by C A Oliver
Dark smoke now rises from the ruins of that once-glorious city and I fear that its fall is but the prelude to many further tragedies.
This is the reason why we come here to you with a message of peace with our hearts filled with hope.”
At the matriarch’s bidding, a servant interrupted Feïwal’s story to bring her wine and fruits. Lyrine forced a smile as she reached over and seized a fine crystal glass from the table. She concentrated hard on pouring the golden liquor into the precious cup, her focus on this simple action masking the turmoil within her.
“Your words are true, Feïwal dyn Filweni, as true as your dedication to this quest. I can see that you believe in what you say. This faith gives you considerable strength… and it makes you dangerous. I understand what you have fought for. I comprehend your noble quest. What you have achieved is without doubt the greatest deed of any navigator in recent history. This is no exaggeration.” She nodded once these words had left her mouth, still struck with incredulity, before continuing.
“Even your ancestor Filwen could not survive that voyage, according to tales of old. His ruined ship washed up on the shores of the peninsula. Indeed, he is said to have drowned just a few leagues from his promised land,” she nodded again, her mind racing to measure the implications of such a feat. However, other sailors in that fleet, sons and followers of Filwen, did indeed reach our shores,” she added, her voice trembling as she struggled to contain her emotion. “They were not alone… nor were they defenceless.”
Her gaze, veiled by a stirring, long-forgotten memory, focused on Feïwal’s eyes.
“What are you telling me, Noble Matriarch?” asked the navigator, holding his breath.
A silence ensued. The matriarch seemed to hesitate over which course of action to take. She tried to suppress a deeply rooted suffering, re-emerging from the past. But it proved overwhelming.
“I speak of disastrous events from a long time ago. Some of those ships that you speak of succeeded in their quest. Members of your kin survived, as did the Hawenti princes and their Dol vassals who travelled with them. Their survival marked our doom,” she replied severely.
Feïwal did not question her further after this change in attitude, but from the few words that the matriarch had already uttered, he deduced that certain members of his own clan must have made it across the ocean before they settled on some other island. They may have had some connection with the Llewenti clan that she had accused him of being associated with earlier. Feïwal was relieved and found this news reassuring, hence he was blind to what was about to come.
The matriarch rose from her seat; he admired her tall, thin and gracious stature. But an element of fear was growing within him, as he gradually realized that he was under threat. A coil of cold, intense hatred was wound up within the Lady of the clan Llyvary, waiting for an opportunity to spring. She moved towards him suddenly, confronting him with a malevolent look in her eyes.
“Fools! All of them were fools. Utter wretched fools. Fools were the Irawenti who came looking for their promised land. They carried with them, aboard their ships, their own annihilation: the pride and the thirst for power of their companions, the High Elves.
Fools were the Hawenti who believed that power stemmed from war and from gold: those Elves who fought for a forgotten world, a world sentenced to doom by oaths from another age. Fools were the six clans of the Llewenti that failed to unite to preserve their realm.
The gentle Llorely clan rallied the High Elves before the first arrow was shot.
The naïve clan Avrony sought shelter and protection in the depths of their ancient forests, ignorant of their fate.
The fierce clan Ernaly fought valiantly but alone, refusing to trust their kin.
The cold clan Llyandy remained hidden in their desert of snow, caring nothing for the plight of others.
The evil clan Myortilys saw their power consumed in treachery and deceit, believing that, through betrayal and duplicity, they could rule the Islands.
The Llyvary, my own clan, also failed. We, too, made many mistakes, and failed to follow the right path,” she admitted.
Her breath was shallow, yet she resumed her story.
“What these fools all failed to see was that power has always resided with the Islands’ deities. The archipelago had long been protected from the turmoil of the wider world.
