Circle at center

6
The Tapestry

Tamarwind and Ulfgang came to her rooms as Belynda prepared to attend a meeting in the Senate forum.

“Just to say goodbye,” Tam explained. Once more he was dressed in his green traveling clothes and boots of soft leather. Ulfgang pranced around, white coat groomed to a cottony fluff. The dog was clearly anxious to go, but the elven scout seemed inclined to linger. “And I wanted to tell you that it was nice to see you again.”

“Yes…” Again Belynda felt that unusual flush spreading up her neck. “I… me, too. May the Goddess watch over your journey.” She felt jumpy, unusually worried-which she took to be a lingering reaction to the quake of several days earlier. “Do you know if the road to Argentian suffered any damage?”

“A few rockslides in the hills-that’s what the enchantress saw. Even if they’re not cleared out, we’ll have no trouble getting over them. The elves of the delegation are gathered and waiting for us on the Avenue of Metal. They’re anxious to get back home-I think the city has overawed them a bit. In any event, we should get across the causeway by midday.

Ulfang, who had been quivering, tail wagging while he tried to stand still, suddenly uttered a short bark, then hung his head in embarrassment. “Excuse me,” he said. “It’s just that I haven’t traveled in a long time… I guess the excitement of departure got to me.”

“Well, you have a good trip too,” Belynda said, touching the dog’s tufted white topknot. “And hurry back.”

Tamarwind took her arms in his hands, startling Belynda with the embrace as he stared into her eyes. “I would like to see you again… I hope that I can.”

“Yes!” she replied, holding absolutely still until he turned and, with an easy wave, ambled away. Ulfgang, tail still wagging, trotted ahead, then waited impatiently for the elf. In both of them she perceived-and envied-the eagerness to be starting on the journey that would carry them halfway across Nayve.

Belynda felt a sadly contrasting emotion as she joined several other ambassadors in the slow, dignified procession to the white-columned building that rose in stately majesty beside the College. Here the Senate convened in Grand Forum once every interval of forty days. The sessions were held in the great chamber, and were attended by elven sage-ambassadors as well as at least one spokesperson from the druids Grove. Normally Belynda found the sessions tedious and time-wasting. She had long ago determined that the more people involved in a process, the slower and more frustrating that process became, and there would be very many people indeed in the Grand Forum.

The senators themselves numbered nearly threescore, as every race of Nayve was represented by anywhere from two to twenty senators in that august body. Of course, it was the elves who had the twenty-the next most numerous group were the eight gnomish ambassadors. Some groups, such as the dryads and goblins, were limited to only a pair of senators. In theory, however, the Senate gave voice to every one of the cultures inhabiting Nayve.

As to the sage-ambassadors, there were more than a hundred in attendance. Each represented an elven community in the Fourth Circle-or at least a part of such an entity. Indeed, twelve of the ambassadors represented neighborhoods in Circle at Center, while the others, such as Belynda, were there in the interests of more rural realms like Argentian. The eldest of the local representatives was Rallaphan, a silver-haired patriarch who had held his seat for nine centuries. Belynda dipped her head as he marched past, honoring her with a cool nod. The sage-ambassador, like everyone else, stepped back to allow the regal senator to go by.

On her way toward the great doors she saw Zolaryn, the sage-ambassador of Barantha.

“My lady Sage-Ambassador? Do you have time for a word?” asked her fellow representative. Zolaryn was only a few centuries past the millennium mark, and bowed politely in deference to her elder.

“Of course,” Belynda agreed.

Zolaryn’s smooth brow creased in concern. “I have recently learned of many elves moving away from Barantha, particularly young males who have not yet bred. And there are similar reports from Kol’sos, too. I was curious to see if the same tendency has been reported in Argentian?”

“That is curious… I have heard of the same occurrence in my own land.” Belynda couldn’t help but be a trifle alarmed at this news. Clan and community were important attributes of elven life, and movement-except for purposes such as studying here in Circle at Center-was quite unusual. “They’re not Wayfarers, are they?” she asked, thinking of the small clans that dwelled here and there in Nayve. The Wayfarers maintained small villages, but were not inclined to belong to any of the major realms.

