‘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 his lifetime, Undalyn had seen the sea level gradually rise and lakes expand. Once where his grandfather had hunted the great scaly lizards of the Rocky Flats, now an orchard of red fruit trees sheltered the melon vines, and streams ran through the heart of the flats all the way to the sea.
Undalyn was impatient for Laromendis to continue, but remained composed. He knew the Conjurer was trying to make a point. Finally the magic user spoke. ‘They have nothing like this.’
The Regent Lord inclined his head and said, ‘No cities?’
‘Only for the darkest among our kind, the lore speaks of them as the Forgotten.’
The Regent Lord glanced around. Only one servant waited near the door and he was out of earshot; what the Conjurer spoke of was approaching heresy. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘The . . .’
‘They are called moredhel on the homeworld.’