Circle at center

7

Despite the planned early departure, the homebound Argentian delegates needed most of the afternoon to cross the long causeway from Circle at Center to the lakeshore. Tamarwind wasn’t surprised that the homesick elves of his pastoral realm were ultimately reluctant to take leave of the city’s splendors. Indeed, the scout surprised himself with his own regrets, wistful thoughts centered on the woman with the delicate frame and the strong face. He had known her for centuries, had given her the seed that had created offspring, and yet during the last tenday she had made him feel like a giddy youth. The emotions were strong and unusual, but he liked them.

After the long causeway ended at the shore of the lake, the Avenue of Metal became the Metal Highway. Here Wiytstar, the chief delegate, suggested that the party find rooms in the splendid lakeshore inn. Though a long time remained until the Hour of Darken, the other Argentians quickly agreed. Ulfang, similarly being in no particular hurry, was content to swim in the pond among the birds that had given the hostelry its name.

The Blue Swan Inn rose above its own harbor. The place was a sprawling building of rough-hewn wood, with many lofty towers and beautiful gardens of blossoms and sculpted trees. Though of course it was run by elves, it was popular with druids, many of whom maintained boats in the anchorage. Just before the Hour of Darken Tamarwind enjoyed the sight of a dozen of these craft, each propelled by magical wind gusts, racing toward the lighthouse at the mouth of the harbor.

The next day they had a leisurely breakfast and started out by midmorning. The road quickly entered a large, straight tunnel, and the lake-with its island of green trees, marble buildings, and the Worldweaver’s Loom-slowly vanished into a small circle of daylight behind them.

Not that the tunnel was dark, of course. Globes of white light, enchanted balls created by sage-enchantresses a thousand years ago, floated just below the peak of the tunnel’s arched roof. These balls were spaced about once every hundred paces, but a full dozen of them seemed to attach themselves to the elven party and float overhead as they walked along.

“This tunnel was carved by goblins, two millennia ago or longer,” Tam explained to Ulf, who had commented on the generally smooth walls and straight pathway.

“Goblins?” Wiytstar overheard. “Aren’t they terribly dangerous when you get a large group of them together?”

“Not really,” Tamarwind replied. “They’re clannish, of course, but they can be very hard workers. Give them enough to eat and drink, and goblins have done some of the best building in all of Nayve.”

“I see they have drains in many places,” Ulfgang noted, sniffing at a metal grate in the ground. “They could carry off a lot of water.”

Tamarwind smiled. “In fact, there are tales that some of those drains connect to huge tunnels underneath Nayve. Who knows-maybe the water would drain all the way to the Underworld!”

“Well, I know I’m grateful for the lights,” sniffed another of the delegates, shivering and looking sideways as she stepped past the drain set in the roadway’s gutter.

“How did one get to Circle at Center before the tunnel was built?” asked Ulf.

“Well, there’s always been the Highway of Wood,” Tam replied. “And before this route was opened that was really the only way to get from the city to the rest of Nayve.”

The travelers proceeded at a measured pace, meeting several groups of elves who invariably wished the Argentians an unchanging life and then walked on past. There was no way to tell how rapidly time was passing, but even Tam was beginning to feel tired when they noticed an unusually bright glow suffusing the tunnel before them. At the same time the air became tinged with a mingled flavor of spice, smoke, and grease.

A half hour later they reached Garlack’s Underground Inn. The proprietor was an obese goblin, and if he was surly he was also fair. He offered food, drink, and lodgings in exchange for a few simple tasks. Wiytstar Sharand was no master enchanter, but he easily wove simple spells to clean the bedrooms, wash dishes, and refill the water cistern. In return the goblin and his workers produced heaps of fried fish, strangely spiced but quite savory to the elven palates. The floating globes dimmed enough to let them sleep, then brightened as they started out again. Tamarwind, as always when he traveled here, felt the darkness of the tunnel pressing heavily around them, and he set as brisk a pace as the elders could manage.

Even so, it was late in the day when they spotted sunlight before them, and finally hastened out of the tunnel to stand beneath an open sky. The lofty crests around them were hidden behind rugged shoulders of lower ground. As the enchantress had predicted, patches of rubble tumbled by the earthquake blocked the road here and there, but the druids had already done a good job of moving much of the detritus back onto the slopes and crests of the hills where it belonged.

Tam and Ulf found that they naturally walked a little faster than the other seven delegates. With a laugh the scout abruptly realized that he preferred the dog’s company to that of his countrymen.

“I’m glad to have you strolling along the road with me,” he declared. “Doesn’t it seem as if we’re embarking on an adventure of sorts?”