“If only it was as simple as that. But no, these are elves from good, long-standing families. And even their own clans can’t report on why, or where, they’re going.”

“Perhaps it will be addressed in forum,” Belynda suggested. In fact, she would welcome the chance to discuss something meaningful in the upcoming session.

Fortunately for a body that was sluggish almost to the point of utter inaction, the Senate of Nayve had very little work to do. While the elven ambassadors of the College saw to most matters of education, and the druids of the Grove made splendid caretakers for the natural world, the Senators could ponder questions of philosophy and ceremony. Belynda knew that, long ago, the great council had spent the better part of a century debating whether or not to honor the architect who had designed the grand structure housing the Senate offices. In the end, the commendation had passed-though the builder had been deceased for more than a thousand years!

Today, however, as she found her chair in the middle tier of the circular amphitheater, she sensed that there might be some purpose, even some urgency, to the meeting. All the seats were taken, and the two co-speakers on their stools at the center of the ring looked, if not concerned, at least like they were paying attention.

Praxian sat to the left. Short of hair and pinched of features, Speaker Praxian was tall and lanky, perching on the stool like some eccentric construct of sticks covered by a robe of purple and gold. Opposite the lean speaker sat Cannystrius, whose rounded face was capped with a lush head of curling yellow hair. Speaker Cannystrius was as rotund and short as Praxian was tall. Both had held their chairs for centuries, since long before Belynda had arrived in Circle at Center.

Now the two speakers exchanged glances and then stood, simultaneously. Cannystrius uttered a high, nervous cough, and the arriving senators and ambassadors quickly fell silent. It was Praxian who began, speaking in stentorian tones that resonated through the marble-walled chamber.

“We are honored by the presence of the sage-enchantress Quilene, who has brought herself here from the Lodespikes. Sadly, her news is not cause for rejoicing.” Praxian indicated an elf, who rose from the front row to join the two speakers on the rostrum.

Belynda knew Quilene, though not as well as she had known Caranor. She was an elven matron with stiffly gilded hair and a stern voice. More significantly, she was a renowned mistress of sorcery, and widely acknowledged as the leader of Nayve’s enchantresses. Now she looked across the tiers of the Senate with a grave expression.

“Many of you have learned that one of the enchantress sisterhood, Caranor, has died… died by fire.” Belynda saw grim nods around the chamber-nearly everyone had already heard the news. Quilene went on to describe the destruction of Caranor’s house and belongings, as well as the isolated nature of her abode, and the fact that no one knew who her last visitor had been. She drew a deep breath, allowing the audience to do the same.

“It is my distressing duty to inform you that a second sage-enchantress has also met this awful fate. Allevia of the Lodespikes was slain just in the past tenday, also dying by fire in the midst of her burned abode.”

Now the Senate rang with gasps of horror, shouts of consternation. “Who did this?” “Why would she be killed?” The cries came from a few elves, while the rest of the senators fumbled for words.

“These are questions we have not been able to solve. There is a thing that we do know, however… and I feel it is information that should be shared with the Senate, with all Nayve. Nearly one hundred years ago, another sage-enchantress, an elf named Paronnial, was found slain under similar circumstances.” The statement drew more gasps from several of the senators, including a snort of displeasure from the senior giant.

“This is true?” Praxian declared, standing on spindly legs and glaring down at Quilene.

“Of course it’s true!” snapped Cannystrius, rising to confront the co-speaker, then turning to the sage-enchantress. “But, dear, why didn’t you speak of this then?”

“At the time it was felt that the news would only be upsetting to all of Nayve,” Quilene responded coolly. “We couldn’t discount the chance that some accident had occurred, and in any event Paronnial was young, known to few outside our ranks.”

“Whereas some of us knew Caranor very well,” declared Belynda, rising and drawing many startled eyes with her interjection. “And we grieve for the loss of our friend.”

