The Valley of Nargrond

by C A Oliver

  Amid the rolling hills of this Sognen Tausy plateau, interspersed with small vales and countless streams, it seemed that time had slowed to nature's pace. The Elves of Mentollà appeared to lead their lives in an ordinary manner, conducting their seasonal occupations with serenity. Such was the nature of all Elves. They were perfectly able to while away their time simply enjoying the beauty of their environment, without ever becoming restless.

  Over not so many years, things had changed considerably. After the war Mentollà had faced, the threats of barbarian raids and the fear of retaliation from the king of Gwarystan had kept up a significant pressure on the small community. These adverse times had demanded a prodigious effort. The resolution and perseverance they all had demonstrated could not have been matched. The community had completed the restoration of Mentollà’s buildings and ramparts. The fortress walls had been rebuilt, thanks to the masonry skills of the Unicorn guards. The compound had been fortified and its defences strengthened. Heavy ammunition had been stored in case of a siege. All possible protective measures had been implemented to safeguard the security of the refugees from Essawylor. A serene atmosphere now prevailed among the community of Mentollà.

  So, to enjoy that evening’s beauty, Fendrya decided to sit quietly on the steps which led from the keep to the creek. From her high viewpoint, she could peacefully watch the gentle spectacle offered by the Elves within the compound and beyond.

  The sailors of the clan of Filweni were regrouping their small vessels behind the protection of the creek’s rocks. Teams of rowers drove narrow, lightweight boats into Mentollà’s safe harbour. They were bringing home plenty of supplies. Their canoes were full of shellfish and oysters, which could be found in abundance along the shores of Gloren’s bay.

  Other Irawenti were returning to the fortress after roaming the trails of the Sognen Tausy woods in search of wild fruit and game. It looked as if their hunting trips had been successful; numerous partridges and other wild birds now promised to find their way onto the small community’s plates that night.

  Fendrya took a few deep breaths, concentrating on what she valued most. This breathing technique helped her reduce the tension of the previous days and allowed her mind and body to feel more at one.

  Freshly cut grass, the burgeoning flowers of spring and the salty tang of the sea wafted through the air, letting her know that she was safe. There was something distinctly fortifying about the scents of home, this feeling of comfort, and having family and friends close by.

  Above her loomed the keep, a tower of a hundred and fifty feet, its round stone walls broken only by arrow slits. The top of the tower still resembled a mouth opened towards the heavens, like an ancient giant bearing the wounds caused by the wrathful deities of the Islands.

  Mentollà’s courtyard, however, was a fine sight, equalling the richest of Llafal’s gardens in majesty. The Irawenti had introduced exotic plants from Essawylor into the grounds of the fortress compound. Nutmeg and cinnamon had been planted alongside date palms and magnolia. Each season of Eïwele Llyi, the tropical trees’ scents reminded the small community of their days in Essawylor. Six stone buildings with majestic arches occupied the courtyard’s centre. They had been rebuilt with granite from the Arob Tiude Mountains. Their chimneys and ceilings were now repaired.

  Suddenly, Fendrya’s eye was caught by a group of unexpected guests emerging from the shadows of the woods on the other side of the creek, two hundred yards in front of where she sat. She immediately identified the newcomers as guards from the clan Ernaly. Their clothes were dark green and hawk feathers were woven into their hair. They were escorted by Irawenti sentries, who were keeping a respectable distance.

  The clan Ernaly unit cautiously approached the outer walls from the creek’s beach. They seemed to be on high alert, scanning their surroundings at every step, as if they expected some mischief from the Elves of Mentollà who surrounded them. Finally, the Llewenti reached the fortress’ moat on the other side of the beach and stopped there. They did not ask to be allowed inside but instead opened their closed ranks to provide passage for an Elf who seemed to have been their prisoner. Several bags, including a luxurious travel case, were dropped on the sand. The clan Ernaly guards did not remain much longer and, despite the approaching darkness of night, they were quickly on their way, as if a pack of wolves were after them. Their green cloaks soon disappeared into the darkness of the woodlands; in the same direction they had come.

