In addition to the trickling and splashing, Kellen could hear a peculiar creaking and groaning sound coming through the open windows. Intrigued and a little concerned, he came closer and looked inside.
It was a potter's studio, Kellen realized with relief. The peculiar sounds came from the spinning potter's wheel. An Elven man was bent over it, his back to Kellen, busy with the clay, while his bare feet worked the pedals that kept the wheel spinning. He was bare to the waist, his hair bound up in a turban of dark blue cloth. His hands and arms were covered with ghost-white clay.
Two walls of the studio were lined with shelves, on which stood pieces of pottery in every stage of completion, from those that looked as if they'd just come off the wheel, to others, gleaming in jewel colors, that looked as if they were ready for Queen Ashaniel's table. On the third wall, Kellen could see a row of deep sinks, into one of which water trickled and splashed. It was that sound that had drawn Kellen here.
'Drought or none, it is water and fire that shapes the clay,' the potter said without looking up.
How did he know I was here? Kellen wondered. But the potter hadn't said anything that indicated he didn't want Kellen to remain, so Kellen continued to watch, enthralled.
The potter dipped his hand into a water bucket at his side, and returned it to the clay again.
He was making a bowl, Kellen realized. He watched in fascination as the clay thinned and flared out under the potter's hands, very much as if it had a will of its own, until it went from a muffin-shaped doughy lump to a wide flaring shape.
The potter lifted his hands from his work at last and let the wheel slow.
'It will crack as it dries.' He addressed the pot, not Kellen, and there was a faint tone of regret—or, perhaps, disappointment—in his voice. 'The clay is too soft to hold such a shape unsupported. But when it does, I will return it to the slip and try again, and perhaps one day one of them will not.' He rose to his feet and turned.
'I see you, Kellen Tavadon. Be welcome in the house of Iletel.'
'I see you, Iletel,' Kellen answered formally. 'It is a pleasure and a privilege to see a skilled artist at work.'
Iletel smiled, opened the door for him, and then went to wash off the clay in the sink, take down his hair, and don a loose linen wrap-tunic in pale shades of peach and pink, while Kellen gazed around the studio.
Everything was arranged with an eye to the order and perfection he had come to expect here, even in so messy an environment as a potter's workplace.
'These pieces are wonderful. I have never seen such beautiful things as I have seen in Sentarshadeen,' Kellen said honestly.
'It is a great pity we no longer trade with the City as we did when I was younger,' Iletel said, 'for it was a great pleasure to sell beautiful things to humans, as it is always a joy to instruct the young. I am sad that our two races no longer speak together as we once did.'
'So am I,' Kellen said feelingly. 'That's one of the reasons I'm here— because I know that the Elves know many things I wish to know.' He sighed. 'I am very glad that the Elves do find joy in the instruction of the young, for I would rather that my presence was not considered a burden.'
Iletel's smile broadened. 'Your presence, Kellen Tavadon, would not be a burden to anyone who is wise. The wise know well that wisdom must be shared, or it grows stale, and that even the wisest can learn new things from the young.'
Well, that was encouraging! 'I spoke to Morusil this morning,' Kellen ventured, 'and he told me that everyone here knows something about the Wild Magic. I'm hoping to find out why they no longer remember it in the City.'
Or, Kellen amended conscientiously, if only to himself, why they didn't remember it properly—or lied about it if they did.
Iletel smiled. 'So direct! I had forgotten that consequence of your brief lives,' he said in an amused tone that warned Kellen he had come a little too close to overstepping Elven etiquette. 'But come, Morusil's student. Perhaps it would please you to view my latest works, and afterward join me for refreshment. It is nearing my hour to take tea.'
Kellen blushed, and assented, wondering if he'd ever really get the hang of the indirectness of Elven manners. Iletel conducted him around the small studio, showing off the various examples of his work—and to Kellen's surprise, finding fault with most of them.
Several pieces that Kellen thought were perfect Iletel announced were only waiting to be broken up so that their clay could be reused '—for there is truly no purpose in keeping those things which are less than perfect—do you see this flaw here? Terrible. And here, where the glaze ran and puddled. A child's error; the temperature in the kiln was uneven that day. But they will be reborn again, without flaw.'