“May the Goddess Worldweaver hear you,” Quilene said solemnly.

“But we must find out how this is happening!” Praxian blurted. “And take steps to see that it never happens again!”

“As well as the sharing of information, it is to that end that I have come to the Center of Everything,” continued the sage-enchantress. “If the death of Caranor was the intent of another, it is an action of brute violence, a threat to all Nayve. As such, it smacks of humankind.” She turned to the lone human in the chamber, a druid who sat upon a stool near the rear of the rostrum. “Cillia, we would ask that you consult the Tapestry of the Goddess, to see what information can be divined.”

“Is that wise?” Praxian countered, while Cannystrius simply snorted in exasperation. “Wouldn’t it be better not to disturb-?”

“Quilene is right,” Cillia declared.

The druid rose and strode to the center of the rostrum, where she stood above even the tall Praxian. Belynda knew that Cillia was among the oldest of the druids-she had come to Nayve nearly two thousand years ago. Yet such was the druidic blessing that she remained fit and youthful, her body unstooped and her skin unlined. She had long dark hair that swayed in a cascade down her back and a strong, rounded body, big-bosomed with broad, sturdy hips. She was a commanding presence physically, but was accorded even greater honor because of her long, responsible service to the Goddess.

“Indeed, we shall study the Tapestry and learn what threads are involved. If there is a connection to the Seventh Circle, the pattern will be shown.”

“There is more bad news!” cried a high-pitched voice from across the gallery. Belynda saw that the gnomish spokesman, a stout fellow all but concealed by his thick gray beard, had risen to speak. “A giant came to Thickwhistle!”

“Bah!” It was the giant leader, a black-bearded ruffian named Galewn. He stood and shook a fist at the gnome, who jammed his thumbs in his ears and wiggled his fingers back. “The border between Thickwhistle and Granitehome varies with each interval, so far as these gnomes are concerned. More likely it was the town of gnomes come to Granitehome!”

“It was not!” shrieked the gnome. Several of his fellows held him back as he tried to make an impulsive dash toward the giant, who was two tiers below and halfway around the chamber.

“Before we tend to this weighty matter, there is another piece of news I am forced to share,” declared Cillia. Belynda wondered if she had used magic to propel her voice-it fairly boomed through the chamber. In any event, the giant and gnome were quickly seated and silent.

“There is a druid who lives beyond the lake, one of the wisest of our number. Her name is Miradel, and she has mastered much magic, and been trusted to read at the Worldweaver’s side. I must report, however, that she has gone against the will of the council, and performed the forbidden spell.”

Now there were real gasps in the chamber. Rallaphan stood, his face locked in an expression of fury. “Scandal-blasphemy!” he shouted.

“Miradel!” whispered Belynda at the same time, horrified for her friend.

“Why would she do that?” asked Praxian, in a voice like a squeaking donkey.

“She claims that it was her last chance… that this human is a warrior of a doomed culture, a realm that faces imminent destruction.”

“These… these are things that require dutiful discussion!” declared Praxian, with a shake of that gray-cropped head. “I hereby table the matter until we have had time to meditate, to think…”

“And to think some more!” Cannystrius added. “Not tomorrow, certainly!”

“No,” agreed the co-speaker. “Nor the day after.”

“And I don’t think we can…” Cannystrius was suggesting reasons for further delay, but by that time Belynda had already run out through the giant marble doors.

“Y ou will start by learning about Earth,” Miradel announced after Fallon had whisked away the dishes from Natac’s next breakfast.

The warrior merely nodded, his mind still darkened by the lessons of the past few days. He felt an unnatural chill, as if the shadows of the men he had killed were drawing across the sun. The mindless brawling of Owen and Fionn was a fresh memory, as well as Miradel’s statement that those two were human warriors, like him. Fluttering around the fringes was the image of Yellow Hummingbird, the knowledge of a daughter’s life offered-and horribly claimed-in the name of a god who didn’t exist.

