by C A Oliver
With an impatient gesture of the hand, Mynar dyl pointed at the warehouses, without even looking at Naloy, his mind already racing to answer another riddle.
“You may begin the attack! Do let me know the outcome. I am heading back to the House of Essawylor. There is something I must clarify.”
Without even a salute for his second in command, Mynar dyl walked away, leaving Llafal’s port and retracing his steps towards Temple Square. Alone, without the support of his guards, he did not hesitate to push his way through the crowd gathering around the Daly Nièn. Many Elves were exchanging goods and news around the great fountain square of the city. This was the very heart of Llafal, where the growers and artisans ran stalls. The Elves of Daly Nièn watched him pass through, but they could tell Mynar dyl was preoccupied. His reputation was that of a cranky, impatient noble, known for being quick to anger.
Indifferent to the unfriendly reactions of the crowd, Mynar dyl crossed the great fountain square of Llafal with his usual arrogant gait, visibly lost in his thoughts.
Earlier, on his way to the port, he had noticed something odd, something that looked out of place amid the vibrant and lively upper parts of the city.
Mynar dyl’s steps led him back to the House of Essawylor, that recently built edifice, which resembled a large, upturned ship.
The warlord carefully examined the great wooden hall. He cast his gaze, full of disdain, from the centre of the structure to the many sides of the building, which jutted out like the oars of a powerful rowboat. From the look on his face, Mynar dyl seemed moved beyond words by what he saw: to revulsion, anger and, most of all, a deep, aching distaste for the work of the House of Essawylor’s architects. His artist’s soul suffered at the sight of what he considered to be an insult to the harmony of the beautiful dwellings of Llafal that surrounded it. Such an obtuse intrusion of Irawenti style into the city of swans hurt him deeply.
The House of Essawylor was a place of entertainment and recreation. It had rapidly become Llafal’s most popular venue, for it regularly staged musical performances. In preparation for the great festival of music, gatherings of Irawenti bards had been programmed every day. The full city of Llafal was teeming with excitement. Rumour had it that Curwë, the House of Essawylor’s master and a renowned artist, was preparing a spectacle of rare originality. Clan Ernaly sources said that the bard from Essawylor hoped to win the entire contest with a Muswab performance that would combine the exotic notes of Irawenti music with the more classical art of Llewenti dancing.
On that day, however, in front of the House of Essawylor’s doors, there was no cheerful crowd eager to capture a glimpse of the build-up to the festival. In fact, there was no one at all, and all its doors and windows were closed.
“My dear Curwë, where is your army of partygoers, that rabble you get drunk enough to applaud your supposed art?” Mynar dyl wondered aloud.
Still looking at the great wooden hall, the warlord took a few steps back and reached the shade of a dense grove of apple trees and pines. A light sea breeze carried the bewitching perfume of plant essences. Mynar dyl was suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of well-being and cleanliness.
‘Today’s hunt might prove successful after all,’ he thought.
Mynar dyl drew a potion from his pocket, pulling the cork out of the small phial. A pleasant smell of roses surrounded him. That sweet flower’s fragrance soon attracted the birds of the grove. Mynar dyl identified a small one. It resembled the ruby-throated hummingbird, except that the bird's gorget was a deep violet with a slow gradient to black. The exact pedigree, though, was of little importance. The small bird was no bigger than a large insect. That is what mattered. Mynar dyl captured it with a rapid and effective gesture of his hand. Making sure not to harm it, he drew the small bird up to his face, to share a conversation. Soon, a joyful twittering confirmed to Mynar dyl that the hummingbird understood what was expected of it.
After sitting down on the grass and tipping his head down, Mynar dyl released the small bird. Like a colourful butterfly breaking free from its chrysalis, the hummingbird flew towards the House of Essawylor.
