Douglas Niles - Circle at center

“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, the 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.