And when the burden of this guilt seemed like a crushing weight, he would see Miradel, and be reminded again of the sacrifice she had made in bringing him here. Why did she think him worthy of that gift, the loss of her eternal life? Whatever he did, he knew there was no way he could live up to her expectations-hers would be just another meaningless sacrifice, a life wasted for fruitless purpose.

But so far she had brusquely ignored his brooding, chiding him that self-pity was only a waste of time. Now she led him into a small room, and closed the door behind them both. They were immediately plunged into utter darkness, and Natac knew that extra care must have gone into chocking up every crack and cranny around this chamber. Though it was midday and cloudless, it seemed that absolutely no light could reach them from outside.

He blinked in the light of a flaring match, saw Miradel touch the flame to the wick of a fat candle. Illumination surged into the room, brighter than any candle Natac had ever seen. Miradel held a small glass crystal in one of her hands, and in the fingers of the other she pinched a small tuft of some kind of soft material.

“This is the Wool of Time,” she said, following his glance. “Trace threads drawn from the Tapestry of the Worldweaver, and used for the casting of the spell of seeing.”

“That spell is what you are doing now?”

“Yes. You should look at the wall, there.”

Natac saw that one wall of the room was smooth and whitewashed to a bright finish. It was not marred by any shelves or other features. Abruptly the light flared and then waned, and he saw from the corner of his eye that the druid had dropped the threads into the flame of the candle. Now she held up the crystal, between the candle and the wall, and again Natac’s attention turned to that unmarred surface.

He saw a brown swath there, with an appearance of bumps and other irregularities across its surface. In places there were patches of white or large stretches of green, and snaking lines of blue crossed here and there.

“You are looking at the land you called Mexico,” Miradel said. “Imagine that you are a bird flying very high… Now, picture these places: The bumps here are the hills of Tlaxcala, and this direction is west. The white splotch is the snowy cap of the great volcano, and these are the lakes in the valley of Mexico.”

Awestruck, Natac tried to follow her words, and quickly grasped the truth of what she was saying. He pointed to a shadowy notch on the border of his homeland. “There is the pass where we met the Aztecs in ambush, chased them back toward their city.”

“And where you were captured.”

“You know about that?” he asked, amazed.

“The Tapestry shows all to one who knows how to look,” Miradel replied. “I have been following your thread for a long time, so, yes, I took note of your capture, and your place in the ceremony honoring the Aztec gods.”

“I… yes, I see.” He found it disturbing that this woman, and perhaps many others, could have watched all aspects of his life. Yet he shook off that discomfort amid a growing sense of curiosity. “You can see all of Earth through this crystal?”

“Of past and present… we can only guess as to the future. Watch.” Abruptly the image on the wall began to shrink, as if the watcher were rising upward with dizzying speed. “You see the northern and southern oceans, now?”

“Yes.” Natac had heard of these great bodies of water, though he had never set eyes on either of them. Now they were blue splotches on the wall, growing larger as the vast realm of land was shrinking to a small piece of land between great seas. Indeed, he was soon stunned to see that two great continents existed, one north and the other south of his homeland. The place that he had once thought encompassed the whole world was no more than a link in a chain of lands connecting these two land masses.

“One of those lands is the place you called Europe?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Watch.”

And then even those continents were reduced, and so much of the image before him was blue water. To the right was a great stretch of ocean, and then more continents, irregular masses of green, brown, and white.

“This is Europe, here,” Miradel explained, pointing. “This is the land that will send the warriors who will destroy Tlaxcalans, the Aztecs… In time, it seems likely that all the peoples of these two continents will fall under the sway of the men from Europe.”

“Have they conquered all the rest of the world?”

“No… I will show you.”

