Kellen felt his eyes go huge. The Elf hadn't made a single sound. He'd just been… there.
"Don't be too impressed; they're just very, very good at hiding," Idalia muttered, so low that Kellen was sure only he could hear.
"I see you, Canderil," she said politely.
"I see you, Idalia," Canderil answered, with equal politeness. He released the tension on his bowstring and slung the bow over his shoulder, retrieving his own stave from… somewhere. Even though Kellen, mindful of Idalia's words, was watching carefully, he couldn't see how it was done. One moment Canderil's hand was empty. The next, the stave was there.
Canderil gestured for them to accompany him. Llylance simply vanished before Kellen's eyes, and once more Kellen had no inkling as to how he did it, though he watched carefully.
And now, it seemed, they were free to proceed. Canderil walked beside Idalia's horse, having taken the lead-rope of the mule from her, and Shalkan and Kellen followed behind.
At least things didn't seem to be continuing on the same highly formal level as before. Idalia and Canderil spoke easily and companionably about people Kellen didn't know, very much as if they'd last seen each other a sennight ago instead of after an absence on Idalia's part of what must be several years.
Kellen knew very little about Elves. According to what he'd read in the Great Library when he was searching for information about the lands outside Armethalieh, they still visited the City on rare occasions—hard though that was to imagine—but of course no one outside the High Council would have seen them then. And he knew very little about them from his studies with Anigrel, and trusted what Anigrel had told him even less.
The Priests of the Light taught that the Elves were one of the Lesser Races, made by the Light in imitation of Man to serve as a lesson and a rebuke. From his own unsupervised studies in the Great Library, Kellen doubted that: the Elven race was immensely old and civilized, building great cities while humans were still gathering in tribes. Though people thought of Elves as living forever, in fact they were only very, very long-lived: the average Elven lifespan was on the order of a thousand years, and only at the very end of their lives did they show any signs of age at all. Canderil here might well have watched the first stones of the City being laid centuries ago, and wasn't that a sobering thought?
Kellen did welcome the chance to be able to get a good look at one of the Elvenkind without being caught staring, since Canderil seemed to be entirely caught up in his conversation with Idalia, paying no particular heed to either Kellen or Shalkan, as though he saw people riding unicorns every day.
Of course, being an Elf, maybe he did.
And despite his firm intention to disbelieve everything he'd read about Elves in the City histories, the more he watched Canderil, the more Kellen understood why the City-folk, and even the Light-Priests, wrote of Elvenkind as they did.
Like his companion Llylance, whom he resembled as closely as a twin, Canderil was tall and slender. His silky black hair was elaborately braided, and despite that, still fell to his hips. His eyes were as black as midnight, his skin as pale as pearl, and it was clear that Elves never needed to shave (this was a matter for envy, as Kellen did need to shave, and both sharp razors and shaving mirrors were difficult to come by in the Wildwood). With his high cheekbones and faintly slanted eyes, Canderil possessed an oddly androgynous yet definitely male glamour, as exotic as it was unsettling.
He was beautiful; there was no other appropriate word for it. And worse, thought Kellen, watching him with an increasing mixture of fascination and discomfort, he was perfect. Canderil never put a foot wrong, never made a clumsy gesture or an awkward one. Even just walking beside Coalwind, he looked as if he were dancing.
Even his clothes were perfect. At first Kellen had been a little disappointed by the simple grey-and-brown costumes he and Llylance wore. They seemed too similar to what he and Idalia had worn in the Wildwood, albeit made of finer materials, and of cloth, not skins. But the longer he looked, the more Kellen realized that his first assessment had been too hasty.
The dun-colored cloth was the finest weaving he'd ever seen, a wool as soft as Shalkan's coat. It shimmered softly in the light, and against it the grey embroidery glowed, now silver, now dark, in an ever-shifting pattern that Kellen felt he could be content to gaze at for the rest of his life. And no matter how Canderil moved in it, nothing wrinkled, nothing pulled. He wore his garb like an extension of his own skin.
Kellen had been the son of the most powerful man in Armethalieh. He had despised the luxuries that went with that high office, but he was familiar with them. He knew exactly how much time and skill it took to make clothing one-tenth as fine as this—and if these were such clothes as Canderil wore for hunting in the woods, what did formal Elven clothing look like?
The Priests of the Light taught that Elves corrupted humankind and caused them to despair, and so honest folk should shun their company, should they be offered it. And Kellen supposed that in a way that was true. If just watching Canderil walk through a forest made him feel grubby and inadequate, what would seeing a whole city of Elves dressed in their finest clothes do? But one of the oldest Histories he'd read had said it better, he thought: "The Elves have elevated mere living into a form of Art."
"When you live for a thousand years, you have a lot of time to get things right," Shalkan said quietly.
"Uh… yeah," Kellen said. But he was comforted by Shalkan's assurance—and the fact that the unicorn, as perfect in his way as any Elf, had been perceptive enough to give that assurance.
