Douglas Niles - Circle at center

But Caranor had died untimely, and by fire. Belynda could not imagine a more horrible circumstance. Why, then, was she not distraught by sorrow, tormented by grief and confusion?

Or perhaps she was. Certainly she was not herself, she realized, as she found herself walking aimlessly through a small market. How had she wandered off the Avenue of Metal, which would have taken her directly to her destination? Shaking her head, she consulted her small compass. The needle pointed unerringly in the direction of metal, and thus she knew she had not drifted far from her course. There was the great Gallery of Light, with its myriad crystals and prisms whirling gently under the brightness of the sun. And just beyond was the Museum of Black Rock, where the ubiquitous group of goblins slouched about on the long, shiny porch.

The road from the market curved around until it rejoined the main avenue, and she hurried along that wide street until she reached a hilltop from which she could see the Mercury Terrace and the dazzling waters of the lake beyond. A quick glance showed her that the sun had not yet begun to recede, so she paused for a moment to catch her breath.

It amazed her that after living in this city for centuries, she still found it possible to get lost. Yet when she looked across Circle at Center she understood how. Walking through this great metropolis, the sprawling city that surrounded the Center of Everything, was more like walking through a forest than a community of buildings. Most of the homes belonged to elves, and every elf surrounded his dwelling-be it mansion or cottage-with a surfeit of greenery and blossoms. Trees lined streets which, with the exception of the Avenues of Metal and Wood, tended to wind and curve. Furthermore, this was a hilly island, and clustered in many groves and vales were neighborhoods of faeries and gnomes that no self-respecting elf would ever visit.

The two causeways, of course, gave solid bearings. Too, the center of the island, a ring of hills higher than any others, was visible from any good vantage in the city. From here she could see the columned facade of the Senate, ringing nearly a third of the Center of Everything. And from beyond the great edifice jutted the long, silver spire of the Worldweaver’s Loom. She had been too distracted to notice the casting of the threads today, but she took comfort as always in the lofty tower and its symbolic protection.

Conscious now of time passing, she made her way to the terrace. The streets were crowded, as they always were just before the Hour of Darken, but the crowds gave way readily at the sight of her sage’s robe. She found Tamarwind waiting before the terrace, leaning on a railing above the lake with his back to her. Touching his arm as she joined him, Belynda suddenly felt comfort in the physical contact with another person. Her fingers lingered for a moment as he turned around and smiled broadly.

“No prettier sight in Nayve than twilight across the lake,” he proclaimed, putting his own hand over hers.

“Indeed.” Belynda tried to relish the beauty, saw the fringe of darkness cresting the mountainous horizon as the sun began to recede. Highest of all the summits was the Anvil, with its flat, gray-black top and the narrowed neck of cliff below the broad summit. Now the fading of daylight had rimmed that massif in purple and vermillion, a combination that should have been breathtaking.

Instead, she felt only that pervasive numbness.

“Shall we get a table?” the sage-ambassador asked, trying to sound bright.

“I’ve reserved one-though I think it was your name that got us the location,” Tamarwind said with a smile.

She kept her hand on his arm, and he seemed to welcome the contact as the black-robed host-a tall elf with an expression of utmost serenity-glided across the plaza to give them a small table at the very edge of the terrace. The lake, now a brilliant lavender, sparkled and lapped below them.

Several officious gnomes brought glasses of iced water and presented each of them with a loaf of warm bread and dish of sweet butter. Tamarwind gawked at the splendor of the surroundings, permitting himself a smile of pleasure as he inhaled the aroma of the fresh bread. He took great pride in ordering an Argentian wine from an elven steward, and informed Belynda that it was a vintage regarded as one of the finest in Nayve. “Though of course each vineyard in the Fourth Circle has different strengths and weaknesses,” he allowed.

“Hmm… I’m sorry.” Belynda was embarrassed. “What did you say?”

“It’s not important,” Tam replied seriously. “But something is, I can see. What is it that’s bothering you?”

She drew a breath, collecting her thoughts even as she tried to answer the question. “I learned that Caranor died… by fire.”

“Caranor the sage-enchantress?” Tamarwind’s eyes widened. “How could that happen?”

“No one knows… she was mistress of fire, of all the elements. And yet she and her house were burned to ashes.” Even as she described the news, Belynda couldn’t bring herself to believe that it was real.

Tamarwind thoughtfully chewed on a piece of bread. He turned to look at a nearby table as a ripple of laughter wafted through the soft air on the terrace. Belynda looked too. The eight diners there were dressed as elves, in robes of green and white, but there were distinctive differences: These people were slightly larger than elves, and had as many different hues of hair color as there were individuals at the table. A woman at the end had tresses of flowing red, while near her sat a stout maid with short brown hair. Two men and another woman had hair with various shades of lightness, but none approached the gilded blondness of elven locks. Another man and two women had hair that ranged from chocolate brown to the purest black but was tightly kinked, complemented by a rich dark skin color.

“Druids, aren’t they?” Tamarwind said, politely averting his eyes from the strangers even as he asked the question.

“Yes… they live in the Grove, that great network of trees beyond the Senate.”

“They’re beautiful, in a rough sort of way.”

“Most of them are,” Belynda agreed. “Somehow humans seem more solid than do we elves… and many of our people, especially the males, find them appealing.”

“A sight you won’t see elsewhere in Nayve,” Tam noted. “Eight humans together. It must be ten years since even a single druid visited Argentian.”

“They rarely leave Circle at Center, or at least these lands around the lakeshore. They have everything they need here.”

“Do you know any druids?”

Belynda nodded. “I have become friends with several-one, in particular, called Miradel. The Goddess brought her here perhaps two hundred years ago.”

“From the Seventh Circle?” Tamarwind seemed very interested, and Belynda was relieved to have something to talk about, to take her mind off Caranor.

“Yes… the place they call Earth, where all humans come from.”

“Are they all so beautiful, so tall and proud?”

Belynda shook her head ruefully. “Hardly. The druids are only the most splendid examples of the race… they are brought here by the Goddess only after they have lived many lives in their world, and through them demonstrate goodness and virtue. They are very tame and wise examples of humankind.”

“Why do you say ‘tame’?”

“Humans are a dangerous breed, for the most part,” explained the sage-ambassador. “In many ways violent-not to mention prone to disease, and to incredibly rapid aging. Of course, here in Nayve they are not faced with those curses.”

“It sounds like a good thing that the Goddess is selective… and that other humans stay on their own circle!” Tam declared with feeling.