The fleet hugged the shore as it tacked to the west, eventually entering a half-moon bay. At its head sat the largest harbour Silus had ever seen. Yet more song ships were berthed there in ordered ranks, their tarred hulls gleaming, the odour of magic pouring off them, distinct even at this distance. But even more impressive than the elven fleet was the city that lay beyond the harbour, shining in the midday sun. It marched up the tiers of the surrounding cliffs, each layer meticulously constructed so that nothing was out of place, and carriages ascended and descended the slopes with no obvious means of propulsion.
Silus’s eyes were naturally drawn to the building that graced the headland like a crown, its many wings encircling the entire apex of the bay in marble and glass. Above this palace — for what else could it be? — the sky was just as busy as the waters of the harbour. Tethered balloons bobbed gently in the light wind rolling from the headland, while men with wings of canvas and wood leapt from platforms, swooping over the city before heading out to sea or circling back inland. Silus had heard stories of wondrous elven cities, but the only remnants of these that the people of his own time had found were broken pots or shattered archways, nothing to suggest anything on this scale. He wondered what event would so meticulously remove such settlements from the map and leave little more than dust in its wake. Could the elves or the dwarves have an inkling of the apocalypse heading their way?
The elves on the song ship had been quiet — even dismissive — during much of the voyage, interacting with their human guests as little as possible, beyond making sure they were fed and kept warm. Silus had expected that they would at least be questioned about their presence at the battle, but if the elves had any curiosity about this they hid it well.
“It’s true that I never thought I’d see Twilight again,” Katya said, coming up behind Silus and slipping an arm around his shoulder, “but even if I had, I never imagined I’d see it quite like this.”
Zac clutched her left hand, looking goggle-eyed at the approaching city and squealing with delight when he spotted the balloons drifting high above it.
“It makes our home, our own time, seem dull by comparison, don’t you think?” Silus said.
“I can honestly say that life with you has never been dull.”
There was a rattle of a chain and then a great splash as the anchor hit the water.
Their companions joined them on deck as the gangplank was lowered to the quay. One of the elves gestured to them to disembark; Silus thanked him, and he looked away and frowned as though, in speaking, Silus had somehow offended the elf.
“This is your home?” Illiun said, when they stepped ashore.
“Yes and no,” Silus said. “It is our home, but our home as it used to be a very long time ago. If you see what I mean.”
“No, not really.”
It would take a while for Illiun to get used to their new situation, Silus considered. At least, here, they didn’t have dragons to contend with. He looked up at Kerberos, which appeared almost serene as a skein of light cloud drifted across its face. The god had been silent thus far and Silus had no intention of opening himself up to its influence.
An elf led them to one of the carriages he had noticed earlier. They seated themselves on the low benches and, with a shudder and a jolt, it started moving. Silus turned to see that they were ascending a gleaming set of rails.
The elf stood in front of the door through which they had entered, his arms folded, his expression blank.
“Don’t talk much, do they?” Dunsany said.
“I get the impression,” Emuel said, “that they don’t like us very much. Certainly no one on the song ship would talk with me.”
“They did come across us in the middle of a conflict,” Silus said. “It’s natural they’re suspicious. They probably think we’re spying for the dwarves.”
“I blame Zac,” Kelos said. “I mean, look at him, he looks shifty enough to be a spy.”
“Spy!” Zac shouted, pointing at the elf, and Katya burst out laughing, although she soon stopped when the elf’s expression darkened.
The carriage silently ascended the city and Silus watched as a procession of buildings rolled past. Each tier of the metropolis appeared to have been built to a specific function.
The first level was given over to industry: smoke billowed from workshops and smithies rang to the sounds of weapons being crafted. In an open yard, Silus saw ranks of looms, their shuttles zipping back and forth as the men and women working them produced yard after yard of shimmering material; the same cloth, he realised, that was used for the song ships’ sails.
The second tier was almost as noisy as the first, housing, as it did, the city’s nurseries. The children Silus saw there may have been elves, but they ran and shouted and sang and cried and screamed just like any other infant. Zac reached out as they passed, clearly distressed that he wasn’t going to be able to join in with the fun.
The tiers became less noisy as they ascended. The pale marble buildings of the upper levels were light and airy, sporting many archways and windows. Within, elves were engaged in a variety of studious activities. Scholars strolled through sun-lanced cloisters, their attention focused on the texts raised before their faces, while in another district there was the unmistakable staccato flash of sorcery being used and strange chemical smells wafting from open windows.
The penultimate tier was where the city barracked its army. Silus saw into a courtyard packed with soldiers in orderly ranks, listening to the bellowing of an elaborately uniformed man as he strutted before them like an enraged peacock.
The carriage finally came to a halt at the apex of the city and the door opened onto a wide, tree-lined avenue leading all the way to the palace entrance. Their silent chaperone was the first to alight, and he led them at a brisk pace towards the vast building.
It was then that they got their first glimpse of the only humans, besides themselves, they had seen since arriving.
Stooped amongst flowerbeds or perched on ladders high within fruit trees, the men and women looked up as they passed. They appeared surprised — even shocked — to see the entourage being led towards the palace, but when the elf leading the visitors glanced their way, they instantly dropped their gazes and engaged themselves intently in their tasks. There was something strange about these humans’ appearance: their noses were wide and slightly flattened, the irises of their eyes so large and dark that they almost occluded the whites, while their flesh was pale with the slightest hint of blue.
“Excuse me,” Silus said, hurrying to catch up with the elf. “Who are those people?”
There was no reply. Instead, the elf strode up to a pair of massive double doors and rapped upon them, before briskly turning on his heel and marching away.
“Nice to meet you too,” Dunsany shouted after him. “Thanks awfully for your hospitality.”
The doors were opened by two simply-dressed and equally silent elves, who seemed to be struggling to hide their disdain for the humans before them. They nodded once in acknowledgement before turning and striding down the great hall, looking back over their shoulders once, briefly, to make sure their charges were following.
On the walls of the hall hung enormous portraits — darkened with age, their oils cracked and flaking — depicting what Silus assumed were elf nobles. In recesses at regular intervals were all manner of dull-looking antiquities: cracked urns, vases of dark-green stone and tarnished weapons. Overhead, the ceiling had obviously once been a riot of colour, but the fresco that adorned the stonework had long since fallen into disrepair, the fantastical creatures and beings that looked down upon them appearing almost saddened by the decay.