An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  She despised the way things had become, with the growing power of the guilds, the renewed prosperity of the clan Llyvary, and the weakness and frivolity that seemed to dominate contemporary life upon the Islands. The entire forest knew all too well the dread inspired by the sight of her ugly yet proud face, and the sound of the oak staff which she used to support her aging limbs. Although Yere dyl Ernaly was feared, she was also respected. In a culture where books were scarce, and where Elves who could read them were even scarcer, her long memory and wide knowledge were of great value. The young noble dyl would never have heard the stories of their warring forefathers, nor would the young matriarchs have ever learned the secrets of the forests, the waters and the winds, were it not for her.

  Descending the porch steps, the matriarch of the clan Ernaly advanced slowly towards the centre of the circle, where Gal dyl stood. Suddenly all was silent. The Staff of Emeralds was in her hand. Complying precisely with the ancient rites, she chanted a long incantation to each of the six deities of the archipelago. A gust of wind blew over the assembly. She ended with an invocation.

  “O deities of the archipelago, O mighty Eïwali! O protective Eïwely! Hear the complaint of your children, for the Llewenti call upon you!”

  Her voice had grown to a kind of wild cry. Her energy was almost spent, and she was close to fainting. Gal dyl, who was standing next to her, made a move to support her. She ignored him and summoned yet more strength. The ancient matriarch handed the staff to the High Warlord. She completed the ritual with very little ceremony, marking her disdain for the new Protector. Slowly returning to her grand seat, set into the steps up to the Temple of Eïwal Vars, she joined her peers at last. From where they sat, the nine matriarchs commanded the vast assembly, and the entire crowd could see them in their full, ancient majesty.

  The debates could now commence.

  Gal dyl stood alone in front of the silent crowd. His heartbeat quickened. He paused for a long moment, as if to catch his breath. Just as he was about to begin, a voice sounded unexpectedly behind him, from the row of matriarchs.

  Lyrine stood on the temple steps. Without asking anyone for permission, without even deigning to descend into the circle to request the Staff of Emeralds, she addressed the whole assembly, her voice loud and distinct. The First of the matriarchs was asserting her superiority over all others. All could see that her decision to speak was made very deliberately.

  “The western winds bring rumours of a storm. The human barbarians are preparing for war. As we begin our council today, their first detachments gather at the bottom of the Arob Tiude pass. Their aim is to besiege the ruins of the ancient tower of Mentollà and to seize its strategic harbour. They intend to hunt down and destroy a small community of Irawenti, castaways of the Austral Ocean, who have dwelled there since the season of Eïwele Llyo. Controlling Mentollà is a violation of the Pact; it would pose a great threat to the Forest of Llymar. The enemy would be at our borders. If the barbarians took Mentollà, they would hold the vital port of the north coast, and would no doubt use it as a base for a future attack on our lands.”

  She allowed the severity of the threat to linger in the air for a moment before continuing.

  “Backed by the fell priests of the cursed Cult, a Dragon Warrior is leading the barbarian army. He sees the attack on Mentollà as a unique chance to become leader of all the human tribes across the Islands. If Mentollà is conquered, he will be the hero who broke the Pact, the man capable of uniting the barbarian tribes again. He will claim his rights over the Risen Throne and put an end to the continual disputes over succession. No doubt this young Dragon Warrior is ambitious and impatient. We have been watching his rise to power for several years and have observed with horror how he has rid his people of the Druids’ influence, and perverted their hearts towards that evil, ancient religion: The Cult of the Three Dragons.”

  The Lady of Llafal’s words reverberated around the circle.

  “We are faced with bloodthirsty human tribes, and the prospect of an attempt to conquer our lands that shall be more determined than ever. Many of us are resigned to a long campaign of resistance. But a course of action must be decided. Will we march to war? Will we face the barbarians alone? Will we break the Pact?

  Or will we instead seek an escape, preserving only that which is essential to us? Will we denounce the aggression and respect the Pact? Will we call upon King Norelin for protection? Our destiny upon the archipelago shall depend upon the decision that we make today,” she concluded, before sitting back majestically on the central seat of the Council of the Matriarchs.