For an hour Natac gawked at astonishing sights. He saw men like Owen and Fionn, and others who were clad in metal and rode great beasts into battle. He saw huge nations of black-skinned men, and teeming lands farther to the east in a place Miradel called the Orient. Particularly impressive was a massive wall, a battlement running across mountains, valleys, and plains, a structure that Miradel informed him could have wrapped all the realm of the Aztecs within its serpentine length. There were palaces in the Orient too, and sparkling arrows that trailed flame into the sky and then exploded in bursts of bright color. Great boats plied the rivers and coastal waters, and the sheer number of people he saw was overwhelming. Some of these were warriors, and they formed armies that darkened the ground with their numbers.

“They are so many-surely they will conquer all of Earth!” Natac exclaimed.

“There are many reasons why they will not. Here, see.” The druid narrowed the picture until he saw two great boats, each draped with white swaths of cloth. Smoke spewed from the flanks of the vessels, inflicting horrible damage upon each craft. He saw men scrambling about the decks, realized that these ‘boats’ were in fact the size of small palaces, with multiple floors. Quickly he understood that they were propelled by the wind, that the great sheets of cloth were in fact arrayed like vertical wings to catch the force of the blowing gusts.

“These are sea-ships of the Europeans. And see this:”

Miradel showed him a place she called Flanders. A hundred men were mounted on a rank of the pawing, prancing animals Natac had learned were called horses. The great beasts looked terribly fierce, with flaring nostrils and wide, flashing eyes. The men wore shirts of metal, and bore long spears, weapons that were dropped to point forward as the company, in unison, charged. Standing against the riders were hundreds of metal-wearing footmen, and these turned to run as the horses bore down. Natac was appalled by the slaughter as the lancers rode through the broken ranks of the fleeing enemy.

And then there was a line of pathetically feeble-looking men, standing in a row and bearing long, narrow sticks that lacked even the pointed tip of a spear. Nevertheless, these men pointed their weapons at the riders-and then the weapons, in unison, spat a long billow of dark smoke. The attack reached farther than the smoke, dropping a half dozen riders from their saddles, and then the cavalry broke away.

“How… how can an army stand up to warriors like that?” Natac asked. “To those riders, and to sticks that spew fire and death?”

“No army on Earth is capable,” Miradel said. “Though you should know that the different tribes of Europeans expend most of their energy battling each other. Still, they have good ships now, and thriving populations… Already, just twenty years ago, one of their boldest sailors returned from a crossing of the ocean to report the existence of hitherto unknown lands-including the place of your own homeland. The final tie in doom’s knot is this: Europeans have a passion for gold above all things, and nowhere else in the world is gold concentrated as it is in the city of the Aztecs.”

Next Miradel showed him other facets of life on Earth. He saw small churches and great cathedrals, a multitude of temples, minarets that were narrow spires jutting as high as a great pyramid, and shrines decorated with the rounded image of a plump, boyish god. There were other pyramids too, massive structures of stone that the druid stated were tombs for dead leaders, beings now exalted to godhood. And everywhere Natac saw people of different shapes and sizes, with skin colors ranging from pale to charcoal-black. He found himself looking at Miradel, at the high cheekbones and deep lines of her face outlined in the glow of the magical candlelight.

“Are you a human, too… from Earth?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“From which part?”

She moved the picture back across the great ocean, but instead of the mountainous country of Mexico and Tlaxcala, she turned the picture south, toward a region of dense forests and flat, endless ground.

“The lands of the Maya,” Natac grasped. “I have heard of that place, those people… your people?”

She nodded, her violet eyes alight with remembrance-of pain or pleasure, Natac could not discern.

“How did you come here?”

Miradel drew a breath, those slender shoulders rising. “I, too, was given to false gods… Still a virgin, I was thrown into a well and drowned, in an effort to keep the water from draining away.” She laughed sharply, bitterly. “I failed.”

“But I know of the magic you used to bring me here. How did…?”

Now she smiled. “I came as all druids came, brought before the Worldweaver in the Center of Everything. I was birthed before her whole and adult, and granted a life on Nayve in return for… things that had happened, that I had done, on Earth.”

“What could you have done in such a short life?” he asked, not accusingly, but very curious.

“It was not just one life. Humans live a multitude of times, and each time they are given the chance to be proved worthy of the Goddess’s gift. Those she rewards she brings to Nayve as druids.”

