An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  Be he of dark Hawenti blood, or Irawenti blood azure,

  I hereby make a Vow, with lucid Mind and solemn Breast,

  That should he undertake to persevere us in our Quest,

  Neither Shield, Armour, Magic, nor Sword of Beast or Elf,

  Nor Fear, nor Guilt, nor Mercy, nor even Doom itself,

  Shall deliver him from the timeless, terrible Wrath and Scorn,

  Of great King Lormelin or my Descendants yet unborn.

  Death shall we deal to Traitors, whomever they may be,

  Death to all from Essawylor who chase us across the Sea.

  This is our Vow, Cil!

  May you doom us if we fail.

  By your divine Light, Cil,

  I pray we shall prevail!”

  Mynar dyl closed the ancient book ceremoniously, allowing the dreadful words of Lormelin’s oath to reverberate throughout the great cavity of the Eïwaloni. There was a long silence.

  The hawks, up in their nest, seemed as struck by King Lormelin’s powerful verses as the noble Elves did beneath them. Finally, the great grey hawk, from his commanding position on high, shivered and shook.

  Mynar dyl slowly rose from his seat before leaning across the table towards his audience, making as if to share some great secret with the utmost discretion. Gal dyl and Curubor, intrigued, sat up and moved in towards him. Mynar dyl spoke quietly. What he had to say took some time. The calmness of his voice and the candour in his eyes made the truth of his words undeniable.

  His sudden revelation, that an Irawenti ship from Essawylor had crossed the un-navigable ocean and reached the shores of Nyn Llyvary, erupted into the room like a thunderbolt in a cloudless sky.

  The secret meeting between the ship’s captain and Lyrine in Llafal, followed by her autarchic decision to force the shipwrecked Irawenti to leave, meant that the storm was just about to reveal its full force. Their voices began to rise. Gal dyl shot to his feet violently and began pacing in circles to calm his anxiety. Curubor lay back in his chair, his fingers stroking his chin in an effort to stimulate his mind.

  Mynar dyl observed the great confusion and tumult among his guests; this was the moment of opportunity that he had been waiting for. He seized it to mount his attack.

  “As we speak, two high priestesses of the clan Ernaly are making their way to Llafal. They will summon the Council of the Matriarchs. They will ask questions and demand explanations regarding the wilful misconduct of Lyrine. Seldom, in the history of the Llewenti clans, has an individual acted with such despotism. The Lady of Llafal will need to account for her secret conduct, and for her personal decision with regards to this group of Irawenti. Now is the time for change!”

  “This is beyond belief! This is beyond belief!” Gal dyl repeated, unable to grasp the full implications of Mynar dyl’s threats.

  Curubor was faster to recover; he moved quickly to challenge the dyl Ernaly.

  “What do you mean to do? You cannot be intending to lay blame upon the mightiest of our matriarchs? You would trigger a conflict!”

  “Such is not my intent, my Lord Curubor. But the time has come for us to stand tall once again. We, the dyl Ernaly, have not bowed before any queen since the days of Llyoriane. Too long have we endured this state of confusion: let us put an end to the Lady of Llafal’s abusive ways. I will summon the Council of the Forest. No longer will I accept any authority but that of the Council! Is that clear?” burst Mynar dyl, losing his calm composure in ambitious, power-driven mania.

  “Mynar dyl, the Council of the Forest only gathers under exceptional circumstances... in times of war.”

  “These are exceptional circumstances, my Lord Curubor,” the dyl Ernaly vehemently insisted. “When was the last time that an Irawenti ship reached our shores? These are extraordinary times, Curubor, and extraordinary times require extraordinary measures,” he pressed, desperate to gain the advantage.

  The Blue Mage seemed to acknowledge Mynar dyl’s argument. His mind raced to fathom the implications of such a monumental shift in the forest’s governance.

  “If you were to follow such a course, the balance of power would shift to the clan warlords and the noble dyl; the nine matriarchs would be outnumbered in the Council of the Forest,” Curubor reflected.

  But soon another voice interrupted these speculations. This third voice was loud and clear, trembling with justified rage. At last Gal dyl intervened, stomping about the room, unable to stand still, like a cornered, startled deer before the hunter delivers his final blow.