“Anytime I can get out of the city it’s an adventure. And as to me strolling along the road… well, it’s age,” the dog admitted. “A century ago I would have bounded up each of these hills-just for the view!”

“I can’t say I’ve ever had that kind of ambition,” Tam acknowledged, eyeing the steep heights bordering the broad highway.

The range of rugged elevation surrounded Circle at Center. Barren of trees, with hunched brows of gray slate and here and there a glowering, wind-swept peak jutting far above the surrounding summits, they formed a barrier around the great lake and its precious island city. The route climbed and curved gently as it followed a valley that became the only easy pass through the rough terrain.

“These dry hills seem so barren-it’s not until we’ve passed the Snakesea that I really feel like we’re on the way home,” Wiytstar confessed when they stopped at a small inn for their next night’s rest.

“But there’s no hurry, is there?” Tam asked, still enjoying the sensation of freedom and adventure. “The hills are nice to look at-and as to the sea crossing, I’ve always felt the trip was its own reward.”

The elder delegate shook his head. “Personally, I like to stand on ground that’s not moving-I should think that tremor in Circle at Center would have been enough to convince anyone of that!”

Nevertheless, it was only a few days later that the party reached the shore of the Snakesea and had a chance to observe firsthand the magic that made a secure crossing possible. The elves gathered in respectful silence. There were a few others who would make the crossing with the Argentian delegates-a half dozen elves traveling in pairs, and a giant with a large, ox-drawn cart.

The druid ferrytender strode to the edge of the sea. The human was a tall man, broad-shouldered and long of hair and beard. His body was corded with sinew. He was naked, and carried only a stout staff of wood.

The shore here was a fringe of smooth rocks, scuffed by the steady drive of waves. These were not thundering boomers such as were hurled by the Worldsea against the shores of Nayve, but even so they crashed with some force, occasionally sending showers of spray cascading across the rocks and onto the grassy soil beyond. The elves were arrayed beyond the reach of these showers, but the druid stood atop a seashore rock and spread his arms wide, as if welcoming the salty splashes. He held the staff, gripped in both hands, horizontally before his chest, and then slowly raised his arms, bringing the shaft of wood to a position high above his head.

A surging wave exploded against the rocks and for a moment the human figure was lost in the cascading mist. In moments Tam could see that he still stood there, as firm as the stone upon which his feet were planted. And then the elf’s eyes were drawn to the surface of the water itself, as the bedrock of the Fourth Circle answered the pull of druid magic. No matter how many times he saw it, he was still entranced by the sight:

More waves pounded the shore, and a great shelf of seawater, rising above the level of the observers on shore, flowed to the right and left. Here and there a smooth rock jutted through the flowing seawater, and moments later the expanse was more solid than water. Blue-green brine spilled from a broad rocky raft, a surface that was mostly smooth, though marred by enough irregularities to prove its natural origin. The druid remained rigid for more minutes, and water continued to drain off the sides of the raft.

It was some time before the surface was dry, with the exception of a few standing puddles. Then the human slammed the butt of the staff to the ground, and the rock raft advanced, sliding smoothly through the short distance between itself and the shore. Finally it nestled against the rocks of the coast, and the druid gestured to the elves, signaling that they should advance. The Argentian delegates came forward hesitantly, but Ulfgang showed no reluctance. Indeed, the dog bounded onto one of the shore rocks, then sprang through the air to land on the raft. As the elves stepped cautiously aboard, the dog was already racing back and forth, sniffing at the puddles, splashing through, then shaking himself in the midst of a shimmering cascade of spray.

The druid made no acknowledgment of his passengers as he stalked regally from the shore across the surface of his raft. Tam knew this was not because of rudeness. Rather, the human needed to maintain his full concentration on the magic-a focus that he would maintain throughout the twenty hours required to cross the strait.

The other elves maintained a proper separation, each party finding a vantage somewhere around the edge of the great raft. The giant, however, didn’t seemed to understand the propriety of this, for as soon as he had tended and hobbled his ox, he strode around the flat surface of rock, his bearded head thrown back, his great bucket of a mouth wide open as if to gulp down the sea breeze. He spoke to one of the silent elf couples, but neither slender, yellow-haired figure made any response. Apparently undaunted, he ambled toward Tamarwind and Ulfgang, who were watching the sea just a few steps away from the huddle Argentian elves.

“ ’Tis a great day for travelin’, or my name’s not Rawknuckle Barefist!” the giant declared, his booming voice thundering in sensitive elven ears.

Still, after the refined and dignified company of the elves, Tamarwind was surprised to find that he welcomed the garrulous approach of this fellow traveler. He looked up at the giant, smiling as he saw that he-a tall elf-came only to the middle of the big fellow’s chest.