And some druids bring warriors here, he remembered, completing the cycle in his own thoughts. Yet that still left the gnawing question: Why had she made such a sacrifice, thrown away eternal life, to bring him here?

The candle abruptly sputtered and began to fade. Miradel put the crystal down and once again Natac was looking at a plain white wall, a surface marred by shifting shadow as the wick fizzled away. When the druid pushed the door open, he was startled by the strength of the light, and was forced to squint as he followed her through the kitchen and out onto the terrace. All the while he was thinking, analyzing what he had seen.

“The men riding the horses… it’s not just the speed of movement that give them a great advantage, but the combined weight of the animal and man in the charge. It must be terrifying to stand in the path of such an attack-and if you did stand, you’d probably die.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about the weapons that spew smoke. They must hurl solid objects as well, do they not?”

“You are very perceptive,” Miradel said, with a smile of self-satisfaction. “Yes. The large ones are called cannons, and the small ones are arquebuses. Each hurls a projectile, the cannon shooting a large stone or ball of metal that can crush wood and sink ships. The arquebus shoots a small stone, or a pellet made of metal-and that missile is enough to pierce flesh, break bones, and puncture hearts.”

“Can cannons be moved without a ship?”

“It is difficult,” Miradel allowed, “though-and this is the way of humans-the weapons are getting smaller and more powerful as time goes on. Sometimes a cannon will be loaded with a whole bucketful of small pebbles and bits of metal. When it is fired into a mass of people it can wreak horrible destruction.”

“And our warriors, Tlaxcalan, Aztec, all of us, fight in tight ranks.” Natac felt a growing sense of shock. “Truly, Tlaxcala is doomed-You are right, even the Aztecs are doomed.” He looked at her in despair, self-pity tearing at him. He choked out the words, biting back the strength of his own anguish. “It will be the end of my people-and I am condemned to watch it!”

The druid merely shrugged. “It may not be the end of the people in your world-but without a doubt the gods of the Aztecs will be thrown down, and perhaps that is not such a bad thing. The priests who will come with the Europeans have their own foibles, and they, too, will wage war justified by the commands of their god. But they will not rip the hearts out of their captives just to ensure that the sun comes up.”

“But those priests, too, worship false gods?”

“All gods are false… they are creations of people, stories and beliefs invented because of some human need to claim understanding.”

“You yourself talk about a Goddess-the Worldweaver!” Natac challenged. “You said that it was her tapestry we saw! And now you claim that all gods are false!”

Miradel shook her head, undaunted by his accusation. “I meant all gods of Earth. The Worldweaver dwells at the Center of Everything, and she alone is real.”

Natac would have argued longer but they were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming through the villa. “Miradel?” The word was called out in a woman’s voice.

“Belynda?” The druid turned away from Natac.

The newcomer, Natac saw, was a woman with hair so blond it was almost white. Her eyes widened at the sight of Miradel, but the rest of her expression remained bland. If she was shocked by the aged appearance of the druid, she did a good job of covering it up.

“I… I was going to send you word, after a little more time passed,” Miradel said softly.

“Cillia announced the news in the Senate forum,” Belynda said bluntly. “I came as soon as I heard.”

Natac was conscious of the other woman’s eyes on him, cool and appraising. He flushed with shame, sensing that this was a friend of Miradel’s-surely she must be blaming him for the doom that had fallen upon the druid. Yet he could discern little emotion in those wide, almond-shaped eyes. Despite his embarrassment, he stared back, realizing that there were other things that were unusual about this woman.

Her ears were pointed in the lobe, he saw, like Fallon’s. That cascading array of white-gold hair was bound by a circlet of silver wire, and her face seemed unusually narrow-though she was unquestionably beautiful to behold. Yet, despite the fact that he had now seen humans with faces of fur, and with skin of darkest black or pale white, there was something different about this person.

