by C A Oliver
She wondered if he would accept the sacred Spear of Aonyn, should war be waged upon them. The legendary weapon was the ultimate symbol of authority over the Llewenti clans’ armies. Wielding it implied important responsibility and duty. She concluded that it would be a burden too great for Tyar dyl to bear. A tremor of fear swept over her as she realised.
“Who, then, will lead the fighters if the barbarians return? Or, rather, when the barbarians return?”
Her fear and unease increased and was growing ever stronger. She closed her eyes, despite the soft glow of sunset. She suddenly felt alone, very alone, and it was frightening. Most Llewenti of Llymar lived in the forest, far from the city and hence from any hope of outside help. Lyrine realized then that she had sent the other matriarchs of Llafal away to bring them help after the cyclone for a specific reason. This time, she needed her fellow high priestesses to be out of the way so that she might handle the situation herself. She wanted to control this moment. While she had difficulty admitting it, Lyrine knew that this ship’s arrival could, or indeed would, trigger events of immense importance.
The elder matriarch then reproached herself: ‘You are no better than any Hawenti tyrant whose authority was passed down his bloodline. This despotism of yours flies in the face of two thousand years’ worth of Llewenti tradition. You believe that it is you alone who can command and care for this clan, simply because of your lineage, because of your great powers over the Islands’ Flow.’
In her mind’s eye, she could see her father again, as she did in her worst nightmares. She could see him dying in her arms from his numerous wounds, handing her his spear, entrusting her with the most sacred weapon of the Llewenti clans. She could see, around him, the corpses of the many barbarians that had fallen at the fury of his blade. Almost a hundred years had passed, but the wounds had not healed, and the pain had not subsided: nothing could compensate for that loss. Her hatred, however, endured: abhorrence for the race of men, for their vile deeds and endless thirst for conquest.
‘Your hatred must be watched as carefully as a campfire. If it burns too ferociously, it threatens the existence of the whole forest; but if you let it die, you will be left cold and defenceless.’
She remembered her father’s words and kept her emotions in check.
Lyrine concentrated on regaining her composure. She could not allow anyone or anything to obscure her mind or shadow her thoughts. The matriarch knew that one day her decisions would influence the fate of all the Llewenti. In this, she was alone. She would therefore act on her own. The Lady of Llafal breathed deeply, taking in the evening breeze that carried the scents of the Halwyfal. Lyrine turned around and faced Temple Square, its lanterns defiant in the falling night. She strode towards the guards who were always stationed close to her, awaiting her command.
“Send for the priestesses of Eïwele Llyo and have them open the Grey Temple.
Station yourselves at its entrance. Let no one trouble me until Tyar dyl returns. The full moon will soon rise; make haste,” ordered Lyrine decisively.
The shrine of Eïwele Llyo was in the southern half of Temple Square, at a distance from the trees so that, when the moon was full, it was bathed in a blue light, its open ceilings revealing the night sky above. It was adorned with silver moonstones and surrounded by a garden of night-blooming flowers. The deity held a prominent place in the clan’s pantheon. The divinity of dreams, fate, death and reincarnation, Eïwele Llyo was said to reside in the heart of Nyn Llyvary Island, in a great, underground hall. From inside this vast cave, she would rely upon her evocative power to spread out dreams across the archipelago, as she watched over the destinies of all Llewenti. She was represented as an ancient, withered Elvin creature, personifying the keeper of the souls and the weaver of prophecies. Eïwele Llyo alone could read the patterns of time from stones carved with lava markings which she found deep in the underground. Ravens were her messengers and when they soared across the Islands, the wise among the Llewenti were eager to interpret these signs, for it was believed that Eïwele Llyo knew the fate of all who dwelt in the Islands.
The clergy of Eïwele Llyo did not take long to gather within the temple. The six priestesses were dressed in silvery-grey, diaphanous gowns. With these, they wore silver diadems on their heads, simple sandals, and silver lace sashes around their waists.
