Circle at center sc-1

by Douglas Niles

  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.

  Belynda felt she had to explain further. “There is another way that a human can come to Nayve… without the will of the Goddess. Fortunately, it is a costly procedure… very rarely used.” Already she regretted opening this avenue of conversation. Though she herself had learned of the major druid spells during her centuries at the College, it was clearly not the sort of thing that ordinary elves needed to know, or should be encouraged to talk about.

  “How?”

  She felt herself blushing. She knew the particulars of the magic involved, but it was not anything she cared to discuss. “A druid can use her own power to summon a different kind of human… one who has made himself into a supreme warrior over the course of many lifetimes. These can be men of violence and impulse… If the druids are ‘tame’ humans, you might say that warriors are the opposite.”

  “Sounds frightening-but rare, you said?”

  “Yes.” Belynda felt uneasy. “The spell involved is costly… in a sense, it means doom for the druid who casts it.” She hoped that Tamarwind wouldn’t ask any more questions about that particular kind of magic.

  Fortunately, at that moment the server approached with the dinners they had ordered-a roasted lake trout for Tamarwind, and a pepper stuffed with cheese for Belynda. She was relieved at the good timing, and amused by the smile of frank anticipation that curled her companion’s lips.

  Abruptly Belynda felt a lurch that roiled her stomach and rocked her on her bench. The server stumbled, fish and stuffed pepper cascading across the table. Glasses shattered-not just here, but across the terrace. The sage-ambassador seized the edge of the table, wanting to hold onto something, and was shocked as the heavy slab twitched and tilted in her grasp. Tam’s face had gone white, and she heard screams and sobs coming from across the plaza, cries of alarm from throughout the city. As she looked into the night, she saw pitching waves roil the surface of the lake. Still Belynda could not accept the truth, not until Tamarwind shouted the unthinkable words:

  “The world is moving!”

  T he tremor rocked the floor beneath his feet, but Natac merely flexed his knees and waited for the earthquake to pass. It was not a violent temblor, though he knew that it might presage more significant jolts-perhaps in the very near future. He looked around the terrace, saw water splashing out of the bowl of the fountain, the leafy treetops swaying back and forth through the night air. In a sense the movement was almost a relief-it distracted him from the solitary brooding that had occupied him since twilight.

  He heard a scream inside the villa. The sound was followed by a loud crash, and then the warrior was racing into the hall without further thought. The old woman screamed again, the sound coming from the kitchen, and he ran in to find her grasping the heavy wooden cooking bench, her eyes wide with horror.

  Natac lifted her up in his arms and she clung to him, sobbing. Mindful of the chance of a subsequent tremor, he carried her carefully through the hall and under the open sky of the garden. There he found Fallon, who stared at them wide-eyed, trembling. “What’s happening?” demanded the gardener.

  “It was a small earthquake. Don’t be frightened,” Natac replied, wondering again at this childish display of fear.

  He looked across the valley to see waves rippling and churning the lake, while from nearby ravines landslides tumbled down the steep slopes. He watched until the debris rattled and rumbled to rest at the bottom of the incline, much of it spilling into the lake.

  Only then did he notice that the old woman was still crying, clinging to his arms and shoulders with her head buried against his chest.

  “We’re safe here,” he said. “You only have to get out of the building-the real danger is having the roof fall on your head.”

  She drew a deep breath, and though her sobs softened, she still clutched him, obviously terrified.

  “See,” he said, trying to calm her-and mystified as to why she was acting like such a child. “It’s gone now-and anyway, that wasn’t even a bad one.” He remembered at least a dozen earthquakes notably more violent, several of which had brought houses and temples crashing down in ruins.

  “Nayve-the world moved!” said the woman with a moan.

  “It hasn’t happe
ned before?”

  She pulled her face back to stare into his eyes, still holding him by the shoulders. “Circle at Center is the foundation of everything. It cannot become unbalanced!”

  “The foundation of everything-even Mexico and Mictlan?” Natac was still mystified, but her terror at the quake had served to restore much of his confidence. Oddly, he felt as though he now stood upon firmer ground, while her own beliefs had been shown to be somewhat tentative.

  She looked at him sharply. “Of Mexico and all Earth, yes-in a way that you will come to understand. As to Mictlan, I told you-there is no such place!”

  “And the world of Nayve cannot be shaken!” he retorted, with a sense of triumph that suddenly flashed into guilt when he saw the fear in her dark eyes-eyes that were alive, and so beautiful-such a deep and perfect violet.

  The truth hit him like a blow, so much that he staggered back, gaping like a fool and then shaking his head, angry and disbelieving. But those eyes moistened, glistening with sadness, and he understood.

  “Miradel?” The word came out like a croak, and that sound lingered alone in the air, for the old woman just nodded mutely in reply.

  T hey sat in the garden while Nayve’s night drew a curtain around them. In some back quarter of his mind, Natac remained alert for a subsequent earthquake, though the land had remained stable since that abrupt shock. Aside from this cautious awareness, his thoughts were chaotic, a jumble of questions, connections, and utter disbelief.

  He looked at the old woman again-of course she was Miradel. How could it have taken him so long to recognize her? Her face had the same shape, a perfect oval with the three-petaled flower of cheeks and chin. Furthermore, those violet eyes were unique, he felt certain, in all the cosmos. True, the bronzed skin had darkened, and patterns of wrinkles webbed across her temples and her cheeks-and the musical voice had a harder edge to it, a sound that had been lacking in her soft, welcoming tones of the night before. Or had it been so recently, after all?

  “How long was I asleep?” he asked, breaking the long silence. “Years? That you became an old woman in that time?”

  “No-one night. Just one night.”

  “A night-” He leaned back, bracing himself with arms propped on the stone bench. Overhead was the night sky of Nayve-and the sight jarred him every time he’d looked up since sunset-that is, since the Hour of Darken.

  The sun had receded to a bright point at the zenith of the heavens. Brighter than any star he had ever seen, even than the comet that had wandered across the skies of Mexico just before his death, it was still just a star, surrounded by the blackness of the beyond. On Nayve, as on Earth, the vault of the night was speckled with stars. But here the stars shifted position before his eyes, slowly evolving through a dance as chillingly unnatural as it was beautiful.

  “How long is a night in Nayve? Will I be old with tomorrow’s dawn?”

  Miradel smiled wistfully and gently shook her head. “The Lighten Hour, we call it. And no, you will not. Our nights are much the same as nights in your own world. Just long enough for a thorough rest-though I sense, Warrior Natac, that you are not ready for sleep.”

  He stood up, feeling his confusion push as anguish into his limbs, his voice. “You said you brought me here with magic? What kind of magic-and which is the real Miradel? The maiden last night, or-you?”

  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.