  The Elf they had escorted stood alone on the beach. He looked strangely familiar to Fendrya. A moonbeam took on silvery reflections as it danced upon the surface of the creek’s waters. The light of the rising moon spread gradually to the beach. Then she recognized Curwë.

  The unexpected arrival of the bard left Fendrya intrigued. Immediately, she stood up and retraced her steps towards the fortress’ courtyard. The young lady moved quickly, using her staff to clear a route through the wild grass of the creek’s path. Further away, on the other side of Mentollà, the ocean roared while she walked along the slippery path. Even the surrounding noise of the sea failed to distract Fendrya from her thoughts.

  ‘What is Curwë doing in Mentollà a few days before the festival in Llafal? And why has he been escorted by clan Ernaly guards?’ she worried.

  *

  It took Fendrya but a few moments to reach the fortress’ gates. Sailors, hunters, guards and artisans alike had all gathered around Curwë to welcome him and help carry his belongings. All the Elves of Mentollà had developed the deepest sympathy for the Elf with green eyes. Curwë was considered a hero, a flamboyant character and a prodigious bard who had the talent to enchant his audience with his unparalleled way of playing the Muswab, the music from Essawylor.

  Fendrya immediately saw that Curwë was not looking his usual self, as if some serious incident had occurred. The bard was trying his utmost to hide his distress, giving special thanks to some of his companions, complimenting others with warmth. But the young lady could not be fooled by his unconvincing attempt to mask his state of mind.

  Using her authority among the community, she requested that they be left alone, claiming the bard needed to rest after his long journey from Llafal. Fendrya was Curwë’s friend and one he trusted. They had grown even closer since they both had been living in Llafal. The House of Essawylor, where Curwë dwelt, had become the Irawenti priestess’ second home over the last few years.

  Curwë agreed to be taken to the garden of Cil, a small orchard of mango trees where they could talk in peace. Once they were quietly seated on the elegant bench of the grove, away from prying eyes, Fendrya called upon their special friendship to get to the bottom of what had happened.

  “Tell me why your heart is troubled. I see an infinite pain in your gaze. What has happened to the flamboyant Curwë?” Fendrya asked, trying to show as much compassion as she could.

  The bard sang the first line of one of his songs. “I ignore sadness, the Muswab will chase it away…” but the tone of his voice was not convincing.

  After a while, he agreed to explain his sudden arrival.

  “Feïwal dyn has called me. He is meant to travel to Gwa Nyn this summer. I have decided to go with him.”

  Fendrya looked surprised. “I thought you did not wish to join him and had chosen to stay in Llafal. Feïwal dyn was angry for several days after you refused his call for aid. I heard him say you were changed and no longer recognized your true friends. He blamed the new life you enjoy in Llafal, your close relationships with the Llewenti and your taste for the finer things in life...”

  “Well, I’ve changed my mind after all, and decided to honour my vows to the warlord of Mentollà. In fact, I came here to apologize. I will be the first one at Feïwal dyn’s side for this expedition to Gwa Nyn. Look, my personal belongings are already packed,” insisted Curwë, visibly eager to maintain his secret despite the evidence.

  Fendrya still could not believe his story. None of it rang true.

  “But Nelwiri dyn has no
t yet returned from Nyn Llorely. The Alqualinquë is not expected before the beginning of summer. “

  “Then I will wait here,” cut in Curwë, before adding with a disenchanted look, “the air of Mentollà will do me much good.”

  “But you had plenty of time to take part in the festival in Llafal before departing. Many were those who thought you could have been rewarded with the gifts of Eïwele Llyi. Your victory would have had a considerable echo throughout the Islands. It would have made us proud. Curwë, do not pretend you came back to Mentollà willingly. I simply cannot believe it. Will you tell me the truth? I am sure I can help you,” pressed Fendrya.

  Her facial expression, her upturned nose and the sparkle in her eyes expressed the most candid and genuine feelings of compassion. Curwë could not resist such kindness for long.

  “Well, you will learn what happened sooner or later, so I might as well explain it to you now. Maybe being relieved of this burden will do me some good…” the bard said.