“Yes, it is, good sir,” the elf replied, as Wiytstar pointedly looked away. “Do you, too, follow the Metal Highway from Circle at Center?”

“Aye, but only for a few days from the far landing.” He tilted his chin in the direction of metal, toward the stately raft’s destination. “My lodge, ’tis in the Greens.”

“A good road through there,” Tam remarked, remembering the smooth highway flanked for unending miles by tall trees. In places, great leafy branches arched over the broad road.

The giant scowled, apparently at some private memory. “Y’know, ’tis not the same as it used to be,” he suggested, with the gravity that flavored any talk of change in Nayve.

“How so?” inquired Tamarwind. He thought back to his own recent trip, on the way to Circle at Center from Argentian. The only unusual feature had been an inn that was closed down, which forced them to walk an extra few miles one day.

“Well, this:” the giant replied. “On my outbound leg I found meself a nice clearing for my bed. Wouldn’t you know but that a lot of elves-fellows like you, only scruffier… like they lived outside-came out from the trees and told me to move on. Said the clearing was theirs-in the Greens, it was!”

“And so you left?” Tam asked, startled by news of the confrontation.

The big traveler shrugged. “There were twelve of them-and I wasn’t in a mood for a fight.”

“I’m glad,” answered the elf, with an appraising look at the brawny shoulders and tree-trunk legs.

“But it was a vexation, for all that. And who ever said anyone could own a part o’ the Greens?”

“I never imagined,” Ulf put in.

“Whoops, there-did ye speak, dog?” Rawknuckle scowled suspiciously.

“Well, yes,” replied Ulfgang.

The giant nodded. “Well, and yer right, too. Who ever imagined such a thing?”

The giant appeared to have worked out his irritation, and for the next few hours engaged in pleasant conversation with Tam and Ulfgang. He even offered the dog a swig from the firebrew that he finally dug out of his pack. Ulfgang declined-wisely, it turned out, as Tamarwind instantly regretted the friendly impulse that caused him to take a drink of the burning, stomach-churning draught.

Rawknuckle showed no discomfort, and finished the bottle himself. He spent the rest of the crossing snoring prodigiously, a rumble that at its peak drowned out the sounds of the wind and the water spilling away from the majestic raft. Most of the elves, accustomed to silk sheets and fine inns, spent an uncomfortable night on the wet rock of the raft-though Tam, for his part, found that he enjoyed this night spent under the stars. For hours he watched the shifting patterns of the dazzling lights, and finally, with his knapsack for a pillow, drifted off to a few hours’ sleep.

By the Lighten Hour the far shore was a fringe of green on the watery horizon. A few hours later the raft lodged itself against a bank that was dense with forest. Birds and monkeys chattered in the treetops, and a fringe of undergrowth choked the ground along the shore. A traveler’s inn called the Hooting Squirrel stood at the landing, and from here the Metal Highway scored a straight line into the woods.

Given the early hour, most of the Argentian elves felt like continuing on, and the party immediately resumed the trek along the road. Rawknuckle, too, announced that he would be off immediately, and Tam hoped to enjoy the giant’s company for a few days. However, the big fellow set a rigorous pace for himself and his oxcart, and soon disappeared down the tree-shaded road.

The elves maintained their more deliberate progression, and Tam found himself increasingly irritated with their lack of speed. It wasn’t that he was particularly anxious to get to Argentian. More to the point, it was the company of these stultifying traveling mates that was grating on his nerves. Once he understood that, he made it a point to swallow his impatience, and face the routine of the trip with at least the outward appearance of serenity.

Ulfgang was little help. Now that they had reached the Greens, he seemed to come alive. He dashed through the brush, occasionally returning to the road so that Tam could remove burrs and brambles from his fluffy coat.

“You know, the woods are really much more open once you get past the fringe along the road,” Ulf said. “You could come with me-we’ll explore!”

Tam only laughed at the preposterous notion. Though his feet were tough and his muscles hardened by the recent weeks of travel, he had no inclinations to make himself extra tired. And the journey through the Greens passed without further incident, except that the elves were somewhat flustered to discover three inns that had closed, instead of the one that had been shut down the previous cycle. Each of these was boarded up, and the party hurried past the vaguely forbidding facades.

The innkeepers they met at other establishments were as mystified by the closures as were the travelers. “They just closed up one day and vanished into the woods-no word on where they went,” was the routine comment, before the host invariably steered the conversation around to more mundane matters.