  The troops of the clan Llyvary were positioned in the centre of the assembly, in the preeminent position as befitted to the main body of Llymar’s army. Most of them originated from Llafal and Tios Lluin, and sadly could still remember the grief and pain caused by the last war. But there were also a few units from Penlla, the oceanic port in the east. Gal dyl turned to their representative, thus honouring him.

  “You have travelled a long way, Leyen dyl Llyvary of Penlla, and you have arrived on time. You should hold the Staff of Emeralds first,” he said loudly so that the many thousands gathered around him could hear.

  The warlord of the city of dolphins stepped forward. He had a reputation for being cautious. A popular song in Tios Halabron implied that his legendary moderation was, in fact, a disguise for cowardice, and that he had survived so many long conflicts because he chose to fight nothing but the fish in the ocean. He was noticeable among that great martial assembly because he was not dressed for war. Instead, he was wrapped in a long azure cloak, his fingers covered with many precious rings. His round and jovial figure, along with his rhetorical skill, gave the impression of deception, which provoked immediate distrust.

  His units were assembled in an orderly manner on the steps behind him. In their eyes, there was no gleam of the warrior. Penlla had never been forced to defend its high walls. However, it had often seen its sons depart to fight in the wars of other Llewenti cities, and there were many who had never returned. Penlla’s inhabitants were sailors, fish hunters and dolphin riders. They worshipped the deities of the archipelago and expected peace and prosperity in return. Their representatives whether noble dyl or holy matriarchs, were expected to deliver words of wisdom and prudence at the Council of the Forest.

  Leyen dyl moved forward to seize the Staff of Emeralds, ceremoniously positioning himself in the centre of the circle. For him, the temples’ esplanade was a stage upon which he could flaunt his oratory flair while also expressing his views.

  ‘How can one so foolish and extravagant behave with such narcissism, as though he were only here to flatter his own ego in his self-appointed role as a wise advisor?” Gal dyl wondered. “Why do I doubt myself so much, despite my renown and fame, when such a self-serving coward can parade so shamelessly?’

  Leyen dyl started speaking with his usual condescension, arguing that the Council of the Forest’s operations must be transparent.

  “Elves of Llymar! More than ever before in Llewenti history, recent events, which concern us all, have been shrouded in secrecy. The Matriarchs of Llafal deliberately concealed from us the arrival of this ship from Essawylor. Independently, they decided what should become of these migrants from beyond the Ocean. We now discover that they dwell in the forbidden tower of Mentollà. What do we know of these newcomers? Why has information of their comings and goings been kept from us? The Elves of Llymar deserve to know.”

  Surprise rippled through the ranks of the high priestesses, for none expected the warlord of Penlla, known to be neither warlike nor lordly, to commence the council so aggressively.

  Seeing that her mother would never deign to answer such a misplaced inquiry, and that the other matriarchs were enjoying the moment far too much to react, Nyriele stood up and replied, her voice pitched in a beautiful calmness. She chose to ignore the question and the disguised reprimand, concentrating rather on Mentollà and its new inhabitants.

  “N
oble Warlord of Penlla, I concur with you. It is critical that we focus on the fate of the castaways. There are no more than three hundred of them, mainly of Irawenti birth. They lost everything following their shipwreck, but we know that they have since been receiving the support of the wild Elves of Sognen Tausy. Throughout the entire season of Eïwele Llyo, they worked diligently, and they are currently finalizing the restoration of the tower’s defences. It is as though they foresaw a forthcoming threat. A climate of tension now sweeps across the Arob Tiude hillsides.

  We believe that their small army could put up a strong resistance from behind the security of Mentollà’s walls, for they are well armed and benefit from the leadership of experienced Hawenti fighters. Furthermore, it now appears that their community is favoured by Eïwal Ffeyn, and that their Guide commands the essence of the wind.”