As shrouded in mystery as their deity herself, little was known of the clergy’s secretive hierarchy. The rest of the clan saw them as mystics and seers, spiritual counsellors to the Elves before their souls began that mystical journey to the undying forest, in search of transcendence. The cult viewed life as a series of mysteries, shrouded by the deity herself, which the spirits of the Elves could only discover through dreams and visions after they had transcended their mortal existences. Worshippers of Eïwele Llyo revered the moon; it governed their souls just as it controlled the ocean’s tides. The temple’s priestesses also celebrated funerals and guarded the material remains of the dead. Their power to weave illusions and practise divination was deeply respected by all.
Tonight, however, the clerics of Eïwele Llyo had been summoned by the most powerful of the clan’s matriarchs. The moon was full and the high priestess, no doubt, would call on their prayers and spells. They prepared themselves to devote several days to playing the harp, immersing themselves in vivid waking dreams, and communing with their deity across the two worlds.
When the elder matriarch entered the temple, which had been prepared, they began the joyous, freeform dance that would precede their communal trance and meditation, but Lyrine stopped them to make her objectives clear.
“We must join with Eïwele Llyo! I intend to call upon the Oracle of Llafal. I wish to look into the waters of Halwyfal.”
Terror struck the six priestesses. The matriarch was ready to use the Islands’ Flow, to look into the unknown, and to extract some hint of things to come. No one had dared attempt this since the beginning of the Century of War.
The temple doors closed so the ritual could begin.
*
Four days later, Lyrine was told of the warlord of Llafal’s return. Tyar dyl had completed his mission and was returning home with a prisoner. The shipwrecked Elves had not put up any kind of struggle before letting their captain go. On the contrary, their joy had been great and their hopes high. The envoy of the Llewenti had been welcomed like a hero and thanked warmly for his gifts. The Blue Elves had improvised an exotic dance, with loud percussion and wild music, to celebrate his coming. The Irawenti were an extraordinary people when it came to celebration and feasting. Their innate empathy and joyful salutations had made a strong impression upon Tyar dyl. He had thus paid the utmost respect to their captain, who in return had voiced no objection to submitting to the matriarchs’ bidding.
In the interlude, Lyrine had enough time to recover from the exhaustion which had followed the summoning of the Islands’ Flow. Upon Tyar dyl’s arrival, she immediately called for his prisoner. Many precautions were taken to hide his presence in the city of the clan Llyvary.
The shipwreck’s envoy was admitted to the great hall of the clan’s stronghold after nightfall, with even greater secrecy.
The hall was a large reception room occupying the entire top floor. Its walls were fashioned out of stone, but wood was pervasive throughout. Many intricately carved pillars were arranged symmetrically throughout the room creating the impression of an engineered forest. Lush plants gave the place a vital glow. The tops of some reached as far as the beautiful, glass, domed ceiling which covered the hall and revealed the night sky. This intermingling of the wild and the artistic gave the hall an aura of mysticism and wonder. To the east and west, large windows overlooked the sleeping city. Stained glass coloured the light as it filtered through. It created an atmosphere which combined the most delicate art with the highest spirituality. On its southern side, the room opened out onto a terrace which overlooked the Halwyfal. While the north wall was covered with a huge wooden panel, into this had be
en carved several illustrious chairs decorated with figures from Llewenti mythology. The clan’s noble dyl sat on these seats during ceremonies and clan councils.
Down in front of this impressive row of seats, a stage dominated the rest of the hall. Three large chairs, made of wood and foliage, were arranged in an arc. They were the symbol of the Matriarchs of Llafal’s power.
Only Lyrine was present that night. The most powerful dignitary of the clan Llyvary sat in the central chair like a queen on her throne. Her long, shimmering, silky hair seemed to create a mysterious aura around her. She wore a green cloak with the hood thrown back. With her eyes half-closed and her head slightly inclined; she was muttering incantations when the castaways’ envoy was introduced into the great hall.
The Lady of Llafal scrutinised her guest. She immediately noted that he was dressed with great care, which demonstrated respect for his host and perhaps even some kind of effort to seduce her. A diadem of pearls adorned his head. His long hair, strewn with silvery feathers, was combed delicately and hung down to his waist. The light, silk robe he had chosen to wear was of an unknown origin and design, its shimmering white and azure tones seeming exotic and mystical. But the matriarch’s gaze was mainly captured by the tattooed motif which adorned the left half of the navigator’s face. Lyrine examined it carefully before concluding that it must have been a protective pentagram. She also noted that her guest had paid little attention to the hostile, watchful attitude of the guards. She was somewhat unnerved by his calm face and inquisitive eyes, azure like a tropical sea.