Meanwhile, Mynar dyl had covered his face with his hood. He was muttering strange words and his eyes had turned white. The warlord was concentrating hard. He had taken control of the small bird’s senses. His own breathing had ceased. The hummingbird quickly made its way into the House of Essawylor, disappearing through a small gap that it found between the supporting beams of wood and the soil.
Mynar dyl managed to maintain his mental control upon the small bird for a relatively long time. The House of Essawylor was a large building that, beyond its main hall of festivities, was made up of many other smaller rooms. The hummingbird explored each of them like a scavenger ranging a canyon to find food. At last, Mynar dyl broke out of his highly concentrated spell and into a coughing fit, gasping desperately for air.
“May the deities of the Islands be praised!” he proclaimed aloud once he had recovered from his effort.
Visibly overwhelmed with excitement by what he had discovered, Mynar dyl felt compelled to address a silent prayer to the Mother of the Islands, his most favoured divinity.
‘I thank Eïwele Llya for her constant support, and for instilling the faith in my heart to serve her work!’
*
An hour later, the House of Essawylor was discreetly surrounded by clan Ernaly fighters. Mynar dyl had called upon each of his guards present in the city that day. The warlord of Tios Halabron possessed no authority in Llafal, which was one of clan Llyvary’s fiefs. He needed to act with caution, for this initiative violated the laws of Llymar Forest.
Two entire units, led by their commanders, more than fifty Elves in total, were waiting on Mynar dyl’s orders. The clan Ernaly’s insignia, the grey falcon, was woven into their hair along with their many hawk feathers.
The Elves of the clan Ernaly were hiding amidst the vegetation of the area, creeping between trees and behind houses. They had positioned themselves at regular intervals in a circle around the great hall. A dozen fighters, armed with javelins and short swords, were standing close to one of the House of Essawylor’s windows at the very back of the Halls, ready to storm the place. Four archers supported them. Their short bows were raised, and their quivers were heavy with arrows. The rest of the clan Ernaly’s troops guarded all other escape routes from the great hall.
Mynar dyl noticed a few passers-by looking with suspicion in the direction of his hidden fighters. Although, once they spotted the warlord of Tios Halabron, no one dared enquire further, the strange looks in their eyes indicated that the alarm would soon be raised, and that clan Llyvary’s troops would imminently be mustered. Llafal was a quiet city populated by Elves who enjoyed their tranquil lives. Any disturbance of the peace would not go unnoticed for long. Rumour of this concentration of clan Ernaly troops would spread fast. The matriarchs of the city would soon be alerted.
Mynar dyl started incanting words of power. The hinge-pins that were used to hang the shutters of the window started to melt, as if heated in an invisible blacksmith’s forge. Just as the metal began to glow red-hot under Mynar dyl’s spell, the hinges broke apart. The searing heat also set the wood on fire, causing further damage. The shutters finally fell to the ground, leaving the back window unprotected.
Naloy ordered the attack. The commander of the assault rushed in, smashing the glass of the window. He rolled inside the room, closely followed by his fighters, their javelins in hand. In an instant, a dozen clan Ernaly guards were inside the House of Essawylor. They positioned themselves to secure the room.
Finally, Mynar dyl could follow. He found himself in Curwë’s study. The House of Essawylor’s master had set up his private quarters where his former associate Aewöl used to dwell. The room’s interior had changed little since the days of the one-eyed Elf. Reaching up to this vast chamber’s high ceiling were enough species of plants to fill a wild forest. The room was furnished with precious furniture and refined tap
estries, giving the place a luxurious atmosphere. Musical instruments, ranging from different types of lyres to a huge array of drums, were strewn across the fine wooden floor. Bookcases were crammed with manuscripts and works of literature. The chaos that reigned amidst the elegant design of the room conferred the place with the air of an exotic bazaar.
Curwë was sat in a comfortable armchair with numerous ancient-looking scrolls laid out in front of him. An empty crystal vial was also placed on his desk, next to a skilfully crafted glaive that was propping up an unfurled map.
