absently caressing it.
Below his mantle of fur he wore a light tunic and trousers of a dark green cloth, simple but for the gold thread at the collar and cuffs; his feet were clad in fine brown leather boots, still covered in dust from his morning walk inspecting the city’s defences. The same dust covered his nearly-white hair, and he wished for time to bathe, but knew much needed to be accomplished before a relaxing bath was possible.
He looked out the window at the blue sky and felt the warmth of the sun on his arms and face, and felt the heat under his furry mantle; he welcomed the sensation, trying to drive out the cold that gripped his very soul.
Then a scout, his hair tied in a hunter’s queue, entered. ‘He’s here, m’lord.’
Waving away the courtier, Undalyn spoke in a deep, commanding voice, ‘Show yourself, Conjurer!’
The magic user strode into the throne room, his white robes bright and his staff aglow with power. He bowed and said, ‘I am here, my lord.’
‘Show me,’ ordered the Regent Lord.
Raising his staff, the magic user moved it slowly through the air, and as he did a scene appeared, as if painted on an invisible wall, but moving and alive. When the shimmering ceased, it looked as if a new window had been created by magic, but while the windows of the chamber overlooked the sun-baked tablelands of Andcardia, the magic window showed a completely different landscape.
The Regent Lord scanned the scene before him. It appeared they stood on a hill’s ridge, and it was late afternoon from the angle of the sun behind them. Across a vast valley he could see more peaks. Everywhere he looked he saw natural abundance. The trees were old, heavy with growth, and he could see two large meadows in the distance below. White clouds floated above, pregnant with rain, and the wind carried exotic scents mixed with those more familiar to him: balsam, pine, fir, and cedar. The forest sounded rich with game and in the trees birds sang without concern. ‘This seems a hospitable land,’ observed the Regent Lord. Fixing his gaze on the magic user, he asked, ‘Is it Home?’
Knowing his life, and his brother’s life, probably hung on this answer, Laromendis, Supreme Conjurer of the Circle of Light, hesitated, then said, ‘I must speak with the Loremasters m’lord.’ As the Regent Lord’s expression darkened, he hastily added, ‘I’m being cautious, but yes, I believe it is Home.’
The Regent Lord’s expression betrayed a tiny flicker of relief. If this was their ancestral homeland then there was still hope. ‘Tell me more of it, our ancient Home.’
‘It is a fair world, my lord, though not without problems.’ He moved the staff and the scene disappeared.
‘Problems,’ repeated the leader of the Clans of the Seven Stars. ‘Is there ever a day without problems, on any world?’
The Conjurer said nothing at the rhetoric.
‘Name them,’ said the Regent Lord just as another figure arrived through a portal, his hand on his sword. He was a warrior nearly equal in stature to the Regent Lord, and he seemed on the verge of speaking until he saw Undalyn raise a gauntleted hand, indicating that he wanted silence.
‘This world is rich in game, crops, and metals. But it is home to others.’
‘Others?’
‘Dwarves,’ he almost spat.
‘Dwarves,’ said Undalyn. ‘Is there a world to be found without those mud grubbers?’
‘I fear not,’ said the Conjurer. He had in fact located several worlds without dwarves in the last ten years, but none of them was habitable; this was not the time to engage in petty debate over the fine points. Since the discovery of the translocation magic and the search for the homeland, all hopes for the survival of the People had turned to locating their mythical Home; a search that the Conjurer had thought futile. Finding any world into which they could flee, be it ancient or new, that was the survival key for a race now reduced to a relative handful by thirty years battle with the Demon Legion.
His discovery of their Home was a happy accident, nothing more, or at least that’s how he saw it; his vanity almost equalled the Regent Lord’s and so it was unthinkable for him to admit that someone without any knowledge of the arts might have been right. Laromendis, Master of the Arts of the Unseen, would settle for the Regent Lord simply being lucky.
And lucky for his People and for Laromendis and his brother, he quickly amended.
‘There are also humans. They thrive there like flies on dung. Their cities are ant hives, with thousands in residence.’
‘Our People, do they abide?’
‘Yes. But they have … fallen.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the Regent Lord.
As if needing to emphasize his point, Laromendis moved to stand before the northernmost window, which provided a vista of the city outside. Tarendamar, Starhome, capital of the Clans of the Seven Stars, and for generations a monument to the majesty of the People. The Regent Lord came to stand beside the red-haired magician. Still untouched by the brutal war to the north, the city remained much as it had been since Undalyn had been a boy.
The Hall of the Regent’s Meeting was a short walk from the Regent’s palace, and this very hall, ancient and honoured, had been among Undalyn’s earliest memories. His father had ensured the next Regent Lord would understand the responsibilities of his heritage.
He knew this precinct well, as he had played in every alleyway and garden, swum in every pool and brook, climbed the holy trees to the outrage of the priestesses, and had come to love this city as if it were a living being; it was a living being, it was the heart of the Clans of the Seven Stars.
Built by magic and sweat, Tarendamar was the crown jewel of the People. Seven great trees formed a massive ring around the heart of the city, one mystic tree for each of the sacred stars in the heavens. Even in the harsh light of Andcardia’s sun, the deep shadows within their bowers glimmered with fey light.
It was from those seven trees, the ‘Seven Stars,’ as they were called, that the power of the taredhel was drawn. Each tree had been grown from a sapling carried from Home to this world, the first refuge of the taredhel, the ‘People of the Stars,’ as they called themselves.
They had fled their birth world, ages before, and found refuge on this dry, inhospitable world, with its small oceans and lakes, scorching hot save for in the middle of their short winter. This world had grudgingly yielded to the magic of the original Spellweavers, and the seven magic trees, carried from Home had been the anchor that had allowed them to survive. The survival of those saplings had been paid for with the very blood of the taredhel. If the soul of the Clans of the Seven Stars resided anywhere other than Andcardia, it was, and could only be, Home.
When the trees began to flourish, so did the taredhel, providing them with magic they called Home Magic. They had at first used it to bludgeon Andcardia into submission, then they had refined their magic, blending it with the natural harmonies, until a tune native to both the taredhel and this planet emerged. Over the following centuries, it had changed both the world and the elves.
Lush forests now hugged the mountainsides, still halted in the lowlands by blistering hot tablelands and vast deserts. Yet even they were slowly retreating as the Water Gatherers found ways to use the translocation magic to bring water from other worlds. During
