On her way toward the great doors she saw Zolaryn, the sage-ambassador of Barantha.
“My lady Sage-Ambassador? Do you have time for a word?” asked her fellow representative. Zolaryn was only a few centuries past the millennium mark, and bowed politely in deference to her elder.
“Of course,” Belynda agreed.
Zolaryn’s smooth brow creased in concern. “I have recently learned of many elves moving away from Barantha, particularly young males who have not yet bred. And there are similar reports from Kol’sos, too. I was curious to see if the same tendency has been reported in Argentian?”
“That is curious… I have heard of the same occurrence in my own land.” Belynda couldn’t help but be a trifle alarmed at this news. Clan and community were important attributes of elven life, and movement-except for purposes such as studying here in Circle at Center-was quite unusual. “They’re not Wayfarers, are they?” she asked, thinking of the small clans that dwelled here and there in Nayve. The Wayfarers maintained small villages, but were not inclined to belong to any of the major realms.
“If only it was as simple as that. But no, these are elves from good, long-standing families. And even their own clans can’t report on why, or where, they’re going.”
“Perhaps it will be addressed in forum,” Belynda suggested. In fact, she would welcome the chance to discuss something meaningful in the upcoming session.
Fortunately for a body that was sluggish almost to the point of utter inaction, the Senate of Nayve had very little work to do. While the elven ambassadors of the College saw to most matters of education, and the druids of the Grove made splendid caretakers for the natural world, the Senators could ponder questions of philosophy and ceremony. Belynda knew that, long ago, the great council had spent the better part of a century debating whether or not to honor the architect who had designed the grand structure housing the Senate offices. In the end, the commendation had passed-though the builder had been deceased for more than a thousand years!
Today, however, as she found her chair in the middle tier of the circular amphitheater, she sensed that there might be some purpose, even some urgency, to the meeting. All the seats were taken, and the two co-speakers on their stools at the center of the ring looked, if not concerned, at least like they were paying attention.
Praxian sat to the left. Short of hair and pinched of features, Speaker Praxian was tall and lanky, perching on the stool like some eccentric construct of sticks covered by a robe of purple and gold. Opposite the lean speaker sat Cannystrius, whose rounded face was capped with a lush head of curling yellow hair. Speaker Cannystrius was as rotund and short as Praxian was tall. Both had held their chairs for centuries, since long before Belynda had arrived in Circle at Center.
Now the two speakers exchanged glances and then stood, simultaneously. Cannystrius uttered a high, nervous cough, and the arriving senators and ambassadors quickly fell silent. It was Praxian who began, speaking in stentorian tones that resonated through the marble-walled chamber.
“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!”