**It had been a long day of travel before we reached the great bridge dubbed Hawker’s Highway which crossed the bay to Eilanthar. The Tumblewoods had been a respite from the midday sun, despite a mugginess – which clung to the skin like a damp cloth – brought on by the moisture of the Callow River running abreast. Exiting the canopy's protection, we were thrust forward to endure the wide plains that Thalnor was most known for. Shade was sparse save for some sprinkled copses. Watering the horses proved difficult. Retinues of wealthier merchants competed to leave earliest each morning that their horses may have the sweetest grass and clearest water ahead. Eilanthar's towers had been on the horizon two full days before the bridge. Pale fingers of stone, they seemed to vanish in morning mist, reappearing ghostlike as the sun climbed higher. But it was the great bridge itself that stole my breath when at last it lay before us. A full mile it stretched and ran so wide that six caravans could pass side by side without their drivers exchanging curses. The builders had hewn it from the same whitestone that earned Eilanthar its nickname, The Ivory City. Embedded within the whitestone bridge ran two gilded runners, set apart from each edge by precisely a wagon's width. They traced the full length of the bridge like twin rivers guiding us forward. Most astounding, to me, was the motley civilization born along its edges. Tents of fabrics leaned against more permanent wooden stalls. Long-marooned wagons with missing or cracked wheels had been given new life in the form of homes and shops. The air laid heavy with the scents of spice-laden foods, unwashed bodies, and the subtle tang of alchemical mixtures that promised a spectrum of benefits from restful sleep to eternal youth. Voices rose and fell in a dozen languages as merchants praised their wares spread on colorful rugs. I saw delicate glassware from the sands of Vastuum, leathers worked so fine as to feel like silk against the skin, and small mechanical curiosities that whirred and clicked with mysterious purpose. The practiced eyes of cutpurses were not unnoticed. They peered at us from the occasional shadowed corner. A child with eyes too old for her years approached me offering a charm of woven grass "for good luck.” Another used this opportunity to nimbly finger for my purse. I had known better to tuck it away from prying hands. Near the end of the bridge, the setting sun bathed the towers of Eilanthar in amber and gold. Their surfaces glowed as if lit from within. The crowds thinned and gave way to more orderly arrangements of stalls whose proprietors wore finer clothing and offered goods less afforded. The air was light and touched with the salt of the bay and subtle scents of night-blooming flowers that surrounded the entry gardens. From somewhere within the city a bell chimed, its note ringing out across the bridge. Another bell answered, and another, until the air vibrated with harmony. The word “home” still tasted odd on my tongue, but it was a taste to which I was hopeful to grow accustomed.**