By the Lighten Hour the far shore was a fringe of green on the watery horizon. A few hours later the raft lodged itself against a bank that was dense with forest. Birds and monkeys chattered in the treetops, and a fringe of undergrowth choked the ground along the shore. A traveler’s inn called the Hooting Squirrel stood at the landing, and from here the Metal Highway scored a straight line into the woods.
Given the early hour, most of the Argentian elves felt like continuing on, and the party immediately resumed the trek along the road. Rawknuckle, too, announced that he would be off immediately, and Tam hoped to enjoy the giant’s company for a few days. However, the big fellow set a rigorous pace for himself and his oxcart, and soon disappeared down the tree-shaded road.
The elves maintained their more deliberate progression, and Tam found himself increasingly irritated with their lack of speed. It wasn’t that he was particularly anxious to get to Argentian. More to the point, it was the company of these stultifying traveling mates that was grating on his nerves. Once he understood that, he made it a point to swallow his impatience, and face the routine of the trip with at least the outward appearance of serenity.
Ulfgang was little help. Now that they had reached the Greens, he seemed to come alive. He dashed through the brush, occasionally returning to the road so that Tam could remove burrs and brambles from his fluffy coat.
“You know, the woods are really much more open once you get past the fringe along the road,” Ulf said. “You could come with me-we’ll explore!”
Tam only laughed at the preposterous notion. Though his feet were tough and his muscles hardened by the recent weeks of travel, he had no inclinations to make himself extra tired. And the journey through the Greens passed without further incident, except that the elves were somewhat flustered to discover three inns that had closed, instead of the one that had been shut down the previous cycle. Each of these was boarded up, and the party hurried past the vaguely forbidding facades.
The innkeepers they met at other establishments were as mystified by the closures as were the travelers. “They just closed up one day and vanished into the woods-no word on where they went,” was the routine comment, before the host invariably steered the conversation around to more mundane matters.
This lack of information didn’t surprise Tamarwind. He knew that all these wayside inns, as well as the occasional smithies, farms, and orchards they passed, were the holdings of Wayfarer elves, and they naturally tended to be somewhat clannish. These were people who claimed none of the elven realms as a homeland, but instead drew their heritage from the long lineage of a particular, and large, family. Each displayed its family tree, a detailed chart going back ten or twelve generations-all the way to the Dawning, in most cases-on the wall of their inn’s great-room.
At last, a tenday after the ferry landing, the road broke from the canopy of the trees, and the elves cheered up at the sight of the Lodespikes rising snow-capped and jagged on the horizon. A few days later the lower ridge known as the Silver Crest came into view, and they knew they had almost reached Argentian.
“Ah-you can smell the Sweetwater in the air,” Ulfgang said with a delighted sniff.
Tamarwind, too, noticed the fresh air that was the harbinger of Argentian’s great river.
“About time,” Wiytstar sniffed. “I was beginning to think this journey would never end!”
Tamarwind was no longer irritated by his companions’ complaining. Instead, he cheerfully led the way in booking them passage on the Balloon Fender. They boarded the riverboat, relieved that the arduous part of the journey was over.
This was a vessel of wood, though, like the druid raft, it was powered by magic. Several elves took turns at the helm, a pair always playing flute and harp. The music flowed into the single sail, and eased the craft down the cool, clear water. After the Darken Hour magical lanterns sparkled into light along the rail, and Tam found himself relaxing into a mood of serene contentment. Ulfgang curled up near the flautist, and barely moved for the three days of the voyage. Trees, somehow softer and brighter than the looming trunks of the Greens, flanked each bank, and the river swept through many curves, always providing a new vista.
The city of Silvercove, Argentian’s great capital, came upon them suddenly, towers of marble and silver rising among the trees to form a network of balconies and houses swaying above the top of the forest. Songs from a variety of gardens and plazas wafted over the water, somehow mingling with the music of the flute and harp into a mellow symphony. Massive arkwood trees rose far above the oaks and pines that carpeted most of the verdant city. Vines drooped from the numerous arching branches, some of the tendrils extending nearly to the water along one bank or the other. Flowers of many colors brightened the vines, and lined the boughs of many smaller trees.
The riverboat passed under an arched span of colored glass draped in ferns, one of the two bridges spanning the Sweetwater. Shortly thereafter, the Balloon Fender nudged into a small harbor, poking between several other blunt-prowed craft to nestle in a dock formed of gnarled roots. The twisting branches perfectly matched the gunwale of the ship, and like the missing piece of a puzzle the riverboat came to rest against the shore of Silvercove.
Beyond the dock stretched a broad, sunlit garden of hedges, fountains, and flower beds. Nearby, fish were arrayed on a linen cloth. Taken by the fishers, the catches were placed here for any hungry elf desiring to take one. All around there were cafes and inns, each with its own musicians, each playing its own song. Tamarwind was struck by a sense of familiarity, knowing he’d been hearing the same songs from the same places for hundreds of years.
At ground level the city was a maze of tree trunks and the bases of the high towers, so, after debarking from the riverboat, Tam’s companions disappeared from view in a matter of moments. Ulf was trotting back and forth along the docks, and the scout was in no particular hurry to start for his own solitary residence. Instead, he ambled along with the dog, taking in some of the sights.
A dozen boats were anchored here, and an equal number of slips were empty. Elves puttered here and there, some mending sails and scrubbing decks with mundane means, others patching hulls or weaving rope with the use of simple craft spells. Such magic, Tam knew, was the special province of elves, the reason his people could make the greatest creations, the most beautiful artworks, in all the Seven Circles. It was an ability in stark contrast to the crude natural power of druid magic, the kind of incantation that could raise a raft from the sea bottom, control the wind, or repair the damage wrought by a landslide.
“Back from the Big City, I see.” The friendly voice drew Tam’s attention to the door of a cozy inn, a single-room tavern that occupied the base of one of the city’s lofty towers.
“Deltan Columbine… good to see you, my friend. I trust your life is unchanging?” Tam couldn’t resist a laugh as he said the words, for if there was any elf likely to explore new avenues, to experiment, to create, it was this one.
“I have enough to keep me busy,” the poet and teacher replied. “Come have a cup with me, and share the story of your journey,” Deltan continued, inviting Tam into the inn. “I need some diversion.”
Tamarwind remembered with a flash of guilt the way several of the delegates had complained about this young teacher. Even if his methods were a trifle unorthodox, the scout could find no fault with him-Deltan was a genial and talented elf, and his students were undoubtedly the better for having studied under him.