This lack of information didn’t surprise Tamarwind. He knew that all these wayside inns, as well as the occasional smithies, farms, and orchards they passed, were the holdings of Wayfarer elves, and they naturally tended to be somewhat clannish. These were people who claimed none of the elven realms as a homeland, but instead drew their heritage from the long lineage of a particular, and large, family. Each displayed its family tree, a detailed chart going back ten or twelve generations-all the way to the Dawning, in most cases-on the wall of their inn’s great-room.

At last, a tenday after the ferry landing, the road broke from the canopy of the trees, and the elves cheered up at the sight of the Lodespikes rising snow-capped and jagged on the horizon. A few days later the lower ridge known as the Silver Crest came into view, and they knew they had almost reached Argentian.

“Ah-you can smell the Sweetwater in the air,” Ulfgang said with a delighted sniff.

Tamarwind, too, noticed the fresh air that was the harbinger of Argentian’s great river.

“About time,” Wiytstar sniffed. “I was beginning to think this journey would never end!”

Tamarwind was no longer irritated by his companions’ complaining. Instead, he cheerfully led the way in booking them passage on the Balloon Fender. They boarded the riverboat, relieved that the arduous part of the journey was over.

This was a vessel of wood, though, like the druid raft, it was powered by magic. Several elves took turns at the helm, a pair always playing flute and harp. The music flowed into the single sail, and eased the craft down the cool, clear water. After the Darken Hour magical lanterns sparkled into light along the rail, and Tam found himself relaxing into a mood of serene contentment. Ulfgang curled up near the flautist, and barely moved for the three days of the voyage. Trees, somehow softer and brighter than the looming trunks of the Greens, flanked each bank, and the river swept through many curves, always providing a new vista.

The city of Silvercove, Argentian’s great capital, came upon them suddenly, towers of marble and silver rising among the trees to form a network of balconies and houses swaying above the top of the forest. Songs from a variety of gardens and plazas wafted over the water, somehow mingling with the music of the flute and harp into a mellow symphony. Massive arkwood trees rose far above the oaks and pines that carpeted most of the verdant city. Vines drooped from the numerous arching branches, some of the tendrils extending nearly to the water along one bank or the other. Flowers of many colors brightened the vines, and lined the boughs of many smaller trees.

The riverboat passed under an arched span of colored glass draped in ferns, one of the two bridges spanning the Sweetwater. Shortly thereafter, the Balloon Fender nudged into a small harbor, poking between several other blunt-prowed craft to nestle in a dock formed of gnarled roots. The twisting branches perfectly matched the gunwale of the ship, and like the missing piece of a puzzle the riverboat came to rest against the shore of Silvercove.

Beyond the dock stretched a broad, sunlit garden of hedges, fountains, and flower beds. Nearby, fish were arrayed on a linen cloth. Taken by the fishers, the catches were placed here for any hungry elf desiring to take one. All around there were cafes and inns, each with its own musicians, each playing its own song. Tamarwind was struck by a sense of familiarity, knowing he’d been hearing the same songs from the same places for hundreds of years.

At ground level the city was a maze of tree trunks and the bases of the high towers, so, after debarking from the riverboat, Tam’s companions disappeared from view in a matter of moments. Ulf was trotting back and forth along the docks, and the scout was in no particular hurry to start for his own solitary residence. Instead, he ambled along with the dog, taking in some of the sights.

A dozen boats were anchored here, and an equal number of slips were empty. Elves puttered here and there, some mending sails and scrubbing decks with mundane means, others patching hulls or weaving rope with the use of simple craft spells. Such magic, Tam knew, was the special province of elves, the reason his people could make the greatest creations, the most beautiful artworks, in all the Seven Circles. It was an ability in stark contrast to the crude natural power of druid magic, the kind of incantation that could raise a raft from the sea bottom, control the wind, or repair the damage wrought by a landslide.

“Back from the Big City, I see.” The friendly voice drew Tam’s attention to the door of a cozy inn, a single-room tavern that occupied the base of one of the city’s lofty towers.

“Deltan Columbine… good to see you, my friend. I trust your life is unchanging?” Tam couldn’t resist a laugh as he said the words, for if there was any elf likely to explore new avenues, to experiment, to create, it was this one.

“I have enough to keep me busy,” the poet and teacher replied. “Come have a cup with me, and share the story of your journey,” Deltan continued, inviting Tam into the inn. “I need some diversion.”

Tamarwind remembered with a flash of guilt the way several of the delegates had complained about this young teacher. Even if his methods were a trifle unorthodox, the scout could find no fault with him-Deltan was a genial and talented elf, and his students were undoubtedly the better for having studied under him.