Chaos only reached our shores when your kin, the Irawenti sailors of the fabled-clan Filweni, appeared in hundreds of ships upon the horizon. These ships bore the banners of the Hawenti houses. But Eïwal Ffeyn could not allow this to happen; he conjured all his might, challenging the power of that fleet, as it sailed the Austral Ocean towards our shores. He summoned to his side Griffons, Hippogriffs and Storm Eagles to fight the invaders, but he was defeated. Eïwal Ffeyn was overcome.
The power of the High Elves had prevailed. The deity of storms was cast out of the archipelago to his doom, incarcerated in the largest jail imaginable: the vast expansive Sea of Cyclones.”
Lyrine paused, her eyes empty, as though she was still considering what power could have accomplished such a feat.
“Even the wisest of Llewenti could not ever have foreseen how that lust for power would consume the newcomers as the following years, decades and centuries passed. They became utterly possessed by their accursed ambition. No matter how deep in the forest you hide, no matter how cunning you are in diplomacy, no matter how ferocious you are in warfare, the High Elves are always to be feared.
After every trade agreement, every treaty, every battle, every war, one by one the realms of the Llewenti clans, the six islands of the archipelago, fell to the dominion of the new ruler: Lormelin the Conqueror, self-proclaimed king. Oaths were taken, submissions were sworn, power abandoned and faith in the Islands’ deities forgotten. Most of the Llewenti were subdued, falling in line behind the new order by joining one of the Hawenti noble houses. After centuries of conflict, little was left for us.
The Llewenti are hopeful and brave; these virtues make them dedicated servants. The High Elves lead, they lie, and they deceive, and these vices make them highly adept at seizing and retaining control.
Despite the infighting and quarrelling, the Islands’ deities had always collectively been the protectors of the Llewenti, the children of the beloved Queen Llyoriane. But the power of the High Elves drove them away to all corners of the lands: far out across the ocean, down into the depths of the earth and deep into the distant mountains. The matriarchs saw their powers diminish as the high towers of Gwarystan rose, where the high mages of the Ruby College were harvesting the Islands’ Flow for the new king’s benefit.”
A silence followed, as if Lyrine needed some time to catch her breath and to reconstruct the events. At last, she continued her tale.
“But there was another force that had always coveted the archipelago, an ever-present threat from the Mainland’s distant southern shores. This danger had been kept at bay by the storms of Eïwal Ffeyn, contained by the power of the Islands’ deities since the earliest days of the world.
In the thick of the vast tribal grasslands, the human barbarians multiplied for centuries, until the time came when they understood they were strong enough. A new power had risen, the Men of the West, amongst them great craftsmen, led by powerful Sea Hierarchs. They manipulated the barbarian tribes of the Mainland and unleashed all their power upon the Elves of the archipelago.
It began one fateful night in Nyn Ernaly[26], a night of sorrow and death, when the great galleys of the Westerners unleashed a horde of barbarians, who burnt to the ground Mentolewin[27], the great fortress protecting the strait of Oymal[28].
Many centuries have passed since that first raid, and war has been raging ever since, save for few periods of ominous peace. Year on year, battle by battle, Elves gradually lost control of the western islands, their inhabitants fleeing the terrifying raids and relinquishing their lands. The High Elves, clinging to what remained of their former glory, fought bravely, but they were
ultimately subdued and withdrew to their fortress cities at the centre of the archipelago, preserving the heart of their realm. They signed a peace treaty with the Men of the West and the Barbarians. They called it ‘The Pact’.
Nowadays, most of the Llewenti serve the King of Gwarystan, choosing to live in the safety of his domains and fortresses, obedient to the Hawenti Dol houses. But others chose to remain as the six clans of old, living according to our tradition and remaining free. We struggle every day to preserve the ruins of our ancient realms.
The remaining free Llewenti are scattered and weak, with little hope left after centuries resisting inevitable destruction. Whatever our allegiances, all of us are subject to the Pact, for it has now guaranteed peace on the Islands for almost a century.
The promised islands that you sought is not what you dreamt them to be; the sky burns red with a thousand dreadful warnings.”