It seemed as if Curwë had not yet recovered from the surprise of the sudden intrusion in his dwellings. His gaze was lost, darting from the broken window, to the blade of Naloy pressed against his neck, to the other clan Ernaly fighters threatening him with their javelins and bows. He seemed utterly amazed by the situation. The violence of the attack had shocked him into a state of wordless disbelief.
Stepping inside the room, like a victorious warlord strolling across a conquered battlefield, Mynar dyl reached for Curwë’s desk and seized the unsheathed broad sword. The brightest emeralds adorned its shining blade. Mynar dyl examined it carefully, like a jeweller would a precious diamond.
“This is the legendary Rymsing,” he finally said with a radiant smile, “the Blade of the West, which brings hope to the Elves, the sword of the fabled Seekers... and the Secret Vale’s property... Is it not?”
Curwë remained paralysed.
“My dear Curwë, I am most surprised, you seem to be taking the day off! I would have expected to find you with your head down, busily preparing for the upcoming music contest. A little bird told me you have been harbouring the greatest ambitions for this year’s festival. Rumour has it, you have been mouthing off in public about how you will outclass the ballet I have created. Yes, that’s right, I also heard you like boasting about your art above all before Nyriele dyl Llyvary. I know you spend a lot of time with her, telling her wonderful stories of faraway Essawylor, singing the songs of the legendary heroes of the High Elves and whispering into her hear. These innocent games have been going on for some time now. By all accounts, you entertain her well, some even say passionately so. I do not doubt you have a certain ability to make her eyes shine.
Perhaps you have dreamt of seducing her. Perhaps you imagined she would offer you her heart, overwhelmed by your pretty green eyes and curly hair.
You have chosen a difficult path, Curwë.
I am not saying this to diminish your merits, however. The truth is, I sincerely believe that you have set such an unattainable goal only to glorify yourself. After all, despite your curly hair and green eyes, beneath it all you are a true High Elf. One of the worst kinds, in fact: one who does not know his rightful place on Oron, and who will wreak chaos until he has managed to disturb the harmony that the deities have granted us.
But here we are. Or rather, here you are, caught reading the secret scrolls of the Dyoreni and in possession of the sword Rymsing, the stolen blade sought by the powerful Arkys across all the Islands...
Isn’t it funny how, in the space of a single day, one’s life can change so completely?”
Curwë now understood the desperate position he was in. As Mynar dyl’s cynical words cut into him, he sensed an unfamiliar feeling growing inside him, called kunumi in lingua Irawenti, or ‘a great anger’.
“You are a miserable Elf, Mynar dyl!” he replied bluntly, failing to control his disdain. “You are a snake whose venom poisons all around him.”
“These are the words of a defeated coward, worthy of a lowly thief caught in the act. I would have expected better of you.”
Determined to see this battle through to the end, Curwë threw all his forces into the fight.
“You do realize that, if the scrolls of the Dyoreni and the sword Rymsing have been found in my possession, it is because they were willingly given to me. Dyoren wanted them in safe custody before he set off on another perilous journey to fulfil his quest. He is heading to the valley of Nargrond, on the trail of the lost sword Lynsing. Dyoren may, at this very moment, be marching to his own death.”
A sly smile had drawn itself across Mynar dyl’s face. His manner and expression signalled his utter disinterest, for his elder brother’s fate.
“Perhaps Dyoren the Seventh,” he replied sardonically, “appointed ‘Curwë the First’ to be the next Seeker? Perhaps Dyoren the Seventh, in the true spirit of his rebellious order, chose his successor himself? That would make perfectly sense. Or rather, it might make perfect sense in the deeply troubled mind of a renegade Elf who defies the Secret Vale’s orders. I can only guess at the kind of madness an Elf like that might dream up. Perhaps Dyoren the Seventh believes the Arkys of the Secret Vale are imposters, unbelievers who do nothing but preach empty words. Perhaps he now sees himself as the deities’ true messenger on these Islands, responsible for delivering their holy words?”