The shadows of night had encroached upon the palace; the corners of the great hall sunk away into the darkness. The flickering red light emanating from a fireplace played upon the navigator’s face, dancing like wildfire. He stood in the centre of the room motionless, silent and staring, fully aware of the solemnity of the moment. The castaways’ representative seemed calm and assured. He sat down quietly, resting his hands on his knees, his eyes shining like stars. His long, dark-azure hair reflected the glow of the fire; his serene gaze fixed upon the Llewenti lady.
It was the matriarch who broke the silence first. She chose to express herself in the tongue of the High Elves, in lingua Hawenti, as Tyar dyl had reported that the intruders practiced it. She uttered her first words very slowly, taking care to articulate each syllable, as though calling upon knowledge buried deep within her memory.
“I have been told that your ship ran aground on the beach of a small isle called Pyenty, off the Gloren peninsula. There are very few Elves or men that would dare sail north of Llymar’s shores. It is Eïwal Ffeyn’s domain, and the devastating potential of his anger is well known. A wise sailor would also know that, were he to escape the wrath of the deity, he would not be met with a benevolent welcome from the forest’s inhabitants. The woods of Llymar belong to the Llewenti clans; foreigners are not welcome here.”
Lyrine paused, her eyes fixed intensely upon her guest, as she tested the effect of her threatening words. She then continued.
“I see that I was not deceived. You are of Irawenti ancestry. I was unaware that any Blue Elves, pure-blood descendants of those legendary navigators from the dawn of this Age, remained on the archipelago.
Our songs tell us that their blood mingled with our own distant relatives from the clan Llorely who dwell in the city of Urmilla[25]. I was also told that you do not understand our language and speak in authentic Irawenti, an exotic and incomprehensible dialect to our ears. Until recently, you relied on lingua Hawenti to communicate. There are only few of us left who can understand it. It is a dead language. Even the High Elves use it solely for writing manuscripts. The archaic tongue cannot even be heard in the royal court of Gwarystan.
I look forward to hearing your story; your arrival here amongst us is shrouded in mystery. Our vessels travel the seas of the archipelago. Before now, I have never heard a tale of an authentic Irawenti sailing the high seas.”
The castaways’ envoy let these last words echo throughout the great hall. He then stepped forward, bowed respectfully, and began to answer the questions that had been posed to him. He too spoke in Ancient Hawenti, but quite fluently, as it was common practice in the kingdom of Essawylor. Hence, his delivery was faster, and peppered with various exotic pronunciations of Irawenti origin, which added flavour to the ancient rhetoric of the High Elves.
“I will explain, Noble Matriarch,” he began solemnly.
“Our ship does not come from the archipelago; I do not know these islands. We have no affiliation with the clan Llorely of the Llewenti. I regret not to be in a position to speak your language, which sounds elegant and attractive to my ears. I have not yet mastered its subtleties. We are castaways from the Austral Ocean. We come from the distant shores of Essawylor, where Queen Aranaele rules.”
At this revelation, the matriarch could not help but shudder. She was silent for a moment, lost in thought, fear etched onto her face. She continued.
“Very, very few sailors have managed to reach these shores from the other side of the Austral Ocean. The dangers are immense. Your errand must be of great importance, foreigner from distant lands.”
“It is not so, Noble Matriarch. No mission has been entrusted to us. Only the ambition of reaching a friendly Elvin refuge has guided us so far,” the castaways’ envoy confessed.
He then introduced himself in a more formal manner.
“I am Feïwal dyn Filweni, navigator and explorer. I am not here to represent any king or queen. I am not the ambassador of any worldly power or cause. Others from my kin came with me. We were also accompanied by High Elves who belong to the House of Dol Lewin, once a powerful force in the kingdom of Essawylor.