  Breathing deeply, like easing an unseen pain, Curwë began. “I was humiliated, Fendrya, or perhaps worse: my honour and dignity have been severely wounded. This is the reason I have withdrawn to Mentollà. I was wrongfully degraded by… Mynar dyl.”

  “Cil, Cim, Cir!” Fendrya reacted. “What happened?”

  “Dyoren returned to Llafal.”

  “Dyoren, the Renegade!” the young lady exclaimed.

  “Dyoren the Seeker, the knight of the Secret Vale. He came to ask for my help,” specified Curwë.

  Fendrya was shocked. “But all the Llewenti clans are after Dyoren. They want to capture him. The matriarchs of Llymar have condemned him for rebellion.”

  “That is true, but Dyoren is nevertheless a great knight, an Elf of valour, worthy of our admiration. He means a lot to me. I consider him to be something of a mentor,” confided Curwë.

  “How can this be? You barely know him.” Fendrya was lost.

  “More than you think. To tell you the truth, Dyoren believes we were meant to meet. Something to do with my unusual green eyes is what he told me. A dream he had repeatedly, which he believes is inspired by his legendary sword. Whatever sorcery is behind it, there is a strange bond between us, and, since that day I saved Rymsing from the barbarians, our paths keep crossing. What I am trying to tell you, Fendrya, is that Dyoren wanted me to become his heir.”

  Curwë’s expression was full of pain, as if he could still hear the words which Dyoren had spoken to him, lashing at his soul.

  “What did you do?” Fendrya enquired, now deeply concerned.

  “I helped him, as was my duty. I chose that path because it was dictated by my honour.”

  “And you got caught by Mynar dyl?”

  “In a way, Fendrya, but Dyoren escaped, and that is what matters. The clans of Llymar took back his possessions, the Blade of the West and the scrolls of the Dyoreni, but they failed to capture him…

  As for me, Mynar dyl pressured me into leaving Llafal and returning to Mentollà if I wished to avoid confronting the Council of Matriarchs. So here I am, defeated and humiliated. The rage inside me hurts, Fendrya, like never before. I know now what Lord Roquen must have felt when he was ignominiously degraded by Queen Aranaele.”

  “Siw!” Fendrya replied. “I know all too well how your temper can burst into flames. I have seen it happen. But you should calm down now and rejoice that the worst did not come to pass. I am glad Mynar dyl acted this way, giving you a chance to make amends. By letting you go, he proved wiser than I would have thought. After Aewöl’s exile, new accusations against our community would have been disastrous. These are hard times indeed. Everything seems to be falling apart.”

  “I will not accept this fate, Fendrya!” insisted Curwë in a fleeting fit of anger.

  “Of course you will accept it! Within any Elvin realm, conflict will exist. They can be of many different natures, from power struggles to family rivalries. These disputes can lead to grave consequences, such as treason or even murder. But generally, wise rulers prevent their emergence and avoid their destructive effects with the power of law. Resolving disputes is one of the many responsibilities of those who command our common fate. This is the duty of the Council of Matriarchs in Llymar, and we owe them our allegience.

  Siw, Curwë! What you are telling me is dangerous. Confronting Mynar dyl as you did was a deadly mistake. All his actions are legitimate according to Llewenti customs, you cannot count on any Elf in Llymar Forest to lay blame on his conduct. The Council of the Matriarchs would defend him in any case.”

  Curwë immediately spat back his reply, his eyes filled with rage.

  “Is my loyalty to Dyoren not noble? Do we not share the same hope?”

  “Cil, Cim,Cir! I understand, Curwë! Your views are perfectly defensible from your perspective! They would be legitimate too among the Irawenti clans. Do not misunderstand me, I know what noble ambition is in your heart,” Fendrya said as she tried to soothe his anger.

  Curwë insisted on making his point. “Among my kin, any Elf is free to give his heirloom to the one he chooses. It is the heir’s responsibility to refuse it and no one may interfere with his freedom of choice.”

