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  "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.

  About the Author

  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.