by C A Oliver
Curubor counted a dozen Elves, each busy with their own tasks, but his gaze was soon attracted by a collection of furniture arranged at the centre of the great hall. Wardrobes, chairs and tables of the finest making were organized around a large floor tapestry. A singer and a musician were entertaining a solitary spectator, sprawled amongst the comfortable cushions. The entire hall was filled by notes which seemed to contain all the solemn beauty of some distant, mystical landscape.
The attentive listener was lounging carelessly on a comfortable armchair. The Elf wore a black tunic, with a wide, dark cloak. A silk scarf, the colour of leaves, was wrapped around his head, from which flowed his long black hair. His face was fair: almost as white as snow. His eyes, icy grey like a wolf, indicated his Morawenti origin.
A crystal vial was placed on the table next to a pair of skilfully crafted daggers. Their blades were coated with a viscous liquid. His bastard sword, flung down on the table, was propping up an unfurled scroll.
A sense of evil, sovereign power emanated from this Elf. His grin seemed to offer a glimpse into his depraved soul; he was no doubt capable of relishing cruelty. His domineering influence over the small community of Menstoro was immediately palpable. It seemed as if the smallest of his whims would be blindly obeyed.
Even so, he appeared to despise their devotion. A contemptuous smile crept across his face each time he spoke to one of them. An elemental power resided in his icy eyes, with a force like the all-consuming cold of the bitterest winter, which granted him a natural and ferocious dominion over his servants. A sudden malaise seized Curubor when he first observed the Elf’s cold gaze, pervaded with intense aggression. The Blue Mage then looked to his host’s right cheek, which was marked with the infamous rune of the outcasts. Troubled by the accursed sign, Curubor’s eyes widened, glowing with a bluish light.
It was then that Curubor realized he was facing the fabled heir of House Dir Sana, a power who he had believed was long departed. This was a scholar of the shadows, capable of commanding the darkest forces, surrounded by myrmidons whose devotion was implacable. Curubor shivered. The Night Elf’s gloved hand seized a glass. He swallowed the entire contents in a single gulp, before turning to his guest, who he had purposely ignored until then.
“Welcome to my home, lord Curubor Dol Etrond,” the elegant Elf began. “It is a long time since we last met. What brings the Blue Mage of Tios Lluin so far from his stronghold? I hear you have been walking the dangerous passes of the Arob Nisty, like some bold, young adventurer.” His voice was melodious, almost musical, but was also full of irony.
After a pause, which clearly betrayed his surprise, the Blue Mage replied hesitantly.
“I thank you for your hospitality… Master Saeröl. I am honoured… although you should not gratify me with the title of lord. As you know, my grandnephew, Almit, inherited the Blue Helm of Etrond…”
Curubor continued. “Last time I saw you, Master Saeröl, your body was strewn across jagged rocks, broken and mutilated after a great fall from the top of the cliff of Gwarystan. Several high mages of the Ruby College were gathered around your corpse to cremate it. You had been sentenced to death by King Norelin.”
“I was sentenced wrongfully, to pay for the murderous crimes of others,” replied Saeröl, distant.
“I know you were the victim of an injustice: used as a scapegoat by the new king to blindly avenge the murder of his father. An unforgivable wrong indeed was done to you, your bloodline and your guild,” acknowledged Curubor.
“When it comes to spurring on the weak and the impulsive, injustice is perhaps the mightiest provocation imaginable. Bodies may fall, bones may break, corpses may burn, yet I am living proof that such a heinous ritual can be survived. The scions of House Dir Sana are resourceful, after all. We might hold suicide as the noblest of actions, but, until the day a lady is found to bear his heir, we still have a duty to perform. Such are our ways,” Saeröl continued.
“So, for all these years, the Guild of Sana has survived in secret, concealing both its existence and the survival of its master. It still lives, despite the harshest repression and discrimination ever seen on the Islands,” Curubor reflected, not without admiration.
