Circle at center sc-1

by Douglas Niles

  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, t
he 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, flash
ing 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.