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.
They reached the far end of the hall and the elves opened another huge set of double doors. Inside, the gloom was even greater than that through which they had just passed. Silus blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and wondered what the function of this chamber could be, until, at the far end of the room, two chairs resolved themselves from the surrounding darkness. Upon them sat an elderly elf couple, staring dead ahead, their expressions fixed, as if they had been sat like that for quite some time. They wore plain grey robes and on their heads were copper crowns, unpolished and unadorned. Scattered around their feet lay what appeared to be the remains of previous meals: small bones, dried fruit peel and curled husks of bread.
Their chaperones bowed to the regal couple before departing.
Silus waited for the elves to speak and only when he cleared his throat was there the merest glimmer of acknowledgment in their eyes.
The man seated on their left took an unsteady breath. “The humans,” he said.
“Yes,” Silus said, and for a moment it seemed like that was to be the entirety of their conversation, but then the woman blinked and shook her head.
“We do apologise,” she said. “We have been meditating for such a long time that we were, at first, unaware of your presence. Please, let us provide you with refreshments.”
She pulled a bell rope and moments later a human servant entered (as pale and stooped as her companions outside), carrying a tray of cups. Silus had expected the proffered drink to be a fine wine or sherry, but it was water: lukewarm and somewhat brackish. He saw several of his companions subtly pouring it on the floor, rather than allowing it to pass their lips.
“I am Llorithrian, ruler of this city,” the man said. “And this is Nualla, my wife and commander-in-chief of our armed forces. I must say, you were the last thing our sailors were expecting to find in the midst of the conflict. Have you come from one of the camps, on the east coast, perhaps?”
“Camps?” Silus said. “No, we didn’t come from a camp.”
“You seem unusually… evolved,” Nualla said. “I had heard rumours that the humans were developing at a more rapid pace that we had at first anticipated, but you are the first we’ve seen to give credence to the rumours.”
Silus remembered what Kerberos has revealed to him all that time ago; that the human race had been created by the elves, evolved by magical means from the dying aquatic race known as the Calma. Which would be why, he realised, the unusual appearance of the humans he had seen in the city. They were considerably closer to their aquatic roots than the humans he knew. But what was this talk of camps, and why had the humans they had seen all been engaged in servile tasks? Had the elves created the human race only to use them as slaves and menials?
“If you are not from one of the camps,” Llorithrian said, “then where are you from?”
“Here. Twilight,” Kelos said. “But a Twilight far in your future. I used sorcery to create a rift in time and space, attempting to send us all home, but instead we find ourselves stranded, thousands of years in our past.”
“ You are from our future?” Llorithrian said.
“Yes.”
“Then what can you tell us of the elven race millennia from now? Have we finally vanquished the dwarves? Has our empire gone from strength to strength? Have we-”
“Llorithrian, please!” Nualla said, cutting off her husband’s stream of questions. “Can you not see that our guests are tired?”
“Of course, of course. I’m sorry. These are questions our scholars will no doubt ask you in the fullness of time. Such an extraordinary claim will have to be thoroughly investigated. For now, you must remain in the palace. We will, of course, see that your needs are attended to.”
Llorithrian pulled the bell rope again and the same servant who had earlier served them drinks entered.
“Please show our guests to their quarters.”
Silus was more tired than he had ever been, and he was looking forward to snuggling up in a luxurious bed beside his wife, while Zac slumbered contentedly nearby, but the room to which they were led would have looked more at home in a boarding school or a barracks than a palace. There was to be no privacy; ranks of narrow single beds marched away from them, covered with thin grey blankets and straw-stuffed pillows. Beside each bed was a battered steel chamber pot and a pitcher of water. There were no windows and the room was barely illuminated by