“Such is the destiny of the Morawenti; we are respected and lavished with gold in times of peace and prosperity but persecuted and robbed without the slightest hesitation whenever it is deemed necessary for the kingdom. The Guild of Sana was rich, and the king was poor. War and defeat had depleted his treasury, and he needed gold for his overweening ambitions. It is never wise to retain the gold without wielding the sword!
And Norelin has been rewarded for his treachery, for what he has now achieved is beyond even his own ferocious dreams. Have you been to Gwarystan recently? Have you looked upon those red towers climbing up into the clouds?” asked Saeröl.
“I reside in the Forest of Llymar. I prefer the calm and the beauty of the woods, and the company of the Llewenti clans,” replied Curubor.
“So, I have heard. I recommend a visit to the royal city, so you may see with your own eyes what it is becoming: the jewel of the Islands, the greatest city ever built by Elves. It is a place of wonder, beauty and might. Multitudes of men work under the rule of the guild masters and their most skilled artisans. Slave Giants erect walls and towers, viaducts and theatres, as have never been seen before. Griffons and hippogriffs can be seen flying through the sky to transport the noble Dol to that night’s feast or to the latest spectacle.
Everywhere, the high mages demonstrate their power. It is the Ruby College that commands the Flow of the Islands, using it to enchant the royal city beyond anything imaginable. Members of that great assembly wield incredible power; they are as respected and honoured as are the Dol lords. Each year, the Ruby Tower rises into the sky slightly higher still, after the most gifted apprentices have proven their dedication and are given the privilege to dwell in yet another of its numerous floors. Truly, lord Curubor, Gwarystan is a place of inbounding wonder,” Saeröl concluded.
“And yet,” Curubor could not help but ask, “You have chosen to leave that marvellous city, and take up residence in Menstoro?”
“You are right. This change is relatively recent: no more than a couple of months, I would say. Gwarystan was no longer safe for me. There was great turmoil last winter, when the tension between the king and the House of Dol Nos-Loscin escalated into what almost became open warfare.”
“So, I have heard, Master Saeröl. The House of Dol Nos-Loscin now stands alone to contain the savage bands led by a renowned Dragon Warrior, Ka-Blowna. The king has denied support to his vassals who fight the barbarians in the south. This surely demonstrates a dangerous abandonment of his sovereign duty.”
“I agree with you, lord Curubor. The House of Dol Nos-Loscin is the key to the south of the Islands, for it is they who control the most important cities and fortresses. But the king’s latest gesture has a deeper significance, for the House of Dol Nos-Loscin represents the old order, and the power of the Hawenti houses that is now constantly challenged by the rising influence of the men at Court.”
Curubor nodded in agreement, adding, “I was told the king has closed the temples of the Llewenti deities, even the great shrine of Eïwal Lon that most of his subjects venerated. Many were those who prized the wise teachings of the Deity of Lore.”
“This is true; only the cult of Eïwele Llya remains tolerated, and that is only because the Mother of the Islands is also worshipped by the human Druids. But priests of other cults are being persecuted. There are rumours of a secret exile. I hear that some of the noblest Dol have now fled. They were known for their devotion to the archipelago’s deities. Worshippers of the Islands deities go to seek the Secret Vale of Llyoriane, where it is said they will find peace,” explained Saeröl.
“So, have I also heard,” Curubor stated.
“The rate of change upon these islands is accelerating; we find ourselves in a time that is more momentous than ever before. This is due to th
e influence of men. These days, events are happening at the pace of the short-lived.
The king refused Terela Dol Nos-Loscin’s hand. He insulted her powerful family and chased that noble house from the court, banishing it to confront a most uncertain future. He chose to ally himself with men, to collaborate with the Westerners, and now he pretends to rule the masses of barbarians. He decided to arm their troops and give them red shields, glorifying them with the title of Soldiers of the Ruby. And though he still controls the remaining Hawenti houses for now, the grip of his new human allies tightens with every diplomatic step that he takes. It is the men who are pulling the strings, and the foolish young sovereign does not have the wit to notice.
Blinded by his loyalty to the Westerners, the young King Norelin has decided to throw away centuries of Hawenti domination to build a new realm for men and Elves, where all will have their place at his side.