  “I am appalled by what you suggest! I am outraged! How could you possibly use these incredible events as an opportunity to plot against the Lady of Llafal? How dare you be so spiteful and ungrateful? Can you not understand that, if the wisest of our matriarchs did act quickly and decisively, she must have had her reasons? Lyrine sees far ahead. Her gaze can discern, in the waters of the Halwyfal, events that will come to pass, things that are beyond your power to comprehend, be you an ancient mage or a scholarly bard. The very deities of the archipelago protect her!”

  Gal dyl then paused, breathless. He could prove a formidable orator when confronted by an imminent threat. He sat back down at the table, placing his powerful, strong arms upon the map that lay before him, as if he were an angry, omnipotent deity surveying a miniature battlefield. His gnarled fingers dug down through the parchment and sunk into the antique wood of the table beneath; the noise of his clawing was the only accompaniment to his plea.

  Something very like anger was brewing between the three Elves.

  Gal dyl took a deep breath, and consciously made the effort to relax his proud, incensed brow. He took his clenched hands away from the map before continuing.

  “We should not rush into anything. Our time will come soon enough. Our forces are currently too scattered. Our potential must remain dormant for the time being. These exceptional circumstances, I believe, are nothing more than the events that could precede our downfall.”

  But Mynar dyl could not contain his wrath for much longer. His smile evaporated. His movement had become convulsive, like a snake before it strikes at its prey. He burst into a long rebuke, full of rage and arrogance.

  “What kind of commander do you pretend to be? Is this all that the last remaining dyl Avrony has to offer? Is this all the bravery that a son can muster in the name of his own matriarch mother? I know you held her head in your hands, the same head that had been severed and mutilated by barbarians. Is this really all that this same warlord, betrayed by the High Elves, will do to restore his honour? I am aware of how you fled your realm aboard a beggarly fishing boat, abandoned as you had been by Hawenti warships. Does it not fill you with rage to wander this forest like a shadow of the past, like the very embodiment of the terror that was inflicted upon our people? Gal dyl! The evil resides in our incapacity to act and in our lack of determination to change the course of history. The danger is neither in the direction in which the birds take flight, nor in the oscillations of the Halwyfal’s waters.”

  Mynar dyl’s violent outburst left Gal dyl speechless. He muttered a few inaudible words to himself.

  “Ah! And you expect these damned dreams to triumph...”

  Still growling, he sat back in his seat, his face blank and haggard. The lion had been reduced to a cat. It was then that Curubor decided to intervene.

  “Peace! Peace! Such a personal tirade is neither necessary nor helpful and neither is stirring up pains from the past. We will never restore these ancient powers; much less win back our own lost territories, by tearing ourselves apart.”

  The Blue Mage paused before putting forward what he saw as the real point of contention.

  “There is one question, only one that we should be asking ourselves. What shall become of the shipwrecked Irawenti?”

  The three Elves sat in silence for a time, observing each other like three competitors before a race.

  “If the Matriarch of Llafal intends to extinguish them, if her will is for them to fall into the clut
ches of King Norelin, then I believe it would be a real waste, for one can surely rely upon the son to fulfil the will of his late father. Lormelin’s oath can only be broken by the extinction of his bloodline,” reasoned Curubor.

  “Leading the castaways into the jails of the King of Gwarystan is precisely what Matriarch Lyrine is doing,” Mynar dyl replied. “As we speak, shipwrights from Penlla are helping to repair the Irawenti’s formidable vessel, yet the swanships have been deployed all around the Gloren Peninsula to ensure that they can only head east.”

  “This is not only inappropriate, it is completely unacceptable,” Curubor asserted. “These additional troops would have been of great value to our cause. Seasoned Hawenti guards would be invaluable assets in battle. The Irawenti sailors’ knowledge of the sea could prove decisive when we face barbarian long ships. Their presence here would also enrich and diversify the Council of the Forest, diluting the dyl of the clan Llyvary’s influence. But, most importantly, there can be no reason to doubt the newcomers’ lawful intentions. The oath of Lormelin stands between them and our opponents,” the ancient Elf concluded.

  Mynar dyl immediately saw Curubor’s argument as an opportunity to gain the upper hand, though he knew full well that, at heart, he cared very little for the fate of the shipwrecked Elves.