We chose to flee the tyranny of Queen Aranaele and cross the ocean. I come from the land of the Five Rivers; I hail from beyond the Austral Ocean, where Llewenti songs of old are sung only as fictions which the Irawenti no longer believe to have any truth. Long ago, Queen Aranaele convinced our clans that traversing the Austral Ocean would only lead to the abyss. No Elf who braved it had ever returned.
But we, of the clan Filweni, did not forget the ancient knowledge of our fathers, and we saved it from oblivion. My people discovered the legacy left by the Llewenti after we re-conquered Essawylor. Unlike the other Irawenti clans, we, have kept our old beliefs alive, and we continue to celebrate the fabled legends of the archipelago. We are the keepers of the ancient writings of the Llewenti Queen Llyoriane. The legend of your people kindles the fire in the songs and tales of our bards. The story of the Llewenti lies at the very heart of our identity however unknown we may be to you.”
Lyrine admitted, “So it is true. My daughter was right and Tyar dyl too. Despite all the evidence brought to me, I was unwilling and refused to admit it. You have come from far way, Feïwal dyn Filweni, and I do not doubt that you have braved incredible dangers and suffered many losses.”
“We have, noble Matriarch! But my clan bears a responsibility. It is we who must lead the way when the dusk finally comes. And that time is approaching. ‘We will cross the ocean’; those are our words. We inherited this vow from our ancestor Filwen, the first who heard in his dreams the songs of the Lost Islands.”
The Lady of Llafal interrupted him impatiently.
“Tell me more about the fabled Essawylor. Tell me what threat drove you to undertake such a dangerous journey,” she ordered.
“Noble Matriarch, I will tell all.
It began several decades ago.
My father, Fadalwy, plagued by a deep, nagging urge, dragged the Filweni on a journey.
He called upon every ounce of the clan’s energy and devotion. New maps were drawn. New techniques were developed to better arm our ships. My father was a brilliant shipwright himself, but he was also surrounded by many steadfast followers, who all shared his devotion to Gweïwal Uleydon. The other Irawenti clan leaders saw him as one possessed, bewitched by the God of the Oceans. But we dyn of the clan Filweni never doubted him or the vision he set out for us.
My father cannot witness our success; his ship was engulfed by the sea just off the Atolls which now bear his name. The surviving ships from that expedition were the first to ever return to our shores from so far away. My father’s exploits represented a monumental conquest. The great distance travelled by his fleet and the discovery of hidden islands led to the destruction of a deeply ingrained belief. Throughout the centuries, the wisest among the Elves of Essawylor had always asserted that navigation beyond the passage of the Nen was impossible, that any sailor venturing beyond this limit would suffer the worst torments imaginable. Our history books did not deny this theory, nor did even the most resolute of our sailors set out to challenge it.
Cil, Cim, Cir! My father’s successful expeditions disproved this unfounded belief. We became bolder as a clan, and a new generation of fearless young sailors emerged, spurred on by an unwavering resolution to test the limits imposed by the clerics’ antiquated beliefs. For two decades, we roamed the ocean, searching in vain for the lost archipelago. Our exploratory voyages began to stretch to the edges of the Sea of Cyclones.
Our mission was to save our own kind, to open a pathway to exile should we meet ruin. But during all these attempts, we had to keep the return voyage in mind. We were therefore condemned to failure. The quest for the Lost Islands is a journey that cannot offer any hope of return. It is a leap into the unknown. It is an act of faith.”
Feïwal paused, his voice distorted and choked by emotion. He took a deep breath before continuing.
“For a long time now, fear has plagued the Elves of Essawylor. Our borders are consistently threatened by the devastating raids of bloodthirsty men who come from beyond the equatorial steppes, from a dark land cursed by the Gods. The enemy is assembling, in ever-greater numbers, at our borders. Last spring, war came upon us. Men of the Desert Horde invaded from the northern front in the province of Ystanlewin, where the standard of the War Unicorn had flown proudly for so long. The land was utterly devastated; the gates to that city of Dol Lewin were closed. The city’s army had long served as a bulwark, ensuring peace and freedom to the rest of the Kingdom. Yet it was defeated, destroyed, before any rescue came.
