Douglas Niles - Circle at center

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.

“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.”

Darryn snorted, but was obviously pleased by the praise. “Well, it has taken me centuries of study… long hours sifting the Wool of Time, examining the practices of humankind. But I believe that I have mastered the trade, yes.”