What a vile joke this is!
What a fool is he!
His father, King Lormelin the Conqueror, would have sooner jumped from the top of the Gwarystan cliff than ever contemplate such foolishness.”
Saeröl did not speak again before he had helped himself to another cup of wine. He did offer the fine nectar to his guest, but Curubor declined, staying well away from his host, not daring to sit down or touch anything.
Saeröl produced a thin dagger from a hidden pocket of his cloak and used it to draw a triangle around a rune. He gave a nod which was barely perceptible but indicated his considerable pride. He poured more wine into his cup, smiling grimly.
“I had to flee. I had to hide. I travelled the Islands and there is probably no hiding place on the entire archipelago that I have not tried. Only very few Elves willingly assisted me; even fewer still live to tell the tale of how I forced them to conceal me. I underwent absolute isolation and extreme poverty. It is remarkable how a single infamous marking on the cheek can change your life.
Elves want to enjoy love and nature. They want to create and share beauty. They turn a blind eye to injustice, evil deeds and perfidious lies. They will idly look away from you in your hour of need, heedlessly denying you justice. This is sad for left on his own, a Morawenti will invariably dedicate the remainder of his life to preparing just revenge.”
Saeröl let his threatening words echo through the cavern before he went on.
“I have no knowledge of what noble design drives Curubor Dol Etrond away from the legendary ruins of his ancestral city, onto the dangerous tracks of the Arob Nisty pass. But I do know one thing. Despite the urgency of his errand, the Blue Mage did stop by and visit Menstoro, to pay his respects to an ancient Dir, the master of the Guild of Sana. For this, for the trades we have made in the past and for our future cooperation, I am grateful. I remain hopeful that the prospect of my friendship, and indeed my dreams of retaliation, will inspire your ambition. I hope too that next time you come across the Guild of Sana; you will consider the alliance I am offering. All rivers must meet at the sea, Lord Dol Etrond; it even appears that ours are cascading down one side of the same mountain.”
Curubor was impressed by Saeröl’s eloquence. His natural assurance imbued his words with a deep wisdom. But something in his manner undercut this eloquence with an undeniably sinister note; it was something far more profound than the strange accent colouring his voice. He was the sage of the infamous, the bard of discord, and the sorcerer of the cursed. His delicate features, dark braided hair and elegant garb all gave him a certain seductive power. His natural, cold grace could be interpreted as a kind of serenity, but at the same time he seemed to be filled with pride, disdain, and contempt.
In his reply, Curubor controlled his voice, consciously adding warmth that he did not feel.
“In that case, all is well, Master Saeröl, for we undoubtedly have enemies in common. I will therefore do all that I can to help you avenge your cruel fate. Consider me a friend. Though I cannot predict what lies before us, I do sense a great confrontation on the horizon, a fight between men and Elves, between monsters and heroes, and most of all between evil doctrines and noble ideals.”
Curubor bowed and, without touching anything or anyone, he took his leave, anxious to continue his own task. Four scouts escorted him out of Menstoro through the maze of secret corridors and underground galleries.
The caves of Menstoro were ten leagues from the small city of Tios Lleny, but the distance, travelled along the paths through the hills, felt much longer. The track was defined by a row of golden flowers and was lined beyond with pines, lemon trees and wild vines. After the four scouts had escorted Curubor down through the wilderness for a few miles, they turned back to let him continue alone. He then reached the road and was relieved that his progress could now be much, much faster. Curubor’s silhouette gradually disappeared from the twists and turns of the trail, even as he walked along them. The Blue Mage vanished slowly: first his arms, then his head, legs, and finally his torso. His azure robes seemed to hold within them a secret void, into which the wizard had simply dissolved.
*
“Are you well, my Lord?” inquired the familiar voice of Duluin concernedly.
“How long I have been?” Curubor replied hesitantly.
“You have been gone for many hours since you began those first incantations. You were in such a deep state of sleep that I was starting to fear for your life. It is dangerous to resort to such powerful Magic,” the valiant knight protested.