“I didn’t realize you traveled with a dog,” Deltan said as Ulfgang followed Tamarwind toward the light, airy tavern.

“This is Ulfgang. Lady Belynda has asked him to help out with a local problem.”

“That name!” Deltan’s eyes sparkled. “You saw her, then?”

Tamarwind nodded, blushing, and thrilling to his own memories.

“Well, greetings to you, Ulfgang-and come in, both of you,” offered Deltan. “I must hear more.”

Ulfgang was willing enough to experience another inn. They settled at a small table outside with a good view of the water, the elves ordering mugs of wine and the dog a dish of fresh milk.

“So what’s this desire for distraction?” Tamarwind asked curiously. “Are you getting tired of the monotony of Silvercove life?”

“Actually, I’m at work on a new epic… and it’s not going very well.”

“Did you finish your last project, about the adventure to Loamar across the Worldsea?”

Deltan shook his head. “No… I started a fresh work. It’s an adventure about a crossing of the Worldsea-to Lignia, this time. But I got a hundred lines into it and feel as though I’m writing the same thing I wrote last year.”

“Maybe you need a bit of travel,” Tam suggested.

Deltan shrugged. “Perhaps… It’s been too long since I’ve spent time out of the city. I envy you, my friend-journeys to the Center, and back.”

“And we’re off again tomorrow, at least I am,” Ulfgang said, turning to Tam. “Though I’d rather hoped you would come along.”

“Certainly,” Tamarwind said. “The fields of the hill country are some of the prettiest lands I’ve ever seen.” Noting the curiosity on Deltan’s face, he explained. “We’re going to see about the shepherds-the dogs that are supposed to be watching the cattle and sheep. It seems that they’ve been negligent about doing their jobs lately.”

“It’s more than myself and some dogs that are getting restless, I must say,” Deltan observed. “If you’ll note, there are more boats starting up the river… all of them carrying young elves, and some of them never intending to return.” He used his chin to point out the window.

Tam saw that two riverboats were even now departing, and each was crowded with passengers-perhaps thrice the number that his own boat had carried on the return trip to Argentian. “Where are they going?”

The teacher shook his head. “I don’t know… toward the Greens, for the most part. But I can’t imagine that so many are joining the clans of the Wayfarers. In truth, it’s a trend that’s become pronounced over the last several years.”

“I haven’t noticed,” Tam admitted. “Though perhaps because I spend most of my time in the countryside.”

“None of Argentian has-at least, so far as anyone wants to admit,” Deltan countered. “You know how it is: We want things to stay the same as they’ve always been. Perhaps it’s just because I’ve worked with so many of these youngsters that it’s come to my attention. But they’re leaving even before they reach the breeding age.”

“They don’t say why?”

“I don’t think they even know themselves. It would make for a tale, I imagine.”

For some reason the news caused Tamarwind an unseemly agitation. He and Ulfgang departed the inn after their single drink, and he looked at the elves he saw meandering along the streets or tending their hedges and gardens. There seemed to be as many people here as ever, but he couldn’t dismiss the bright teacher’s suspicions so lightly.

Ulfgang seemed to take a great interest in the elven city, prancing along with ears perked and head held high. Several of the fox-faced wolfish dogs favored by the elves barked or sniffed at him, but Ulf remained aloof, the long white plume of his tail waving proudly in the air.

They reached the massive arkwood tree which included Tam’s house in its many apartments, and rather than using the central lift, climbed the long outer stairway toward his rooms. The wooden steps were comfortingly solid, and circled the tree trunk in an ascending spiral. As the ground fell away, they were dazzled by the hanging gardens of the middle terrace, and finally climbed out of the foliage to the balcony of the upper trunk. Here they were higher than most of the trees and buildings of Silvercove-only a few dozen arkwood trees and several ivory and glass towers jutted above the forest canopy. Long bridges of rope, beribboned with flowers and frequently supported by small balloons, connected some of the lofty realms into a giant spiderweb of walkways.

Tamarwind maintained his apartment just above treetop height, and soon they had reached the door. They found the rooms musty, since they had been closed up for several cycles, but otherwise clean and… lifeless. The scout was surprised by the realization. He had his artworks, numerous paintings and sculpture, his crystal and silver and soft furniture, with little gardens beside the windows and a small fountain in the water room. Yet somehow, after the splendor of Circle at Center and the changing scenery of the road, he found his walls stifling, his possessions gaudy and irrelevant. As he walked from room to room, or gazed listlessly at the magnificent vista from his balcony, his mind kept returning to Belynda. Odd how that recent visit had reawakened long dormant emotions. Their time of coupling together was long past, hundreds of years away now… yet he found himself wishing that she was here with him. Her presence would have brightened the view of towers and trees, added luster to the burnished gold decorating his walls.