Lyrine added, with a closed expression on her face. “Where will you look for hope now, Feïwal dyn Filweni?”
The navigator was astonished by Lyrine’s story. He took a moment to reply, but, when he did, his voice was still firm and quiet.
“Our quest remains unchanged: it is in the Llewenti, my Lady, and in your clan, that we wish to place our hope. We are lost and can never return home.”
“It cannot be; you cannot stay here. The King’s eyes are concentrated upon the forest of Llymar, awaiting the Llewenti clans’ first challenge to his authority. I will not risk it.”
She paused for a while before finally deciding to continue.
“Your kin, it seems, preferred to forget the dark events that led to the formation of the Kingdom of Essawylor. The same is not true for the High Elves of our islands. They will forever remember their oath to King Lormelin. The Conqueror never forgave how his people were chased from Essawylor, how his relative, your queen, seized the throne. He did not forgive neither the vile crimes perpetrated in her name. All those sworn to King Lormelin’s service took an oath of revenge against Queen Aranaele’s followers. I know from Hawenti scholars that, before launching his fleet across the Austral Ocean, he made all those who rallied behind him commit to this vow. Long after, when Lormelin was murdered, this oath of revenge was passed down, along with his crown, to his son, King Norelin.”
Lyrine paused again for a moment and then went on to insist.
“Oaths are not taken lightly by High Elves, Feïwal dyn! Some dedicate their entire life to the fulfilment of such vows, knowing full well that it may lead them to their doom. The war unicorn of Dol Lewin was seen aboard your ship. It is a cursed banner in these waters: the banner of a divided house, whose members fought fiercely during that war of old. They fought ruthlessly: brother against brother, son against father. The High Elves who came with you are a dangerous burden. Think on it! Unlike us mere Wenti, Hawenti are immortal. While we may willingly abandon our existence, they never grow tired of life. They never give up, for their memory is immortal too.
Trust me, Feïwal dyn, forgiveness does not come easily to the High Elves.”
The recounting of this ancient tale had created a palpable atmosphere of unease between them. It was as if time itself had stopped once Lyrine finished recounting these evil deeds. The oath of Lormelin created an insurmountable barrier between the two Elves. They both felt dread stirring within them.
“You cannot stay in Llymar. That is my decision. We will help you repair your ship before you sail away. The clan Llyvary will not take you prisoner, as we have no allegiance to the King of Gwarystan. But you will need to leave our territory.”
The two had been talking for a long time when Lyrine ended her tale, the moon’s slow descent in the starlit sky indicating the coming of dawn. It was as if the moon had been waiting for that very moment, pausing for nature to display the full extent of its beauty, in the moonbeams that streaked across the waters of the Halwyfal.
Lyrine sank into her grand chair, slowly closing her eyes. The blood drained from her face, which became as pale as the light hair that framed it. Overcome with weariness, she looked, for a moment, like the target of some malevolent spell. Her eyes suddenly opened again and, as quickly as it had vanished, the colour returned to her cheeks. A striking radiance emanated from her gaze. She looked out upon the waters of the Halwyfal below, its ripening spectrum of colours heralding the imminent sunrise. Her expression was ethereal, like a deity of the Islands who marched alongside Llyoriane upon the archipelago’s untainted beaches so long ago. Her face was one of kindness and grace, though marked with wisdom and gravity.
Lyrine kept her gaze fixed upon the Halwyfal and remained like this for some time, before rising slowly from her seat, as if the great basin’s waters were drawing her magnetically towards them. The Halwyfal seemed to pull at her soul. Her expression then changed, straining to contain what might have been nervous laughter. Sweat could be seen on her temples before the fear finally hit her. She broke away from the pull of the scene below her.
A long moment passed, during which she neither spoke nor raised her eyes. That was until her voice, formerly so clear, rang out again, but this time very low and stifled, as though it were coming from afar.