Curwë spat back a counterattack. “Perhaps it is you, Mynar dyl, who plotted against him, so that you would be entrusted with his sacred glaive? Dyoren once told me you wanted Rymsing for yourself. You have always craved its power; you have always dreamt of wielding a sword whose blade could harm the Gods themselves. Will you deny it?”
After a moment of surprise, Mynar dyl openly laughed at the accusation.
“My foolish brother thought I wanted to become the next Seeker? Did he really make you believe that?
No, my dear Curwë, choosing a life of sacrifice and abstinence for the benefit of the Islands’ Elves has absolutely no appeal to me. On the contrary, I am very ambitious indeed for the earthly things a Seeker must forego. A knight of the Dyoreni must denounce worldly power, noble titles and all pleasures of the flesh, as things that will never give him peace of mind or wellbeing of spirit. They happen to be things I rather like.
I look around me, and I seize the best of what life has to offer. This is who I am, Mynar dyl, a great poet but nevertheless a physical being, subject to all kinds of temptations. I run after the pleasures of this world, including the carnal ones. I see it as my right to caress the softest of skins...”
Mynar dyl’s voice had true musicality. The rhythm of his words syncopated like notes on a musical score. He was a master of subjugating the mind. Curwë remained silent, like one temporarily defeated. He was looking at his opponent with fascination. His fearful gaze fixed upon the finely drawn mouth and hawk-like eyes of the warlord.
Mynar dyl closely examined the shining glaive he was holding in his left hand. He seemed to be weighing up whether he would trade his current life for the duties that came with the Sword of the West. Would he take that path for the sake of the greater good of the Islands? As he thought, he started licking the sharp blade of Rymsing.
“No, definitely not,” he concluded with a grim smile, “I would much rather be the father to Nyriele’s children.”
Blind with rage, Curwë rushed forward. But his attempt was immediately stopped by Naloy’s short sword. The blade cut deeply into the flesh of Curwë’s shoulder. At the same time, one of the archers released an arrow, which buried itself into the wood of his chair, pinning down the sleeve of Curwë’s tunic and forcing him to remain seated.
There was nonetheless a palpable threat of a bloody fight breaking out, such was Curwë’s fury. His past actions in battle undeniably demonstrated he had little regard for the odds when his honour was at stake.
A sudden noise outside interrupted Curwë’s imminent execution. Heavy footsteps could be heard. The loud cries of clan Llyvary guards, eager to understand the cause of the turmoil, filled the street. A moment later, fighters were inside the House of Essawylor. Their progress through the great hall could be heard distinctly, for the echoes of their aggressive exchanges with the clan Ernaly guards soon filled the study. There were many of them, and they sounded impatient to put an end to the clan Ernaly’s actions.
Realizing that he had little time before losing control of the situation, Mynar dyl brought his face very close to Curwë�
�s. An idea had dawned upon the warlord of Tios Halabron. He placed his hands upon the armrests of the Curwë’s chair. His breath was calm. He drew from his pocket a fine piece of jewellery, the colour of emerald. The rune of clan Ernaly was nestled inside the pendant, along with several small pearls.
“My dear Curwë,” whispered Mynar dyl, “you now have a choice to make. Either you leave Llafal today as a free Elf, never to reappear in front of Nyriele again... and swear that what I have discovered is true...”
“Never...” Curwë fought back, “never will I swear anything for you, miserable Elf.”
“Or... or you proclaim yourself to be the new Seeker, the honourable wielder of Rymsing, the greatest rebel of our times and... you will have to face the Secret Vale’s justice.”
Heavy steps were heard coming down the corridor. The guards of clan Llyvary were approaching.
Curwë, in a last desperate effort, tried to find a way out of Mynar dyl’s ultimatum.
“An oath obtained through coercion or force has no value. You know this, Mynar dyl.”