  Leyen dyl Llyvary seemed pleased with the attention his question had received. He continued, confirming that his naves were already preparing to set sail from his port city. Due to its isolated location upon a cliff top, Penlla had been chosen to host the arsenal and reserves of the fleet. The city was perched on an escarpment which was only accessible from the harbour via a fortified narrow road. Throughout its history, Penlla had never feared danger from sea or forest.

  “Our fleet is a force to be reckoned with, numbering no less than fifteen swanships and thirty units. As we speak, work is going on in the docks. Sailors busy themselves around hoists and cranes, loading provisions and weapons aboard the naves for the long expedition that could soon be upon us,” the warlord of Penlla revealed. “We can rely on our fleet. Let us use its force to protect Mentollà from the sea. There is an unprotected area of terrain right in front of the gate of the fortress. A barbarian assault seeking to exploit it would be overcome if we covered the area with the projectile weapons of our swanships. If they do not seize the ruins of Mentollà, the barbarians shall be forced to fall back to their homeland.

  We will simply have to wait for King Norelin’s judgement. The young sovereign has not so far proven himself. He has never been in a position to show his power. He will seize this opportunity and inflict swift justice.”

  The assembly would have liked to believe the old Elf’s words and embrace his optimistic strategy. But his pacifist appearance, graceless movements and the faltering hesitation in his voice did not inspire trust.

  Gal dyl had been cunning to let the warlord of Penlla speak first. His clumsy intervention at the end of the debate would have been hazardous, given the unease it had created. With a quick glance to his daughter on the temple doorsteps, he knew that she was silently complimenting his astute opening move. The Protector of the Forest could still feel the effects of the divine nectar in his veins and, proud of his manoeuvre, he assuredly took back the Staff that commanded the debate. In clear, commanding voice, he said.

  “Curubor Dol Etrond desires to address the assembly. Let us hear him with attention and respect, for he is the wisest and most literate among us.”

  The Blue Mage was most elegantly dressed. Although, he was wrapped in a comfortable azure-coloured robe, he did not show any other sign of ostentation or wealth. His white silvery hair had been combed carefully. It was his custom to adopt a simple guise and to tint his hair with a light colour, to mask his origins. All that were present recognised his natural goodness and gentle temper: remarkable qualities for a High Elf that had seen the end of the First Age and had suffered the long exodus to the archipelago.

  Curubor began his speech with a fragment of Hawenti poetry.

  “An Elvin King with a crown, adorned with rubies,

  Four Dor princes with gold and silver diadems,

  Eleven Dol lords with bronze medals of their cities…”

  After a pause, Curubor continued thoughtfully.

  “The first lines of this old poem celebrate the triumph of Hawenti nobility over the inhabitants of the archipelago. Today, sixteen High Elves rule the Islands from the top of their red towers in Gwarystan. Sixteen Lords receive the homage of tens of thousands of Elves. Their influence is so great, that even our deities fear them.

  Do you know why?” He asked before providing an answer to his question.

  “Because these Elves are power incarnate. That is the sole reason they control the destiny of the vast majority of the Islands’ inhabitants.

  Common Elves and men are the royal army’s fighters; they are the artisans of the guilds, the hunters and harvesters and the obedient retainers who bend the knee and sacrifice their share of the magic Flow.

  But in actual facts, it is the common Elves who really control the destiny of these islands. The decision to submit is theirs; therefore, the power is theirs…

  Now, if power lies with the common Elves of the archipelago, how is it that the young King Norelin and his vassals can rule so many?

  A Hawenti knight would reply, ‘The blood in his veins is the blood of the mightiest bloodline. He is legitimate.’

  A Morawenti merchant might say, ‘The King controls coin minting. He possesses gold and wealth.’

  A Llewenti scholar may argue that ‘The King closed the temples and banished the matriarchs, seizing sole command of the Flow of the Islands.’

  All three could be correct, each in their own way. Yet I explain King Norelin’s dominance in another way…

  Commoners will always pledge their loyalty and support to the ruler who will offer them the most protection, the most prosperity and, ultimately, the most hope.

  I see the confusion on your faces. I see astonishment in your eyes. ‘What is this game of riddles that Curubor will have us play?’ you may ask yourself.

  I will answer you, Elves of Llymar.