Perhaps she would even have quickened the beating of his old, old heart.

E very day Natac learned more about Earth, and about Nayve. He was frequently surprised to realize that facts about his own world seemed far more amazing than details he absorbed about this place to which Miradel had brought him. The Seventh Circle was a wild and untamed place, and he remained horribly fascinated by the inexorable energy of great nations. He knew from Miradel’s displays of the tapestry that these powerful states were on courses of inevitable collision, and he spent fascinating hours watching the intrigues in the courts of England, France, and especially Spain. He followed the ships of the exploration, the surging outward that was carrying the influence of Europe into all corners of the globe.

He was also impressed and awed by the variety of combat techniques that had been developed on his world. Diligently he studied these every chance he got, observing wrestling and boxing, watching other men fight with whirling hands and lashing feet. The steel swords of the Europeans struck him as the deadliest of all weapons, though the booming arquebuses showed the potential for great lethality as well.

But despite the sessions in the darkened room, with the candle flaring and the Wool of Time transformed into magical pictures, Natac spent most of his time learning about the place that was his new home. There were times when, amid the activity and new experiences, he almost forgot about the life of blood and sacrifice that had been his previous existence.

Then he would lie in bed at night, well after the Hour of Darken, and he remembered the hearts, the captives. He relived the sensation, an awareness in sinew and nerve and perception, of driving his obsidian blade through soft flesh and brittle bone. And always, when at last he slept, his dreams were haunted by the image of Yellow Hummingbird.

All he could do was apply even more energy to the next day’s activities, and it was in this fashion that he drove through the tendays and amassed an increasing body of knowledge about this place called Nayve.

Much of his time was spent in exploration, starting with the view from Miradel’s hilltop villa. He learned that the city and island in the middle of the great lake was called Circle at Center, and that the metal spire rising from the island was at the Center of Everything. There were two great causeways connecting the city to the lakeshore-one in the direction of metal, the other running in the direction of wood. He saw many splendid structures in Circle at Center, but when he speculated that these must be temples and palaces, Miradel informed him that they were simply the houses and halls of the city’s elves, as well as museums and galleries displaying a host of wonders. The place seemed vibrant and compelling, but for the time being he resisted the urge to go there.

On the inland side of the villa rose a range of rugged highlands. This ring of hills encircled the great lake and its teeming island. Many trails coursed through the hills, and he hiked and trotted along numerous different paths, alternately skirting the lofty, snowcapped peaks that formed the spine of the range, or winding his way down to the innumerable little coves and fjords along the shore of the lake.

Though the heights were rocky, covered only with sparse brush and scrawny trees, many of the valleys were well-watered, home to lush groves and fertile meadows. He encountered animals that he knew, such as deer, turtles, and birds, and others that he had never imagined. There were herds of massive, shaggy beasts that grazed upon the grass, and tall, spotted creatures that stretched long necks far upward to munch on the leaves in the treetops. He saw monkeys in more varieties than he had ever imagined, and once caught a glimpse of a lumbering, sharp-toothed animal slashing fish out of a stream with blows from a huge, taloned paw. The latter beast was a bear, Miradel said, as she gave him the name to add to his list of buffaloes, giraffes, and other exotica.

He was especially fascinated by the small herds of horses that seemed ubiquitous in the nicest pastures. The animals were wild, and quick to spook, but he was reminded of the visions he’d seen in the Tapestry, the spectacle of these animals trained by humans, ridden with a speed like the wind. Miradel told him that several druids had learned how to tame horses, and he resolved to eventually seek them out, to learn the secret of that wonderful skill.

Several times the two of them walked down into the valley for an evening with Fionn, Owen, and the band of druidesses who dwelled with them. These young women, all of whom were stunning beauties, cured the two warriors of their many wounds, shared in their bouts of drinking, and-to Natac’s surprise and embarrassment-coupled delightedly with either of the big men.

As to the pair of burly warriors, Natac observed that Owen and Fionn seemed ready to fight for virtually any cause except over the women. It was at their third dinner together, while two druidesses worked healing magic on Owen’s badly burned back, that Natac finally broached the question to Fionn.

“Why should we fight over women… there are plenty for each of us!” declared the Celt, though he cleared his throat and looked awkwardly at the floor.

Owen shrieked in pain as Juliay gently lifted off a sheet of blistered skin. “You’ll pay for this, you lout!” he growled as Fionn chuckled merrily.

“You deserved to get knocked into the fire!” retorted the Irishman. “Takin’ that piece of cowsteak I had my own eye on-Imagine!”