“You and your followers have arrived on our shores bearing dark omens: you are harbingers of envy and strife. You are not welcome here, Feïwal dyn Filweni.”
When he heard what sounded like her final sentence, Feïwal rose from his seat, his expression one of disappointment and loss. He took up the pendant that still hung from his neck and raised it before the matriarch’s eyes. The rope had become worn, but the magic runes interspersed along it seemed to have prevented its complete disintegration.
“This sacred rope is of the highest importance to my clan; it was bequeathed to us by Filwen the Ancient. It is a gift which bears a message from centuries ago, which tells of the destiny of Elves, bidding us to relinquish our power on the Mainland to cross the ocean and seek out the lost archipelago. It was passed down to me through the line of Filwen. Like my father before me, I have dedicated my entire existence to this task and I am haunted by my duty to complete it.
Do you not understand?
The very winds talk to me, urging me to begin my quest, and warning of the impending dangers that build beyond the horizon.
The winds granted us passage across the ocean. It was these winds that gave me a purpose; they ask me now to kneel in front of you and beg for you to honour us by letting us join your kind.”
Feïwal, slowly and silently, then sat back in his chair, his deliberate solemnity emphasizing the significance of his plea. The matriarch was quiet, puzzled by the conviction and faith so clearly manifested by the navigator’s words. A long silence ensued. Both sat still. They were acutely aware of the gravity of the moment. Finally, Lyrine rose, her gaze marked by pride and determination.
“Who do you think you are?
How dare you use the name of Eïwal Ffeyn in this way?
His breath is the very air of the archipelago, and so it has been since the dawn of time.
We, the matriarchs of the Llewenti clans, are the custodians of his holy word, as we are for all the deities of the Islands. You will reconsider your position and obey my orders, master sailor. Once again: you cannot stay in the forest of Llymar; that is my final decision…
The Irawenti are no enemy of ours but, long ago, they reached our shores with the High Elves and a multitude of conflicts and wars followed. Today, you appeal again for our protection. But you too, have not come alone.
These are ill omens, Feïwal dyn Filweni; these forebodings are dark indeed.
You will sail east. Do not look to the west, for that way you will find a cruel end in the hands of barbarian tribes.
May the sacred winds of Eïwal Ffeyn remove all traces of your visit to Llafal!
I shall not see you again,” concluded Lyrine, with immutable authority.
She clapped her hands and guards entered the reception hall, responding to their matriarch’s summons. Feïwal stood up and l
eft with them, defeat etched across his face. Tyar dyl then entered the hall to take his orders from the elder matriarch. His face showed a calm determination.
“Tyar dyl, the prisoner is to return to his vessel. In the meantime, you will go to the shipyards of Penlla. Gather all that is required to repair the castaways’ ship. Use my seal in all your dealings and do not say a word.”
She paused, suddenly realizing that she was in breach of the clan’s rules and traditions. The Council of the Matriarchs was the sovereign power in these matters, and she had no right to act without consulting the other high priestesses of Llymar. But then, Llafal had no right to act without the consent of the other cities of the Forest. Her hesitation did not last long.
“You are ordered to bring them the equipment and supplies required to refloat their ship. I am giving them ten days to sail east.”
“What if they do not obey?” the “Old Bird” asked in his typically laconic fashion.
“Make it clear,” she replied, with a hard edge to her voice, “that any such defiance would result in their death. I will show no mercy.”
“I will prepare the swanships for assault. Their heavy weaponry is ruined. With the combined force of our fleet, we could crush them easily from a safe distance,” asserted the old commander.
The Lady of Llafal concluded with a commanding tone.
“Have everything prepared. We need to be ready if we are compelled to gather the Council of the Matriarchs. Select your troops carefully and have them all swear an oath of secrecy. We must prevent, at all costs, the news of the shipwreck reaching the cities of Tios Halabron and Tios Lluin too soon. I do not want our allies interfering with my decision. This ship must be chased from our shores. We will ensure it at all costs.”