  Fendrya warned him. “Siw! Curwë, I know of the Hawenti custom. What I am trying to tell you has nothing to do with good or evil, right or wrong, I am trying to make you see how dangerous your antipathy towards Mynar dyl is. If you pursue this unilateral struggle you started all the way to its conclusion, ignoring your opponent’s standpoint, if you deliberatly choose to ignore the context you live in, that your friends live in, you will lead us into a bloodbath, I warn you!”

  The bard would not accept any of it. “Mynar dyl is a monster, I am telling you. He is a vile character who relishes making his power felt in perverse and cruel ways. You should know what he did to his own brother! Mynar dyl had Dyoren chased down to the most remote island of the Archipelago so that the Lonsely Seeker could be handed over to his judges.”

  “I know you will not hear it, Curwë, but trying to capture Dyoren is legitimate, it is what the Council of the Matriarchs ordered. Do not let your friendship for your companion blind you. Stay away from the Llewenti clans. Mingling with their affairs will only bring an ill fate upon you.”

  For the first time, Curwë appeared to accept the arguments of his friend.

  “Perhaps you are right, Fendrya. You know I always praised your wisdom and sought your advice.”

  Once again, Fendrya tried to use her charm to appease the disillusioned bard. With a knowing smile, she reminded him of better times.

  “I remember how, during the days of sunshine, back there in Essawylor, when green-eyed Curwë would stop at nothing to charm any young maiden he came across. He wouldn’t be happy until he had conquered the hearts of every female in the assembly!”

  Fendrya had an amused yet bashful smile as she remembered this happy time. Instead of the mischievous twinkle of a doe-eyed Brazilian model, we are captivated thisDespite the mischievous twinkle of the doe-eyed maiden that obessed his mind, in that moment Curwë was captivated by the enigmatic, blue-eyed gaze of this face full of character, with sunkissed features and brooding good looks. The bard concluded their heart-to-heart with a lighter tone, in an attempt to make fun of himself.

  “The day I will jump from the top of Gwarystan Rock has not come yet,”

  Fendrya nodded and laughed.

  “I do feel for you,” she said. “I know how much you will miss life in Llafal. Did you think I had not noticed, when we were there together, your frequent reveries and your empty gaze? You can tell me, Curwë. There must be someone. Is she beautiful?”

  “… She is!” Curwë sighed.

  “And sweet?”

  “As Eïwele Llyi herself!”

  “And yet she did not come with you, on this day of return to Mentolla.”

  “Nor does she accompany anyone else,” Curwë countered.

  “So you are hopeful?” enquired the young lady.

  “I would not be
able to live differently.”

  “You must strive to be worthy of her,” she replied, speaking now as a priestress of the white temple. “Be brave and pure to be honored with her love. This is the highest reward that a devoted Elf can earn from Eïwele Llyi.”

  “I am trying, but she is so noble and pure that I am afraid of never being worthy,” confided the bard.

  Fendrya smiled as she listened to the poet’s words.

  “On the contrary, if you think this way, you’ll eventually become worthy of her. Does she live in Tios Lluin at the court of the house of Dol Etrond?”

  “No… of course not.” Curwë answered quite bluntly.

  “But all the High Elves of Llymar live in Tios Lluin... Is she not Hawenti?” The young lady replied, looking puzzled.

  “No in truth, she is not,” acknowledged the bard openly.

  “Beware Curwë, beware! The Llewenti cannot offer a High Elf the type of love he longs for,” opposed Fendrya with a severe tone.

  Her mind was racing to identify who the lady who inspired such passion could be. After a while, she thought it through. She knew. The unthinkable had happened.

  Fendrya had spoken with gravity, and she now looked Curwë insistently in the eye. The bard remained motionless, pensive. Finally, his lost gaze managed to fix itself on her again. The tension between them rose when she mentioned the legend of Llyoriane, the Llewenti queen, and the sacrifice she made to save her people from the wrath of Eïwal Ffeyn as their naves approached the shores of the Islands. Fendrya spoke prudishly to describe how Llyoriane offered herself to the deity of storms to calm his wrath and save her fleet from perdition.