Magic.
All you humans ever ask about is magic.
As though it were all there is to my people.
You think we keep the secret of magic from you to retain our superiority. To keep you from becoming our equals.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
So be it. I will tell you about magic.
Magic makes our weapons lighter, harder and sharper than yours. It makes our warriors faster, our houses higher, our clothes more magnificent, our masonry more delicate, our scholars more learned, our music more enchanting, our stories more moving.
But the secret is there is no secret.
Your smiths hone their craft for four years and think they can forge a blade. Six more years and they call themselves masters. Ten years! One mere decade! It takes two centuries for an Elf to be awarded the title of master. Five to learn to forge a spear worthy of our greatest warriors.
How could we ever teach you?
Can a master teach his apprentice that unspoken knowledge that years and years of practice have inscribed into his every tendon?
Can a veteran teach a youngling the secret of having fought a hundred battles? Can he make the child his equal by telling him war stories?
Magic is not a secret. It is absolute, uncompromising dedication. The dedication of an entire life, a life measured in centuries, to perfecting one skill. That one impeccable turn of a phrase, that one unequaled swing of the hammer.
That is the truth about magic.
Still, on High Street in Derisnorgarion, in the city of cities, in the place of highest honour, among our greatest warriors, scholars, craftsmen and artists, stands a statue of a human.
It is her you should ask about.