"But I have been rude," Canderil said, turning sideways to regard Kellen and Shalkan. "In my eagerness to hear Idalia's news, I have neglected Sentarshadeen's other guests. I hope you will not think me discourteous. Perhaps there are things you would know, and I would hear your news as well."
It would take Kellen a long time to realize that adult Elves simply didn't ask direct questions—if an Elf wanted to know something, the polite method was to phrase it as a statement, which the hearer could—just as politely—choose to disregard. Kellen simply assumed he was being asked a question, and after glancing at Idalia to see if it was all right, launched into a slightly tangled and much edited tale of how he and Idalia had come to be traveling into Elven lands. If more than a touch of bitterness crept into his voice when he spoke about what had been done to him by Lycaelon, well, he hoped that Canderil would understand.
As he spoke, the sere landscape was replaced by healthier woodland, and the empty air filled with the proper sounds of wildlife and wind-in-the-branches. They reached the edge of the trees, and Kellen got his first sight of Sentarshadeen.
The Elven city was built into the sides of a wooded granite canyon. At first Kellen didn't see the houses he knew must be there, but slowly his eyes adjusted, and they appeared, as magically as the Elven woods-guards had.
I guess the houses are just very, very good at hiding, too, Kellen told himself.
The dwellings of the Elven city of Sentarshadeen blended into their surroundings as if they'd grown there: low beautiful cottages of silvery wood, each one unique, each one set into its own garden—but too few to make up a city, and when Kellen studied the canyon wall across the valley floor, he suddenly realized that it, too, was filled with dwellings cut into the living rock itself. Every inch of the canyon wall was subtly carved, to form windows and doors and pathways that so beautifully harmonized with their surroundings that they were not immediately apparent to the eye. There must have been hundreds of them.
In fact, if Kellen had not just spent a season in a true wildwood, he would have mistaken the sight before him for untouched Nature, but it wasn't. It was Nature perfected, touched so lightly and gracefully that what had been done wasn't immediately obvious—but, like Canderil himself, everything Kellen saw was quietly perfect.
A wisp of mist trailed along the side of the canyon; faintly he heard the welcome sound of water.
It's like walking into a dream, Kellen thought
in awe. All his previous misgivings were forgotten. He might not be able to live up to the Elves' standards, but he could certainly appreciate them.
Canderil led them down the trail to the valley floor, as Kellen gazed about himself in wonder. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the faint sound of wind chimes, and it seemed the perfect enhancement to this place. The rich autumn light slanted down through the trees, sculpting shadows off the canyon walls in ways that Kellen somehow knew had been planned, as though the Elven designers had taken note of how the sun would strike every inch of the rock every hour of the day in every season of the year, and shaped it accordingly. Though he looked hard to find a flaw—something hasty, unfinished, out of place—he never did in all the time he spent in Sentarshadeen. Even the stones in the dry riverbed they crossed over seemed to each have been deliberately placed to make their surroundings more beautiful.
It almost seemed—though it was an odd word to use to describe a place where people obviously went about their daily lives, for Kellen saw a number of Elves as they passed, if only at a distance—holy. Holiness was a concept that Kellen only understood vaguely, and that in connection with the Priests of the Eternal Light. In Kellen's limited experience, holiness seemed to involve long incomprehensible prayers, discomfort, and a great deal of incense. If that was holiness, then it could have nothing to do with Sentarshadeen. But the word still seemed right to him. The Elven city was a far holier place than the cold and forbidding Great Temple of the Light.
They followed a path—though to call it a path was unfair, as it was as wide as a street back in Armethalieh—that led up the cliff and stopped in front of one of the doors. Canderil set his stave into a bracket that seemed to be made for it, and went up the step to open the door. Idalia dismounted.
"We're here," she said.
Kellen slid off Shalkan's back. The unicorn shook himself and took a few steps, sniffing the air.
"I'll be back later. If you need me, just ask anyone. They'll know where I am." He trotted off quickly, leaving Kellen staring after him.
"There's a unicorn herd here," Idalia said, noting Kellen's puzzled and slightly dismayed expression. "He's gone to join them. Don't worry about him; he probably hasn't seen another unicorn aside from that family I healed a while back for moonturns, maybe years, and he'll have a lot of socializing to do. Come on, help me get our things inside. We're home, for now."
Canderil helped them unload Prettyfoot and Coalwind, assisting them to get all of their belongings inside, then retrieved his stave and led the two animals away, leaving Kellen and Idalia standing among their bundles in the main room of the guesthouse.
"Home, sweet home," Idalia said in an unreadable tone as she looked around the room.
"Idalia," Kellen said hesitantly, "is this place yours? Have you been here before?"
Idalia took a deep breath, rousing herself from whatever she'd been thinking, and smiled. "No. Not here. And until a few minutes ago, this was a guesthouse. But it's our home now. From the moment we took occupancy it ceased to be a guesthouse and will be regarded as ours. That's why Canderil left so fast—Elves have very strict customs about who gets to go into private homes and who doesn't. Now that it's our home, no Elf will ever come in here uninvited—except children, of course: Elven children are so rare that they pretty much do as they please and are exempt from all custom and law. And there are all sorts of customs about who can invite who into whose house, and all that, of course, but being human, we won't be expected to know them, much less be bound by them."