“I did not want to take any risk with those Night Elves; indeed, what I discovered was beyond my imagination,” replied Curubor.
“And what did you discover?”
The Blue Mage could not hide his self-content. “Let us say that, whereas we might have had a deadly foe on our back, we now have a powerful ally rallied to our cause…”
“Beware, my Lord, those Elves who swore the Oath of Shadows are not to be trusted. The Morawenti have wreaked many horrible acts of vengeance after the wrongs they endured. Their past has left them with stony hearts and warped, murderous minds. Their reputation shall be forever stained with suspicion and dread, and their savagery is feared by all. There are some who wonder if they have not become more steeped in evil than their enemies in the clan Myortilys,” whispered Duluin.
“Indeed!” Curubor exclaimed, partly convinced by his faithful servant’s warning. “Did you know, Duluin, that I saw a beautiful statue of Eïwele Llyi in the cave of Menstoro?” he asked vaguely, lost in thought.
“A looted work of art, no doubt,” Duluin asserted.
“I disagree. I believe that this image of the Llewenti deity was placed in that small alcove on purpose, perhaps to be worshipped,” the Blue Mage pondered.
“Eïwele Llyi,” Duluin reminded him, “is revered by the Llewenti because she brings beauty and joy to the innocent: to those with pure hearts.”
“Indeed, the matriarchs even say that the divinity of arts judges Elves by their intention and purpose, not by their deeds. I wonder if these ill-fated assassins, sworn to the Oath of Shadows, are not looking for redemption. Perhaps they seek forgiveness after committing such vengeful acts.
But where are we now?” Curubor asked, finally looking around him. “Is this the slipway leading down to the boat?”
Duluin was used to his liege’s secretive ways, and he did not complain about his exclusion from the events of Menstoro. He replied concisely, with restraint, as was his duty.
“We are ten leagues southwest of Tios Lleny. The current of the Sian Kanny is strong. We are making good progress. You should now rest, my Lord. I will notify you when we are approaching the walls of Llymvranone.”
Sian Kanny, ‘Red River’ in the Llewenti language, was given its colour by the purple clay it carried along its current. The river flew down westward into southern Nyn Llyvary, through Tios Lleny and other small cities built around it, towards Llymvranone, where it eventually opened out into the Sea of Llyoriane. Far upstream, twenty leagues from the sea, a bore-like wave would appear and disappear on the Sia
n Kanny, but it was far too inland to be the result of the tide. That stretch of the river, where the downward current met the mysterious upstream swell, was particularly treacherous for boats. No one knew the origin of the wave, but priests taught that it signalled Eïwele Llyo’s passage, as she travelled through her underground halls deep below the Arob Nisty to wander the Islands, searching for the lost souls of dead Llewenti.
*
During the final three days of sailing down the Red River, Curubor was able to rest and recuperate his strength. He seldom relied on Sapphire Magic, and the powerful spell he had used to project his image into the Morawenti lair had drained him. Such a complete projection, at such a great distance and for such a long time was a complex and onerous exercise, and one that only a wizard of his experience could have successfully performed.
He spent his time alone, watching the banks of the Sian Kanny pass by from its cabin, and admiring the beauty of the hills beyond, covered with wild vines and vibrant fruit trees. He joyfully breathed in the river’s sweet air, savouring the intense fragrances of spring. An accomplished drinker would have detected those very aromas in the faerie wines of the valley, which were known as the best in the island. But all too soon, this contemplation of the vast landscape struck a painful chord within his soul.
All of this land could have been his. The royal domain south of Nyn Llyvary, from Llymvranone to the strait of Nyn Llorely, might have been granted to the House of Dol Etrond after the last war: after the Pact was signed. It would have been just compensation for the losses of their fortresses, lands and capital city in the west, as well as for the death of their heroes and the slaughter of most of their army. When Curubor heard that the young king would maintain his iron grip on that rich province in order to nourish the growth of his capital, he felt deceived, and since then had harboured concealed anger.
