I have no desire to return here in five hundred years or a thousand years or ever. If I am forced to, I shall not stay my hand."
I lowered my voice, and the background noise in the room sank appropriately. "Go, call your priests and sanctify these unions. Do it now!. This second chance at life I give you because I have a second life. Let none of you give me cause to return a third time."
Standing in the darkened gardens of the Fisher estate, the cold winter night air leech-sucked warmth from me. The holes in my clothing made that easy, though the bandages over my wounds meant the cold did have to work a bit. Still, the chill did sink into my joints and bones as I leaned on my elbows on the stone balustrade that ringed the garden. Despite the flickering lights in the city below me, the shadows moving through the streets, and the strains of solemn wedding music from the gathering back in the ballroom, nothing felt truly alive to me. It seemed as if I had begun to slip back into my tomb, with my awareness of the outside world slowly evaporating the way light drains from the day at dusk.
A very cynical part of me wanted to believe I actually had been an avenging ghost over the past five hundred years. I wanted to lay claim to the righteous anger I had shown the people back in the mansion. I wanted to shake my head and speak to all the people who had fought for freedom as my allies, complaining to them that our sacrifices had been forgotten because nothing changes and people are no better now than we were then.
I could not do that because I knew it was not true. I did know that the Riverens had forged an alliance with the Haladina as a way to destroy the Fishers without engaging them directly, and they had done this without any intention of seeing the Haladina as true Men. Still, by inviting them into their city, by trading with them, working with them, and learning how they lived, the Riverens demystified the Haladina. The people of Aurdon helped humanize the image of the Haladina. Over time, over generations, that could lead to relations that would mean the Haladina might no longer raid in Centisia.
Only a fool would suggest the change would be easy, but the Elven change toward Men showed the change could take place. The Elven change and the change in attitudes toward the Haladina could mean the world would be a better place than the one I had known, or the one I was coming to know now.
I heard the light crunch of gravel and smiled without turning around. "Your destruction of Orvir was very convincing at a time when we needed to be convincing."
Gena came to stand beside me with her arms folded across her chest. "I am pleased you approved."
I shifted to lean on my left forearm and left hip so I could watch her, then shifted a bit to relieve the pressure on the holes I had in me at each point. "You played along well with what I was doing. I had been afraid you would think me crazy."
She smiled, dispelling some of the chill. "My grandfather, in recounting your exploits here the first time, mentioned something called the Codex Mercenarius. I did not know if you planned to actually kill people in there—and I hoped you were not—but I am not certain I would have stopped you if you had."
"Only Berengar needed killing. He was the most ambitious, and not everyone agreed with him and his plans. I suspect he had his brother, Lord Orvir, killed when his lordship discovered the foundry, flashdrakes, and powder-store at his lake estate."
"So Berengar's giving Rik Orvir's ring to prove he had the right to carry his flashdrakes was a joke?"
"I suppose so. I am actually surprised Berengar did not lecture us more on his plans for empire—the ego needed to come up with the sort of plan he did is not one that shies from bragging."
Gena looked out over the city, the light breeze toying with strands of her hair. "He actually did, once, when I pressed him. It seemed like idle conversation at the time—something to make the miles move more quickly as we rode to Jarudin. He was secretive. I had no clue that he wanted Cleaveheart to win an empire before, but now that I think of it, he was always insistent on getting the sword, and not as concerned with finding Wasp."
I shrugged. "I suspected something wrong when I heard the Haladina had not looted your Durriken's body and again when you gave no indication he was a Haladina, yet he was killed with Eight Cuts." My shrug had shifted my weight so my hip hurt, and as I moved to get comfortable, I hit the cut on my left forearm on the balustrade. I turned and sat my rump on the cold stone and frowned. "Even the whispers in the city didn't fully explain everything. What it all came down to was Berengar's desire to get his hands on Cleaveheart."
"I am glad you did not surrender the sword to him." Gena shook her head as I squirmed a bit in getting settled in my new position. "I could heal your cuts, you know. I took care of Titus, and I am still able to help you."
I shook my head. "These will make six nice new scars. When I'm old . . ."
Her eyebrow arched.
". . . older, I mean, in body as well as age, these scars will be worth many drinks and meals in some tavern somewhere."
She snorted politely and refrained from laughing. "Are you certain?"
"I've never . . . well, never intentionally had magick reverse the trouble I've gotten myself into. At five hundred and thirty-six I think I am a bit old to change my ways."
"I see." She watched me carefully, her violet eyes picking up an ethereal glow in the backlight from the ballroom. "I think I would apologize again for having saved you, having used magick to heal you, but I am not sorry for having done so."
I shrugged, then winced. "You were not given much choice in the matter."
