Examining the serene expression, seeing her cool blue eyes reflected in the flawless glass, Belynda sighed again. She wished that she could actually feel the calm dignity embodied by the image in the mirror.
Her preparations were concluded as she donned a circlet of silver wire, a control for her long, golden mane. Still, she was in no hurry; instead of taking the direct route through the College halls she decided to take the outer paths to the garden. The glass doors opened soundlessly as she murmured the word of command, and she stepped into the private refuge of her small, walled garden-another mark of the status awarded to a sage-ambassador.
Trilling songbirds leapt into the air as she came outside. The canaries and bluebirds flew in cheery circles, a fluttering escort ready to herald her crossing of the grounds. Today, however, Belynda decided that she didn’t want the ostentation, and curtly shooed the birds back to their perches in her rose trees. Sulking, they settled to the branches, and she felt even worse than she had before.
Passing under the arched gateway that gave egress from her garden, she faced the Center of Everything, and here, at last, her mood lifted-at least slightly. The Silver Loom dominated the view, rising toward the sky from the center of the circular, verdant valley. Mounted in a broad dome of crystal that was surmounted by a higher dome of gold, the argent spire lofted every bit as tall as the summit of a great mountain, and symbolized the unchanging purity of the Fourth Circle.
For a few moments Belynda was content to know that within those domes the Goddess Worldweaver was busy at her weaving, and that her labors would assure the continuity of halcyon Nayve. Hearing a deep thrumming, a sound of power that she felt in the pit of her stomach, the elven sage knew that she had emerged just in time to witness the casting of the threads. She held her breath, as awestruck now as she had been the first time she beheld this daily ritual.
The songbirds grew still and it seemed that the very wind held its breath as a bright glow came into view at the base of the spire. The illumination flared into a ring of fiery intensity nearly equal to the brightness of the sun. Then, slowly at first, the glow began to ascend the lofty spike of silver. Faster and faster it climbed and, as always, Belynda found that she was holding her breath as the casting approached its climax.
Racing to the top of the spire, the bright glow reached the end and exploded into the air, sending balls of sparking fire crackling and weaving upward. A hundred or more of these fiery globes hissed into the air, each trailing smoke, spiraling upward and gradually vanishing into the corona of the sun. Only the smoky trails remained, and even those swiftly dissipated in the light breeze.
Belynda inevitably felt cleaner, knowing that a few more of the wild impulses, the untamed forces of the chaotic world, had been spun away from Nayve by the casting of the Goddess Worldweaver. Those threads would form the lives of a different place, affecting only an outer realm that held little importance for the halcyon Fourth Circle.
Only with reluctance did the elfwoman’s eyes lower from the majestic spire to behold the worldly manifestation of the Circle’s perfection: Three great institutions formed a broad ring around the dome of the Worldweaver’s Loom. The palatial edifices of the College, Senate, and Grove occupied the ridge of hills surrounding the bowl-shaped valley at the Center of Everything. Each of the three great structures was a teeming center of living, learning, and debate, and each, too, formed a portion of a ring, between them encircling the great Loom. Broad avenues, one oriented to each of the three directions, passed between the edifices, cutting through a trio of notches in the surrounding hills. The College, Senate, and Grove, in turn, all looked inward toward the shallow valley, in the center of which rose the Worldweaver’s Loom. The entire valley was more than a mile in diameter, well-watered and beautifully verdant. And with that spike of silvered steel pointed straight toward the sun, the scene possessed a magical symmetry that could soothe one’s spirit even when nothing else availed.
But Belynda could only reflect on this grandeur for so long. Slowly she started along the bark-paved pathway meandering through stands of flowering trees, past gardens, and over arched bridges. She paused on one of these-it seemed that she could never tire of watching the rippling streams flow toward the myriad pools in the valley. Starting off again, she wandered vaguely in the direction of metal, comfortable in the knowledge that the delegation from Argentian would be awed and intrigued by the wonders of Circle at Center. Surely they wouldn’t mind waiting a few extra minutes.
All too soon, however, she passed beneath a bower of blooming dogwood to find eight of the sylvan folk, her people, clustered in a small knot in the Metal Garden. The delegates included a mix of male and female, ranging in age from soft-skinned adults to elders, hair dyed a metallic gold in the fashion of Belynda’s. The visitors wore silk ceremonial robes, and she was glad to see that they had taken time to bathe and rest after the long journey from Argentian-not because of any offense to her genteel sensibilities, but since this was an indication that their complaints lacked any real urgency. Probably just the usual litany, Belynda reflected glumly.
The visiting elves stared in awe at the fluted spires of the Golden Fountain, which pointed straight at the sun and reflected the light in dazzling prisms. As if in honor of Belynda’s arrival, these gilded pipes suddenly spumed with a spray of sparkling water. Soft noise washed over the onlookers as the arcing froth first outlined the image of a swan with wings spread wide, then gradually settled, furling the wings into a steadily maintained simulacrum of a stately bird resting upon the water. The sound of the splashing fountain muted to a gentle shower in the background.
“It’s the sage-ambassador!” cried one of the elves, suddenly catching sight of her. The delegation hurried forward as one, reminding Belynda of chicks scurrying toward the shelter of a mother hen.
“Greetings, Tamarwind,” she offered, recognizing an elf, taller than the others, who wore the green mantle of scout. “It has been many years.”
“Indeed, my lady Sage-Ambassador.” The lean, wiry delegate from the forested uplands of Argentian looked at Belynda closely, and she was surprised to feel herself blushing. Her time with this male had been so long ago, and for such a brief interval in her centuries of life, that she’d assumed any such frivolous responses would have been long out of her system.
He continued: “You look very well. I trust your life is unchanging?”
“As unchanging as peace. And yours as well, I hope?”
“Certainly, my lady Sage-Amb-”
“Please, you remember that my name is Belynda. You should call me that.”
“Of course, my-that is, Belynda.” Tamarwind smiled, and an element of tension seemed to flow from his body as he relaxed. “Lady Belynda Wysterian, as I recall.”
Again she blushed, unconsciously responding to ancient memories: After all, this was the elf who had joined her in the conception of her two offspring. Of course, that fact was of little consequence to their continuing lives-but still she felt uniquely, surprisingly, awkward.
“This is Wiytstar Sharand,” Tamarwind said smoothly as a mature male, head crowned by a stiff mane of metallic hair, stepped forward. The elf wore the gold mantle of leadership. “He is the spokesman for the delegates.”
“My lady Sage-Ambassador.” Wiytstar bowed gracefully. “I trust your life is unchanging?”
She replied with the ritual words, but as soon as the formalities of introduction were concluded the elder frowned. Belynda knew that the complaints were about to begin.