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.<
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“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.”
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