  “I am afraid that now there is nothing we can do, as it can only be a matter of days before the Lady of Llafal’s plan is completed. We shall suffer greatly from her untimely and autocratic acts.”

  Gal dyl could not oppose this reasoning. Seeing that he had become passive once again, Mynar dyl decided to pursue his attack.

  “As the matriarchs of the clan Ernaly proposed, let us gather the Council of the Forest. Let us meet in Tios Lluin and decide, in that great, ruined city, the future of our governance. The era of the matriarchs’ omnipotence is over. The time has come again for the clans to rule supreme, as we once did in the Centuries of the Elvin Wars. These are dark days, fraught with bad omens, and we need to react decisively.”

  “I disagree. I completely disagree,” Gal dyl fought back, but already he felt his resolution beginning to weaken.

  But Curubor had made up his mind and decided to put an end to the debate. In the softest of tones and with a bewitching look in his eye, he addressed Gal dyl.

  “What Mynar dyl proposes is not so much a change, but rather a return to the Llewenti traditions of old. Matriarch Lyrine will still be the most eminent member of the council, and no doubt her words will still be thoroughly obeyed. The clan Llyvary will retain its large majority, and no course of action will be decided upon without its full support. We need you, my dear Gal dyl; the Elves of Llymar need you: the three Llewenti clans, of course, but also the House of Dol Etrond.

  For, if the Council of the Forest is summoned, the Spear of Aonyn will have to be retrieved from the Temple of Eïwal Vars. Such is the tradition; a Protector of the Forest will have to be elected.”

  “You do not mean to propose me, do you?” Gal dyl asked incredulously, his gaze betraying considerable dread at the very idea. “The Spear, granted to us by Eïwal Vars, is the most sacred weapon of the Llewenti. It was entrusted to the first dyl of the Llyvary by Queen Llyoriane herself, and it has always remained within that clan. It is a weapon of great power that only the mightiest warlord can wield. Lyrine’s father was the last to do so. He died heroically, the Spear in his hands. None of us can surely pretend to succeed that glorious warrior,” Gal dyl continued.

  “Certainly, none of the dyl Llyvary!” added Mynar dyl, thinking about the ‘Old Bird’ Tyar dyl, the impetuous but inexperienced Nerin dyl, and the wise but puny warlord of Penlla, Leyen dyl Llyvary. This leaves us with only two legitimate contenders for the fabled title of Protector of the Forest,” he added, with a wry, cunning smile intended to increase Gal dyl’s discomfort. “Will the spear of Aonyn be granted to Gal dyl of the clan Avrony or to Mynar dyl of the Ernaly, to the chief of the peafowl or to the lord of the hawks?”

  “Mynar dyl is right, Gal dyl, only one of you two could ever live up to this position, and the honour that accompanies it. Legends pronounce that, in the early days of the archipelago, Eïwal Vars wanted a weapon mighty enough to legitimate command of the Llewenti army; he wanted such a weapon for the most talented of his progeny, and in his time that was Aonyn, the eldest of the dyl Llyvary. But neither song, nor holy lyrics mention that any one clan holds the sole right of inheritance. Both of you have a rightful claim to wield the Spear,” Curubor asserted, with the indisputable authority of an Elf born in the First Age.

  Faced with such a cruel dilemma, Gal dyl did not know how to react. Mynar dyl seemed to be enjoying the situation, a peculiar, serene smile drawn on his face. After a long silence, disrupted only by a screech from the hawks high up in their nest, Mynar dyl spoke. His smooth voice adapted itself to a flattering, courteous tone, as he attempted to stir Gal dyl.

  “Who was the victor of Tios Lluin? Who brought to an end the most decisive of battles with the barbarians, where the noblest failed and the most valiant died? Who is our greatest hunter, our most skilful bowyer and our most accomplished archer? Who is the mightiest with the javelin? Who, indeed, is the hero of the ladies when the festival’s contests start? Who commands the attention of the matriarchs? Who…”

  Seeing that Mynar dyl might have continued for some time, Curubor intervened, his deep voice’s solemn tone concluding the discussion.

  “It is in you, Gal dyl, that we must place our hope.”