"Even if I had known, I don't think that would have stopped me." She glanced back at the ballroom and hugged her arms around herself more tightly. "If you had not been here, Berengar would now be leading a mob through the streets of Aurdon, and the streets would be running with Riveren and Haladin blood."
I heard the serious tone in her voice, but still felt compelled to disagree. "Someone else would have stopped him."
"Perhaps, but not so soon. As an Elf, I can still speak with my grandfather and know the horror of the battles fought five centuries ago. In growing up in Cygestolia, I saw the pain caused by the need to destroy the Reithrese. I have seen the faces of warriors haunted by what they did. I know of atrocities and murders, and I know they were terrible. For the people back in the ballroom, the winning of the empire came seventeen generations ago. As you pointed out to me, the truth of what you fought for had been forgotten, and because it had been forgotten, a parody of it would have been played out on the world stage."
"And yet, because I was here and I remembered, it will not be."
She glanced down at the sword hanging by my side. "Unless you decide to win yourself an empire."
I laughed. "Done that, and it wasn't much fun." I winked at her. "Don't know as how I can forgive you for using magick on me, but if you don't want to be sorry for the reason you stated, I'm thinking you have every right to be proud and happy of your choice."
"That's not the only reason I'm not sorry." Her voice caught a bit, and she almost went on to add to her statement, but she stopped and looked out at the city again.
She didn't need to say anything more, because I thought I knew what she was going to say. "There are other reasons not to be sorry, Gena. I, for one, am happy to have seen your grandfather again, and your grandmother, and to have met you."
"You do not have to say that, Neal."
"I'm not. You remind me very much of your grandaunt."
Gena's hands came down to her sides, and her hands knotted into fists. "I know, and I am sorry."
"Sorry?"
"Because that hurts you because I am not her."
Thoughts and memories I had pushed aside white trying to puzzle out Berengar's game came flooding back into my head. "Larissa and I, we . . . I mean, what we had, we knew, was, uh . . . when we spoke of . . . when she saw you . . ." I stopped and shook my head. "I am not doing this very well."
She looked up at me and choked back tears, but said nothing.
I twisted the bracelet from my right wrist and held it up. "When Larissa gave this to you, what did she say?"
Gena sniffed once, then forced her hands open. "She told me she was going beyond and then handed the bracelet to me. I knew what it was, but I never thought she would give it up. She said, 'I want you to remember, I have chosen you for this. You are my choice.' " Her head came up. "Does that mean something?"
I nodded for a bit until my throat opened enough to let words out. "We knew, as we traveled from Jarudin to Cygestolia for the ceremony involving your father's conception, that we two could never be together. Larissa could not bear the idea that her bloodline and my bloodline would die out. She made me promise that when she found someone for me . . . she wanted our progeny to have a chance at the happiness we could not know."
I took her left hand in mine and slipped the bracelet onto her wrist. "She wanted you to have this, and so do I."
Gena settled it on her arm, then looked up at me. "And she wanted me for you. Do you want that as well?"
"I see the sylvanesti have become even more direct over the last five centuries."
We both laughed, but when we stopped, a heavy silence pressed in on me.
I smiled at Gena. "Larissa was very special to me, and you to her. I respect her choice, but I want to respect you as well. I'm thinking that had we not learned a lot about each other on the road, in Jarudin and here, and if there were no attraction between us, we'd not be having this conversation. I am willing to explore the matter further, if you are."
She gave my hand a squeeze. "I am."
I nodded, then winced.
"Pain?"
"In a way. I was just thinking how protective your grandfather was of Larissa. I imagine he's more so of you."
Gena pursed her lips. "I'm thinking you can handle him."
"True enough, I did beat him in Jammaq, and that was when he had two eyes."
She stepped close and kissed me, then kissed me again. Her lips tasted sweet, and to my surprise, I didn't wonder if this was what it would have been like to kiss Larissa. Instead I wondered about what it would be like to steal another kiss from Gena.
Settling my arms around her slender waist, I pulled her to me and—scandal though it might have been somewhere in time—kissed her with all the enthusiasm appropriate for a man of my years kissing a sylvanesti half my age.
Michael A. Stackpole is an award-winning game and computer game designer who was born in 1957 and grew up in Burlington, Vermont. In 1979 he graduated from the University of Vermont with a BA in History. In his career as a game designer he has done work for Flying Buffalo, Inc., Interplay Productions, TSR, Inc., FASA Corp., Hero Games and Game Designers Workshop.
In his spare time he watches far too much television, serves as the Executive Director of the Phoenix Skeptics and plays indoor soccer on the Blue Thunder team. He likes a variety of cuisines including, but not limited to, Mexican, Chinese, Japanese and Thai. While a good cook, he believes in supporting the pizza delivery industry for the good of the economy.
Once a Hero is the fourteenth novel he has written. In the future he plans to write more novels and to start a Twelve-Step program for those who wish to eliminate dangling modifiers from their prose.