He wondered if it was her lack of emotion, and decided that was it. Miradel’s breath had caught in her throat at the sight of Belynda, and Natac saw the trembling of her shoulders, knew the druid was fighting to suppress an expression of her feeling. Belynda was making no such effort-in the frank examination of Miradel’s lined face, or her cool appraisal of the warrior whose summoning had thus aged her, she looked as though she might have been examining something of utterly no import.

“Warrior Natac,” Miradel said, stepping back to look at him. He saw the emotion in her eyes, was startled to recognize it as pride. She was proud of him! Again he felt that staggering weight of guilt, unworthiness-why?

“This is my friend Belynda of Argentian… She is a sage-ambassador of the elves.”

“I greet you, Belynda of Argentian,” Natac said with a bow, even as his mind digested the news. So she wasn’t human after all-she was an elf! And Fallon was too, of course. The word had some intrinsic meaning to him, merely because of his familiarity with his new language, but he resolved to ask Miradel many more questions when he had a chance.

“And you, Warrior Natac,” Belynda replied, still in that cool, distant tone. “I can only hope my friend has chosen wisely.”

“I hope the same thing, lady,” he replied sincerely.

“Natac has encountered Fionn and Owen,” Miradel said. “In fact, he got them to stop brawling long enough to have a conversation.”

“A brief conversation,” Natac amended.

“I think this warrior may be different from the others,” the druid said, again with that sense of pride that made him squirm.

“I see.” Belynda looked into Miradel’s eyes. “Why did you do it, my friend? When you knew the costs, and the risks… and you know the spell has been forbidden by your own council?” It was as if Natac weren’t there as she sought for an answer. Yet he listened intently, at least as anxious for the answer as was the elfwoman who asked the question.

“I will tell you,” the druid said. “Tell you both… but before I do, there is something that I would like to discuss with you.”

“What is it?”

“We all felt the world shake a few days ago. I am convinced that was just a symptom of much greater disturbances. And so I ask you, my friend: What have you heard of unusual trouble in the Fourth Circle?”

It seemed to Natac as if Belynda’s pale skin got a touch whiter. “The sage-enchantress Caranor… she died by fire in her home. And then an interval later the sage-enchantress Allevia was killed the same way!”

Miradel gasped. “Allevia dwelled in the Lodespikes, did she not?”

“On the fringe of the mountains, yes… in a high valley overlooking the Greens.”

“The Greens,” the druid repeated seriously. “It is there I feel the danger lies.”

“There are a lot of people there,” Belynda countered, though she didn’t speak with a great deal of conviction. “Surely we would have heard something in Circle at Center about trouble? Or you druids… Can’t you look there with your viewing glass?”

“That’s part of the problem,” Miradel said. “For a long time, now, the Greens have been masked to our magic. Druids have gone there, talked to centaurs and giants and faeries… and though they haven’t learned anything suspicious, it is not uncommon for them to encounter unusual secrecy. And that was before Debyra’s visit, just last year.”

“What did she learn?” Belynda asked.

“Nobody knows… she was never heard from again.”

“That is bad enough-but can you be certain?”

“Not yet… not about everything. But Cillia has been watching, and she has told me what she’s learned.” Miradel looked at Belynda curiously. “Did you know that there are now many elves living in the Greens?”

“No!” The sage-ambassador blinked, for her a dramatic expression of surprise. “I always knew of a few renegades, restless souls who never seemed to fit in. But there are no realms there!”

The druid shrugged. “There are more than a few, and perhaps it is right to call them renegades. They seem to be content to live in the wilderness, away from the sanctity of borders and councils.”

“Perhaps that’s where they’re going,” Belynda mused softly.

“Who?” probed Miradel.

“It’s just… for some years now, an unusual number of elves have been leaving Argentian. And no one seems to know where they go. Just this morning I learned that the same thing is happening in Barantha and Kel’sos.”

“All realms within a hundred miles of the Greens,” the druid observed.

“And such migration is unquestionably a change… an unusual one, in the annals of Nayve. But even so… what harm is done? Where is the trouble?”