  To emphasize these last words, the Blue Mage stood, and he was followed by Mynar dyl. There was silence. Gal dyl slowly stood up, terrified by the decision that had just been made.

  “I am as the ocean,” he stumbled, “I have my own currents, my own tide... When the tide is low I appear empty and vulnerable, but, in a storm, when the waves rise in tumultuous clamour… I can... I can...”

  “I do not doubt,” Curubor intervened, “that the matriarchs will decide to entrust you with the sacred Spear. Your leadership shall be the very crest of the ocean waves, Protector of the Forest.”

  “I have never seen the blade of the Aonyn Spear,” murmured Mynar dyl, as though in a dream. “They say that it is more enchanted than life itself, and more beautiful than perfect death...”

  Curubor bowed respectfully, as was appropriate for a Dol of his lineage, saluting his two companions. The ancient Elf gathered up his large, dark blue cape, swept it around his shoulders, and then went to take his leave. He paused, adjusting his hood so as to hide his face, and then climbed the stairs towards the exit.

  Four impressive guards stood at the opening of the Eïwaloni. They were seasoned fighters, dedicated to the service of their master. It was easy to recognize the clan Ernaly’s colours on the fabric woven into their hair. The hawk feathers they wore marked their rank within the unit. They were heavily armed with javelins, short swords, bows and quivers stocked with war arrows, all worn over their fine chainmail. The Ernaly guards had been instructed not to let anyone interrupt the meeting and were expecting their warlord and his secret guests to leave at any moment. This gathering was one of upmost secrecy; Mynar dyl, Gal dyl and Curubor were highly influential Elves, reluctant to be seen speaking together by other dignitaries in the Forest of Llymar. It had been a long while since they had met and although they certainly had a number of common interests, an unavoidable suspicion existed between them.

  Seeing that all was in order, the Ernaly guards bowed respectfully, all the while keeping an eye on the surrounding area.

  Curubor stood back for a moment, muttering a few unintelligible words. By the time the two Llewenti nobles had exchanged their brief salutes, he had vanished into the night. Gal dyl could just make out his shadow for a moment before it finally disappeared into the foliage of the forest.

  Mynar dyl nodded slowly and then suddenly turned towards Gal dyl, with a hard, menacing look in his eyes. He spoke almost inaudibly.

  “Remember this, Gal dyl Avrony: I know you, and I am
aware of what you have done. Whatever you decide, whichever path you choose, you must keep that in mind.”

  A flash of murderous anger appeared in Gal dyl’s eyes, but he stopped himself, saying nothing. He simply saluted his host according to the ritual of the Llewenti, placing his right hand on Mynar dyl’s opposite shoulder. Then, he adjusted his long cloak, and retrieved his weapons from the hands of the Ernaly guards: a magnificent long bow, a quiver full of plumed arrows, and a scabbard of a long sword inlaid with emeralds. Nightfall had arrived; pale, flickering moonlight filtered softly through the thick foliage of Tios Halabron’s sacred trees.

  The silhouette of Gal dyl was soon lost in the shadows of the forest. His pace quickened until his airy strides barely brushed the soil, soon disappearing into the night and leaving no trace of his passage.

  Turning towards his guards, Mynar dyl noticed that his younger brother had joined them. He was a tall, strong Llewenti, whose ugliness was well-known among the clan Ernaly.

  “Voryn dyl, we have much work to do! Events are in motion once again!” he repeated several times, carefully considering his next move. “The Council of the Forest will soon gather. The clan Ernaly now needs the support of all its members. We will need Dyoren. Our elder brother enjoys great influence, and he inspires respect in others. The prestige of his name and the fame of his legendary sword will, I am sure, be a formidable asset in our struggles to come. You must seek him out and convince him to defer his quest and return home. He must do so, for the interest of the clan and for the future of the forest.”

  “The last that I heard, Dyoren was in the Valley of Nargrond[39]. It is a dangerous place and is difficult to access.”

  “If that be so, you must make haste. Gather the guards and go to Penlla; from there you must set sail in the clan’s long ship. Both notice of your coming, and news that the Seeker is recalled to the Forest of Llymar, shall be sent to Gwa Nyn[40]. Wherever he has gone, wherever he is hiding, I do not doubt that rumours of our search will reach him. You shall not find the Seeker: he shall find you.”