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.
“We seek constancy, the elven ideal, and the perfect stasis of the Circle-but in truth, there have been some changes at Argentian-disturbing developments, to be sure.”
“Yes?” Even though Belynda was fairly certain she knew what was coming, she added: “Please elaborate.”
“Most significant, the rains of the past three intervals have left us nearly an inch short of our quota!”
“Yes… there was a report of this in the Senate. Sage-Astrologer Domarkian spoke to the issue, declaring that the reduction in water has occurred throughout Nayve. But he has learned that there is no danger.”
“But-will this continue through the next intervals? Will it always be different?”
“Domarkian could not say for sure, though he indicated that the chances are good. However, as I said, the effect has been noticed in many parts of the Circle. The same reduction has apparently been experienced everywhere.”
“It’s the same? Everywhere?” Wiytstar seemed to find this news comforting.
“Yes. And there is no perceived harm in the effect. Now, were there other matters that brought you here as well?”
“There is something of a mystery we thought we should bring to your attention,” Tamarwind reported. “At least, I did.”
“And?” Belynda was curious-mysteries were altogether unusual in her serene, sedate world.
“Over the past years, ten or twenty or more, an increasing number of young elves have departed Argentian. They are mostly male-individuals who reportedly have been quite normal throughout their upbringing. The pattern is the same: The elf makes no announcement to kin or companion; he merely boards a riverboat in the city and rides to some point down the Sweetwater. They debark at any of a hundred villages and towns along the water, and then simply disappear.”
“Of course, the fact that they make no announcement doesn’t mean much-we all know how private our people can be. Still, to disappear, with no word, no sign?” The sage-ambassador frowned. “How many of them have gone?”
“There is really no way to tell, of course. But it would seem to be upward of twoscore, just in the last year alone.”
“I will take this up with the other ambassadors,” Belynda decided. “First we will try and determine if this is a matter affecting just Argentian, or the other realms as well.”
“Has it happened here, in Circle at Center?” Tam wondered.
Belynda could only shrug. “It has not been reported. Of course, there are so many elves here-something like twelve ten-thousands’ worth-that it would be difficult to notice a small change in numbers.”
Tamarwind nodded, apparently satisfied. Belynda noticed that the other elves had been fidgeting nervously, waiting for this seemingly trivial matter to be resolved before they continued with the litany. “And what is the next matter?” she inquired politely.
“It’s the children!” declared another delegate, a wiry woman nearly as petite as Belynda. Her hair was short, but spiked stiffly outward in a series of golden spurs. “I have joined this delegation, made this arduous journey only after a series of events so outrageous that I was left with no alternative but to seek ambassadorial intervention.”
“I understand.” Belynda was not surprised by the complaint, though she knew that the route between Argentian and Circle at Center consisted of good roads and a placid river ride. “Though of course you realize that the sage-ambassador’s role is to provide wise counsel, not action. But please, outline your complaints.”
“These young elves today-they’re… they’ve gone beyond any reach of control. They lack all semblance of respect!” The elfwoman shook her head in exasperation.
“It has been noted, without rebuttal, that they universally lack the discipline necessary for serious study!” claimed Wiytstar. “Why, there’s a painting class that is supposed to meet in the village hall every day at the Lighten Hour-and they have never visited their classroom!”
“It’s taught by that young firebrand, Deltan Columbine,” another elf maintained. “He says that walls aren’t conducive to art!”