“I believe that there is something dangerous there,” Miradel informed her friend, and took in Natac’s eyes with a brief glance.

“Dangerous elves?”

“Elves… and others. Centaurs and giants, I’m certain. But there is something holding them together, driving them… and it is a force that resists even detection by druid magic.”

“But stay-I admit that you are making me think,” declared the elfwoman, her hand trembling slightly as she raised it before Miradel’s aged face. “Now explain something: You were going to tell me why you brought this warrior here.”

The druid took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I did it for your people,” she said to Belynda.

“For the elves? Why in the name of the Goddess would you do that?”

“Because,” Miradel said, and now her dark eyes turned to Natac, “you are needed to train the elves in the ways of battle… to teach them how to fight a war.”

F lames rose high around him and he saw Satan writhing against a desperate onslaught. The demon twisted and shrieked, helplessly suffering the torture of his righteous punishment. Slowly, inexorably, the valiant knight pressed forward with sword and staff… victory was there! And then that triumph slipped away from him in a gust of wind and a waft of smoke. The fiend had made his escape, and the knight was left alone, facing the enemy horde…

The dream had its own form, and it followed the pattern each time it tormented his sleep. Constructed from the events of Sir Christopher’s past, centuries distant, it wove a tale of temptation and failure, and it left alive the hope of redemption and triumph.

It always began with the same disaster: The Saracens attacked from ambush, striking from both ridges above a parched, arid valley. They caught twelve Knights Templar by surprise, slaughtering many of Sir Christopher’s companions with their short, lethal arrows. Only three of the twelve reached the great portals, the gates to sacred Jerusalem herself.

But the Saracens cut them off before they could enter the safety of the great fortress-city. Finally Sir Christopher stood alone, hacking to right and left, slaughtering his enemies for the glory of God. He prayed aloud, calling the names of his slain comrades, praising the bravery of his loyal, perished horse. Thirst was a claw at his swollen tongue, talons of fire ripping at his parched throat. His shield, emblazoned with the red cross of the Templars, was torn and broken under the onslaught of a hundred weapons.

His red blade was knocked from his hands. A Syrian lance pierced his flesh, slicing into his heart and lungs. In that instant he knew he was dying, and he commended his soul and his being to Heavenly Paradise. His life flowed away, spattered in crimson blood across the rocks of the Holy Land. In the last glimmer of awareness, he reached upward, sought and anticipated the welcoming embrace of God.

Instead, he found himself in the arms of Hell’s Harlot, a beautiful temptress who touched him shamelessly, bringing arousal from his traitorous flesh. At first he fought against her obscene advances, twisting and kicking fruitlessly in an attempt to escape her tender fingers, her soft lips. But his blows passed through her without effect, while her own gentle touch produced a pronounced reaction in the knight. His soul weakened, his flesh yielded, and the witch used him for her obscene pleasure.

And he, in that foggy weakness, he enjoyed the same carnal gratification. He ravished her as if she were the whore of Babylon, and he relished each salacious convulsion of his loins. Only when at last he lay exhausted, and she fell sound asleep, did he realize that he had been tested by God.

It was a test he had failed.

In his surging grief he strangled the harlot, but he knew that his vengeance was too late to cleanse his soul of sin. He staggered from her lair and found himself in a world of blasphemy… a world in which he had struggled and labored for more than three centuries.

And once again he awakened, and God’s work lay before him.

But now he had a tool, a talisman that would make that work so much more effective. As he did every morning, he reached to his breast, found the stone there, still suspended on its golden chain. He looked at the pearl, at its crimson cross, and understood again that he had been chosen for an important task. The red sigil on the stone was not a perfect cross, since all four of the lines were the same length. Even so, his discovery of the talisman in the possession of the heretical witch Caranor had convinced him anew that his work was here.

And so he emerged from his tent, ignored the stirring of his small army, and raised the stone toward the already bright sun.

“Come to me, Children of God,” he whispered, his fingers clenched around the pearl. “Come to me, and join my new crusade.”