The Viking clenched his teeth and drew in a hiss of breath as the druid finished the spell. “Thanks, lover,” he said, patting her on the cheek before returning to the dining table.

Natac pointed to the platter, which was still piled high with grilled meat. “That’s what I mean-there’s plenty of cowsteak for both of you, and yet you brawled over who would get the choicest morsel. But you never do that with women. I admit, that surprises me. In my world, it would seem that there is no more touchy subject between two men than who was to receive the favors of a mutually cherished female.”

He was surprised to see both warriors look at each other with expressions that were decidedly sheepish. While the pair studied the floor, he turned to Miradel for help. “What’s going on?”

She merely nodded to the men, who drew deep breaths and raised their heads.

“They won’t let us fight over them,” Owen admitted. “Every time we did, they went away… and wouldn’t come back.”

“Not for years,” Fionn said lugubriously.

“And we missed them,” Owen continued, placing an affectionate, if bearlike, arm around Juliay’s shoulders. “So we made to stop brawlin’ over them, and now they stay here all the time.”

Natac was also curious as to the attraction that the women found in these two rough men, but he decided this was not the time to broach that topic. The night proceeded toward the consumption of a fresh keg of wine, but, having learned that a few glasses made his head spin unpleasantly, Natac quietly substituted water in his own mug.

When the five women and the two men labored their way toward blissful sleep, Natac and Miradel climbed back to the villa. Over the steepest parts of the hill the warrior hoisted the frail body of his teacher into his arms, and as she slept against his chest he felt a sweeping sense of wonder, still awed by the sacrifice she had made to bring him here. Why had she chosen him? And what made her believe that he could prepare the elves of Nayve to fight a war? So far, he knew very little of elves. Aside from the quiet, unobtrusive presence of the servant Fallon, there had been just that single, brief visit from the ambassador called Belynda, who had regarded him so strangely. But with each breath Miradel took, he was careful not to jostle her awake, and he vowed that he would make her proud.

“I need to make a bow… I would like to hunt,” he told her the next day.

She nodded. “There are trees of ash and yew in the valley. Either will give you splendid wood.”

The warrior nodded. He had already harvested several suitable limbs. “But in all my walks, even high in the mountains, I have seen no sign of obsidian. Of course, I can take birds and monkeys with arrowheads of hardened wood, but I have a mind to seek out larger game. For that I need an edge of sharp stone.”

“Or steel,” Miradel suggested quietly.

“Yes.” Natac’s eyes narrowed. “I have seen your pans and knives in the kitchen. Can you make things of metal, of this steel?”

“No,” the old woman replied. “But there is a druid who is very skilled at the working of metal. He has studied through the Tapestry, and mastered the art as it is practiced by mankind. I will take you to him tomorrow.”

Darryn Forgemaster was the man’s name, and he had built a smithy on the fjord beyond Owen’s house. Miradel and Natac followed the same steep trail that led to the valley of the two warriors, but since they traveled in the morning there was no sign of activity at either man’s lodge. Thus, the teacher and student ambled past, and took the last sharp incline down toward the shore.

Natac saw that the waters of the lake, trapped here between two steep, forested ridges, were as pure a blue as any turquoise stone. There were several houses arrayed around a small clearing beside the water, and a wooden dock provided anchorage for a watercraft that was much larger even than a great canoe.

“That’s the work of Roland Boatwright,” Miradel explained, when Natac remarked about the vessel. “He’s another druid who has studied the ways of humankind. But, where Darryn has mastered metalworking, Roland has learned to make the watercraft that have been developed by the men of Earth.”

The druids may have been skilled craftsmen, but they were also apparently men of sublime leisure. At least, this was Natac’s first impression as he and Miradel made their way through a gate into the little compound of houses.

“That’s Roland,” she said, pointing to a lanky man who was apparently slumbering on a bench at the dock. He had a floppy hat pulled over his face, and held a fishing pole in his hands. A line, connected to a sodden cork, trailed in the water. “He’ll spend most of the day there, though I’m sure he’ll meet you later. And this, in here, is where we’ll find Darryn Forgemaster.”

She pointed toward a sturdy wooden building with an open, arched doorway. Her white hair was pulled tightly against her scalp, and he noticed the way wrinkles radiated outward from her eyes and mouth. Following her point, Natac immediately noted the acrid smell, like soot and ashes but somehow sweeter and more bitter at the same time.

“Darryn?” she called, leading Natac past a great iron box. The warrior saw the door on the front, and the pipe leading upward from the box, and deduced that this was a fireplace or oven. Beside it was a pile of something black like charcoal, but hard and shiny like smooth rock.