"Good thing," Kellen muttered darkly. He'd had his fill of rules of that sort back in Armethalieh!
"Why don't you take a look around?" Idalia suggested. "There are two bedrooms; you can pick one, and then we can get our gear sorted out."
Kellen decided to take her advice. He hadn't gotten much chance to inspect the place before, since they'd been getting their things inside as quickly as possible, but now the need to hurry seemed to be over.
The Elven dwelling wasn't large, but like everything else Kellen had seen here so far, it was perfect. The main room—where all of their gear was now—was large enough to be comfortable, but not big enough to seem grand. Its gently curved walls were painted a rich, warm, vibrant cream. Some of the furniture was built-in—long padded benches of carved and polished wood that ran along the walls, following the curve, a tall armoire that opened to reveal bookshelves and a desk—and other pieces stood arranged against the walls awaiting their need: a pair of comfortable-looking chairs, a stool. In one corner, a tall tile stove was set into the wall, ready to provide both warmth and a place to cook. Opening the doors and drawers of its intricate cabinet, Kellen discovered a teapot and cups; bowls and flatware. All but the eating utensils were of the luminous translucent Elvenware that commanded such astronomical prices in Armethalieh. Kellen held a piece up to the light. It glowed, taking fire from the sun, and its color took his breath away. Reluctantly, he set it back in its place and investigated further, turning up some large, flat, black disks, elaborately embossed with an intricate geometric pattern. He had to lift one and examine it closely before he figured out what it was. Charcoal. Even the fuel here was beautiful.
Kellen brushed his hands clean and turned away from the stove to pick up one of the pillows from the sitting benches. Each was covered in a different hand-loomed fabric and pattern, each somehow perfectly right for the room. The longer he looked, the more there was to see. He set the cushion down gently.
"It's a little stunning when you see it all for the first time," Idalia said quietly.
"Yeah," Kellen said weakly. This wasn't getting him any closer to picking out a bedroom, either.
There were three doors leading off the main room. He chose one at random and opened it.
He'd found the bathroom.
The fixtures were similar to what he might have found back in Armethalieh, save for the fact that they were made of colored ceramic instead of wood, metal, or stone, and seemed to be built into the walls and floor. Kellen inspected the washbasin curiously. There was no ewer, and no place to set one, either. Where did the washing-water come from? And why was there a stopper in the bottom of the bowl?
He pulled out the plug, revealing a hole. No answers there. Set into the wall above the basin were two small wheels. Curious, Kellen turned one.
Water began to spill into the basin through holes in the rim. Kellen yelped and jumped back, startled, then dipped his fingers in the riling water. Fresh enough to drink… and the other wheel produced water as hot as if it had just come from a kettle.
Kellen turned them both off, and regarded the washing bowl in awe. Not even Armethalieh's magic could provide a washbowl that rilled with hot or cold water on command and emptied itself besides—and the best thing was, he suspected it was all done without an ounce of magic!
Upon inspection, the small hip-bath proved to fill and empty the same way. He could take a bath—a hot bath—anytime he wanted to, without having to haul water or trouble any servants.
Or use magic to heat the water.
And best of all, the necessary also sluiced itself clean with water after each use. No more midnight treks to the outhouse. No more close-stools or thundermugs, a feature of even the most exalted houses in Armethalieh. Everything here was clean and civilized.
Kellen frowned, trying to figure out what the fundamental difference was. In Armethalieh, it was easy to be comfortable if you had magic and wealth, but your comfort was purchased at the cost of others' discomfort. But in Sentarshadeen, from what he'd seen so far, everyone could live like the High Mages, and nobody had to suffer for it.
He hoped it was true.
He went back into the main room. He didn't know how long he'd spent in the water closet, but Idalia was gazing at him with an amused expression on her face. Kellen blushed. Of course, this was all familiar to her from her previous time among the Elves, but it was still all new to him.
"I'll take that one," Kellen said hastily, poin
ting at a door at random. He gathered up as much of his gear as he could manage and shuffled awkwardly toward it, just managing to get the tips of his fingers onto the door latch and toe the door open.
The ceiling here was lower, the room done in shades of browns and greens. There was a large window on one wall, with a deep window seat before it. Facing it, built into the wall, its contours designed to harmonize with the shape of the window, was a tall clothes-chest. Between the chest and the window was a bed, with another bench for sitting at its foot. Tucked beside the door was a small desk and stool. There were lanterns in niches around the walls. If he had studied the ways to design a room for years, he could never have come up with an arrangement so harmonious, and so—ah, that word again!—perfectly suited to inducing relaxation.
Kellen dropped his burden on the bed. He'd meant to go right back out for another load, but the view outside his window drew him toward it. He walked over and opened the glass-paned shutters. From here he could see out into the canyon, almost as if he were hanging in space. Though the opposite wall of the canyon must be as filled with dwelling-places as this one was, somehow they did not draw the eye; his mind insisted that he was looking out on unspoiled paradise.
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