at the river untenable; if they had stayed in place, Zystyl’s force would have attacked them from behind, and there would have been no survival. Instead, Natac had ordered the general withdrawal and now simply hoped to get his army away to fight on another day.
While the Argentian elves watched for pursuit, the elves of Barantha and the forest trolls formed two vast formations, leaving behind the valley of the Swansleep as they started across the dry plains. From the back of the mighty dragon, Natac could see the plumes of dust raised by these marchers and knew that they would reach the hills within a few days. Each had a large contingent of centaurs towing their batteries, the silver metallic carriages mingled into the long files of warriors. It was encouraging to see that the troops, despite the orders to withdraw, were moving in good order and maintaining an impressive speed.
To the left Natac saw another column of dust, and they flew low to see the Hyaccan elves, the only mounted troops of his army. Beyond were the massive rock piles, where the slabs that had carried the Delvers across Riven Deep had come to rest. The Tlaxcalan had seen many examples of powerful magic since he had come to Nayve, but never had he witnessed anything comparable to this: the great uprooting of the very landscape, the use of that ground to carry troops onto an otherwise inaccessible battlefield. He didn’t want to think about it too much, for when he did, it seemed impossible to comprehend any means whereby they could win this war, not against an enemy that could marshal such unspeakable power.
Yet still, they would try. Below him the riders of Janitha Khandaughter were already making the dwarves pay for their advance. The elves on their nimble ponies skirmished with the Delvers, riding close, showering the dwarves with arrows, then galloping away before the iron golems could come up. Like the elf and trollish infantry, the elven riders were fighting cautiously, giving ground instead of lives. Natac was confident they would reach the Ringhills with their numbers intact.
Swinging through a lofty circle, the dragon winged back across the plains. The ghost warriors were a teeming blot on the right, like a brown stain spreading across the ground. They had finally crossed the Swansleep, but they advanced on the plains as a great, broad front, not any formation of marching columns. Their numbers seemed infinite, extending far back to the river and beyond.
Far past that place, to the metalward of the enemy, there was one more group of warriors, out of sight even from this lofty altitude. Faerie messengers had brought word from Roland Boatwright, informing Natac that the druids and warriors whose boats had survived the battle with the armada had debarked onto shore and were marching toward the Ringhills. They would need to take an indirect route, crossing the Snakesea instead of the plains, since the enemy army was between them and their destination. That sea crossing was not difficult, not when powerful druids were involved, and Natac welcomed the thought of further help. Roland’s force was not numerous but included many druids and the vast majority of the earth warriors that had been summoned to Nayve over the past fifty years. They would reach the Ringhills, and they would join his army.
But what would happen then?
Regillix Avatar seemed to be pondering the same question. He turned his great head, banking sideways to regard the general who was his passenger. “How do you intend to hold them at the hills?” he asked.
“We will need to dig a trench, erect an earthen wall,” replied Natac, who had given the matter considerable thought. “As deep and as high as we can make them. Then we force them to a halt, and when they try to go around us, we simply dig a new ditch and raise a new wall.”
“A wall around the Center, perhaps,” said the dragon thoughtfully. “A great undertaking, to be sure.”
“It’s the only choice we have,” Natac said, once more dejected about the prospects of the next battle. “But the pieces are set in motion now. We have to wait until Tamarwind and Awfulbark reach the hills with their troops. For now, can you return us to the city?”
“Of course.”
The dragon turned his bearing toward the Center of Everything, winging high over the plains. Regillix was exceptionally untalkative during the long flight back to Circle at Center, and this suited his passenger as well. Having seen to the deployment of his army, Natac’s mind was focused on a single question. He only hoped he could find the answer when they got back to the temple of the Worldweaver.
The spire of the loom came into sight before them as the dragon glided over the Ringhills. The sun ascended toward Darken as they crossed the great lake. Knowing his rider’s urgency, the wyrm flew low over the city, toward the center itself. People came into the streets as they passed, some of them cheering and waving, the vast majority, however, looking up in mute, prayerful hope. Natac barely noticed, so intense was the question burning in his mind.
Before full darkness, Regillix Avatar set down within the ring created by the Grove, the Senate, and the College, the sacred ground at the Center of Everything. Natac slid down the scaled flank, his own feet landing on the ground a split second after the dragon’s. Druids were already coming toward them, but the general didn’t want to wait around for greetings or other formalities.
“Thanks, old friend. Rest here as you need,” Natac said. “I must go into the temple.”
“Of course,” said the dragon. “I grow hungry, but I know the druids will feed me well. Indeed, here come several with a small herd of beeves. A splendid appetizer, I can tell! Now go, learn what you must.”
Immediately Natac was running toward the marble temple at the base of the loom. He took note of the empty plazas, the gardens where the flowers bloomed in silent luster. Though Darken was an hour away, there were only a few druids present, a pair of stout, sturdy tillers working in a field, and a few carpenters hammering away in the boatyard.
“Where’s Miradel?” he cried, bursting through the temple doors. There were a dozen acolytes within, spinning wool for the Loom of the Worldweaver. Several of them gasped, and one, an elder woman of Oriental origin, shook her head. “We know nothing of this matter-only the goddess sees all.”
Natac looked at the golden doors leading to the inner sanctum. He had never passed through that portal, though he had come to this room with Miradel on numerous occasions, even going as far as the Rockshaft, the now-sealed chute that had once been open all the way down to the First Circle.
Passing the sealed iron portal of the shaft, he hesitated only for a moment, then strode forward, ignoring the entreaties of the druid wool spinners. “No-it is forbidden! You must not!”
He pushed the doors, which opened almost effortlessly despite their obviously massive weight. Stepping through, he swayed to a momentary sense of disorientation: it seemed that the room he entered was far larger than the exterior walls would allow. The opposite wall of the circular chamber was far away, and the whole periphery was a collage of brilliantly colored fabric. He could discern no details in those colors, but he knew at once that this was the Tapestry, the record of all histories on the Seven Circles, stories as woven by the goddess herself into the fabric of time.
The loom was a massive machine, as large as a cottage. Levers and wheels whirred, stroked, and turned. Six huge spools were mounted at one end, feeding strands of thread into the tablelike slab of the machine. Plates moved back and forth, and these strands merged and mingled until the finished Tapestry, a fabric no more than six feet across, emerged from the end of the loom opposite the spools. The Tapestry flowed toward the wall, where it formed the terminus of the great coil of material, ever growing longer.
“This is unusual.”
The speaker was an elderly woman, a person Natac noticed for the first time. She sat at the loom, working the pedals with her feet, moving strong fingers across the threads, linking them and crossing them with dextrous motions so nimble and quick that the man could not even see the individual movements. This was the Goddess Worldweaver, he knew, as he beheld the immortal being for the first time.
“Explain yourself. Immediately,” she demanded.
“Where is Miradel?” he asked bluntly.
He didn’t know what to expect, but nevertheless, the Worldweaver took him by surprise when she shrugged, then curled her lip in scorn. “She is gone, dead. I care not, and you should have more important concerns as well.”
“What? No-impossible!” he shouted, though he knew it was all too conceivable that his beloved had met some dire fate. “Tell me-where did she go? How did she perish?”
“Go away. I have work to do, and so do you,” snapped the goddess.
Despite his determination, Natac found himself walking out of the sanctum, through the anteroom, onto the lakeside plaza outside of the temple itself. He stared at the swirling stars, the ghostly spire of the loom, and tried to decide what to do. Why had he been dismissed so curtly? Clearly, she was displeased-but with him or with Miradel?
