Douglas Niles - Circle at center

She straightened, lifted her chin with pride as she glared at him again. “Both are really me-or the other was me, in precise truth. It is the cost of the spell… I aged from the casting.” Her eyes flashed something-anger, or pride, he couldn’t tell. “In the end, I will die.”

Natac knelt before her, staring into her eyes. “We all die!”

Now Miradel smiled again, the sad smile that had changed not at all from the young woman to the old. “Not in Nayve… in the Fourth Circle humans-those lucky few who are called here-live forever. You will have centuries of youthful vigor before you-freedom from disease, or any infirmity.”

“You-you would have had such a life, if not for the casting of this spell?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” He stood and walked away from her, then whirled back. He was filled with awe, and a terrible sense of guilt. “Why did you do it?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Because Nayve needs you-and because your world, your part of Earth, has so little time left.”

“What’s going to happen to my world?” he asked. He was surprised to find that, despite his resentment and suspicion, he believed her.

“Your warriors will meet warriors from a different land-invaders who, in a few short years, will destroy the nations, the places you have known.”

“My sons-their children, their wives-killed?” Natac asked.

“I cannot say yet… the threads have not yet been woven into the Worldweaver’s Tapestry. Still, the pattern is set-the result is inescapable, as it applies to nations. When you ask about individuals, we cannot say until the pictures are before us.”

“Who will invade Tlaxcala? Even the Aztecs have failed, every time they tried.”

“These new enemies will destroy the Aztecs even more thoroughly than they will your own realm-again, it is inevitable.”

“Are they gods?”

“No-they are humans from another part of Earth. People of white skin and hairy faces-larger than your own people, and bearers of deadly tools.”

“Humans-of Earth. But where do they come from?”

“Perhaps it will help you to meet some of them-here, in Nayve.”

“Other warriors-like me?”

Miradel nodded. “There are two of them near here, both brought years, in fact centuries, ago. They, like you, were summoned by druid magic, a spell cast by one who sacrificed her youth to weave the spell. I will take you to meet them some time after the Lighten Hour-they have developed the habit of sleeping very late.”

Natac found that he didn’t have that trait, at least not yet. He slept alone on the fur-lined bed, and awakened refreshed to feast on a breakfast of eggs, rice, and the beverage called “milk.” The druid promised to describe to him the source of that nectar, but the explanation had been put off by other matters. Fallon was there, too. After the meal he took the dishes, cast a few droplets of water across them, and made the same puffing gesture with which he had watered the garden. This time water sprayed vigorously across the dirty plates, and moments later they were clean.

Miradel taught him more about Nayve during the morning, showing him the beautiful lake with its verdant island. She told him that the valley in the middle of the island, and specifically the silver spire rising high into the sky and visible even from the villa, was the exact center of all existence. This was a concept that remained unclear to him, but he nodded and let her keep speaking.

Late in the morning he had a chance to view a spectacle she called “the casting of the threads.” Miradel directed Natac’s attention to the distant silver tower. He watched in awe as a sparkling ring of brightness rose into view, apparently starting from the base of the tower-though that foundation was concealed from his view. The light rose higher and faster until it reached the summit of the spire. From there it crackled into the air in bolts of white brilliance, flashing like lightning upward into the sky until the bursts dissipated in the distance.

He had many questions, but the druid informed him that he would have to wait for those explanations. For now, Miradel prepared a midday meal that they enjoyed in the garden, dining on succulent meat and beans spiced with familiar peppers and other exotic flavors unlike any Natac had ever tasted. Only then did they start out from the villa, walking along a mountain trail that gradually curved around a tall summit and then descended toward a forested valley that sheltered a string of sparkling lakes.

“Our timing is chosen on purpose,” she explained. “This way you’ll be able to meet Fionn and Owen after they’re awake-but, if we’re lucky, they won’t be drunk, yet.”

“Drunk?” Natac knew the word, at least in the context of his native tongue, but he couldn’t understand why it would be relevant here. Then he had a thought: “Is this some ritual day of celebration? A festival that they begin with the noon, perhaps?”

Miradel smiled sadly and shook her head. “For the most part, Owen and Fionn get drunk every day-they keep six or eight druids busy, just making wine for them.”

“These warriors have druids serve them-are they slaves, like Fallon is for you?”

“No… they do so out of choice.” She looked at him frankly. “And you should know that Fallon is no slave-he, too, does the work that he chooses to do. You will find no slaves in Nayve. Some druids, it seems, enjoy the… company of warriors. And these men have persuaded them to do their work.”

By then they had come around the shoulder of the mountain. The pathway overlooked a green meadow, and in the center of the clearing was the strangest house Natac had ever seen. It was made of wooden timbers-he could see that much by the ends of logs jutting from the corners. But the walls had been overlaid with large animal pelts to make a large, apparently weatherproof enclosure. Smoke billowed from a wide stone chimney, and the yard nearby had been divided into sections by pole fences. Several bizarre animals grazed or lolled within these separate sections.

Natac was about to ask about those creatures, when he was startled by a booming voice emerging from the woods at the clearing’s edge.

“Fionn! You sheep-buggering Irishman! Come out and defend yourself!”

“That’s Owen-and it seems that we’re too late.” Miradel sighed. “Or else they’re still drunk from the night before.”

“That’s a human?” asked Natac. The man who swaggered into view was huge, easily head and shoulders taller than the Tlaxcalan. His face was obscured by a thick, shaggy pelt of yellow hair, which darkened to brown as it extended across his torso and well down onto his legs. Some kind of armored shell covered the top of his head, an inverted bowl that was the same dark color as the iron Natac had seen in the villa. Owen bore a staff that was taller than himself, and as stout around as a man’s wrist.

“I said come out, Fionn-you cow-loving son of a mare!”

“Owen?” The one called an Irishman emerged from the house. He was as big as the other warrior, and similarly shaggy-though his hair was like the red of tarnished copper. He wore a cap of leather, and carried a thick cudgel. “You faerie Viking! Why are you back-did you run out of little boys down at the fjord?”

Fionn was trailed by a pair of females who wore diaphanous gowns and clung to the big man’s arms as if to hold him back. Natac saw that Owen, too, had brought women with him, a trio of maidens who now ran out to follow him across the field.

“Those are druids?” asked the Tlaxcalan.

“Yes-as I said, some of my Order enjoy warriors.” Miradel looked at him through narrowed eyes. “No doubt you, too, will eventually have your pick.”

He looked away, unwilling even to consider her words.