  What the matriarchs’ rule guarantees us is freedom, the chance to live according to the Islands’ traditions, and the favour of our six deities. Besides, the guilds of the forest, through their devotion and hard work, bring us the fruits of their artistry and craft. We already possess hope and prosperity.

  We need only demonstrate that we can protect our cities. And then we will show that we can rule and protect.

  The Council of the Forest dates back to the dawn of the archipelago itself, when the deities walked the Islands, long before the reign of any Hawenti sovereign.

  But the council still lacks the sort of power wielded by King Norelin, precisely because it is not seen as powerful in the eyes of many.

  What we need is a conflict. We need a war, and we need a victory. Those who have been left haggard and terrified by the many disasters of our past shall seek our support. Those Llewenti, who live under the shadows of the high towers of Gwarystan, shall be desperate to return to the clan rule of old. Even certain Hawenti houses shall perceive the change in the winds of time, and they too shall seek to break free from royal rule. Do not judge the High Elves so harshly. We must look to them with compassion, for many of them have heard the call of our deities and are seeking their guidance.

  It is our duty to show the strength of Llymar and the weakness of Gwarystan. It is our duty to show them the way and welcome them into our noble assembly.

  The ancient stones around this circle were already here when the first Council of the Forest gathered to honour Aonyn, the first wielder of the Sacred Spear. This was twenty-three centuries ago.”

  Ending on a poignant and sonorous note, Curubor Dol Etrond handed the Staff of Emeralds back to the Protector before enfolding him in a lengthy embrace, marking his deep affection and uttermost confidence in the last warlord of Avrony.

  Such a demonstration of support and friendship, coming from such a respected character filled Gal dyl with joy.

  Still affected by the warmth of the divine beverage he had drunk in the temple, he looked around, seeking a new orator. Such was the crowd’s enthrallment with Curubor that, unsurprisingly, none dared follow the Blue Mage.

  Using his authority as master of the assembly, Gal dyl finally decided to let the youngest noble of clan Llyvary make his debut. It was a difficult ta
sk, and the young Elf did not prove very convincing; he failed to put forward a clear proposal, but rather gave away all his own doubts and uncertainties.

  The Staff was then passed from speaker to speaker for many hours. Gal dyl paid little attention to their arguments and meagre oratory talents, as he knew that the key performances would come later in the day. He did notice, however, that opinions of the clan’s Llyvary’s young dyl were already very diverse and inconclusive.

  *

  The sun was already beginning its descent when a pain in Gal dyl’s back forced him to move from his previously comfortable position. He could not suppress a shiver when the clan Ernaly’s most dreaded commander decided to end the insignificant prattle of a young dyl of clan Llyvary. Regaining full control of his senses, Gal dyl allowed him to step forth.

  And so, Voryn dyl of the clan Ernaly, the younger brother of Mynar dyl, stepped forward. The entire assembly knew him as the most feared of all the noble dyl present that day. His silhouette was long and emaciated. Haggard and contorted, he had sharp, severe features that, far from reflecting any divine light, told only of despicable war, the only world he knew. An aggressive and restless grey hawk was perched on his dark leather glove.

  A shudder ran through the crowd as he seized the Staff of Emeralds from Gal dyl’s hands and suddenly shouted:

  “The population of men grows day by day, while our own numbers can only progress slowly. The destinies of men and Elves are antithetical; there can never be lasting peace. Our doubts and our denials only condemn us to be destroyed by our enemies. We are doomed to exchange these vast forests, which we have rightly inherited from the Islands’ deities, for a few meagre groves surrounded by vast withered pastures used to rear the slave animals of our enemies. Look at what has happened to Nyn Ernaly over recent decades! Some of our kin still live there, under the supposed protection of the Pact, beset and indeed besieged by the unceasing expansion of humanity. Small settlements become hamlets, hamlets become villages and villages become cities. Each expansive step taken by men is always marked by some new aggression against the Elves. Forests are demolished to provide wood, glades are obliterated to become crop fields, hills are toppled to become quarries and, worse still, hunting territory is supplanted by enclosures for livestock.