They heard a snort of surprise from across the room, and then a thin, wiry man twisted out of the hammock where he had been napping. He stood and tried to dust himself off, though he remained pretty thoroughly layered in black soot.

“Miradel?” His voice was hushed. “I got your message, but I never expected… I mean, it’s a pleasure to see you again, old friend.” Darryn shook his head. “Not old, I mean-except that we’ve known each other for so long-”

“Yes, old,” Miradel said, stepping forward to hug the smith. “You needn’t be afraid to say it, or to see it.”

“Yes… of course,” said Darryn. “And it is good to see you again,” he added with true sincerity. The smith blinked at Natac, who was a few steps behind Miradel. When Darryn squinted, the warrior realized that the other man could barely see him, and so he took a few steps forward.

The metalworking druid stared at the newcomer in frank, and somewhat hostile, appraisal. His rheumy eyes were bright, and didn’t seem to blink.

“This is Natac. I am teaching him the ways of Nayve, and of his own world.”

“Oh? He was of the folks didn’t have iron yet, wasn’t he? I believe you told me about him.”

Natac was struck by a sudden knowledge: These two had been lovers in the past. He was startled by the jealousy that flashed through his veins. Suddenly he was ready to fight this fellow, to prove that he, Natac, was the better man.

And then, almost as quickly as it had arisen, his anger faded. He found himself imagining Darryn’s anguish if, indeed, he loved Miradel. Now she was gone to him, sentenced to a fate that was utterly horrid in this land of eternal youth, immortal beauty.

Gone because of Natac.

“I am pleased to meet you, Darryn Forgemaster,” he said politely. “Miradel has told me of your surpassing skill in the working of metal. That seems to me to be a most wondrous, even magical, ability.”

Darryn snorted, but was obviously pleased by the praise. “Well, it has taken me centuries of study… long hours sifting the Wool of Time, examining the practices of humankind. But I believe that I have mastered the trade, yes.”

“Natac expressed a desire to go hunting,” Miradel said. “I was hoping you could help him with his arrows.”

“I can do that,” agreed the blacksmith.

“And a sword,” Miradel declared suddenly. “I would like for you to make him a sword.”

“Why?” Natac asked. “I don’t want a sword.”

“You should have one,” she insisted.

Darryn narrowed his eyes again and peered at Natac. Miradel reached out a thin hand to touch the smith on the arm. “Yes… he will need a sword. Can you do that?”

With a grudging nod, the smith assented. “I have a dozen arrowheads I can give you now, but it will take time-a tenday at least-for me to make the sword.”

“Thank you. I will pay, of course,” Natac replied.

“Pay me?” Now the smith seemed angry. “I do this work because I am the one who does this work. Do not insult me with talk of reward!”

“He is learning fast, but Natac does not know all the ways of Nayve, yet,” Miradel explained. “Where he comes from, the offer of payment is a way to honor the work of a skilled craftsman.”

Stiffly careful, the two men made their farewells. Miradel gave the smith a wistful hug, then followed the warrior into the bright daylight of the courtyard.

“Hey, friends,” called a voice from the docks. Natac saw that the boatwright-fisherman, Roland, was now kneeling over the water, and gesturing them over. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful whitefish?”

He held up a sparkling shape, a fish as long as his arm. The creature wriggled, sunlight gleaming off wet scales that were pale and silvery. “Aye, he’s a master of the bay, that’s what.”

Smiling broadly, the man turned and slipped the big fish back into the lake. With an angry slash of its tail the creature flashed away, vanishing into the indigo depths.

“Welcome back, Lady Miradel,” Roland said, standing so that he could bow and take the druid’s hand. “And welcome to your young friend, as well.”

Once again Natac was introduced to a human denizen of Nayve. Roland turned out to be a druid who, for the past thousand years, had studied all manner of human ships and boats. Natac learned that he had built many of the sailboats plying the waters of the great lake-and that he had taught a dozen or so elven boat builders who had constructed the rest of the watercraft.

“This is my personal favorite, the Osprey,” he said, indicating the sleek vessel now lashed to the dock.

Natac saw that the boat was long and slender, like a canoe. The prow and stern rose higher into the air, and a single tall mast-a device, with its corresponding sail, as yet unknown in his homeland-lofted from the center of the hull. The sail was furled along a top rail far overhead.

“I can rig two more sails,” the boat builder explained as he saw Natac studying the mast. “She’ll curl about through just about any kind of wind, she will.”

“I’d like to see that someday,” replied the warrior.

“When the interval of winds comes around, you will,” promised the boatman with an easy laugh.