An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  ‘Am I so different from someone like Saeröl Dir Sana?’ he wondered. ‘Was my refusal to join the court in Gwarystan, and my decision to settle in an abandoned Tios Lluin, my natural reaction to an injustice? Even then was I sowing the seeds of rebellion?’

  Curubor had convinced himself that the mockeries of the other noble houses did not affect him. They could laugh all they wanted about his love for ancient stones, for primitive knowledge and indeed for young Llewenti females in their prime. So be it, he had said to himself. He would sooner be esteemed by free Elves as a learned scholar and a good mentor than be obsequiously revered as a lord in his tower by lowly courtesans and servants.

  ‘How could the scorn of my peers not have corrupted my mind, planting those seeds of revenge?’

  But he knew that history had proven him right. After the disastrous last war, his grandnephew, Almit, had settled in Gwarystan, taking his place in the Golden Arch tower. For a while, he had performed his part as lord of the House of Dol Etrond at the Court. He played the role of a vassal always ready to bow and forever eager to praise a new royal enterprise or applaud the latest faerie spectacle.

  Almit had ambition, he had a purpose. He had been promised entry to the Ruby College, that place of great knowledge and power. Almit had all the necessary qualities and had understood what such a position would demand. The expertise of the high mages drawn from the thousands of ancient tomes collected within the Tower of Crimson, gave them a unique insight into the Flow of the Islands: that high magical realm far beyond the grasp of other wizards. But Almit had been tricked and abused by false promises and lies.

  The high mages seldom accepted noble Dol into their ranks, nor did they marry and produce heirs. They ensured the power they enjoyed through their command of High Magic remained firmly within their small caste; they left the burden of governance to the king and the dangers of warfare to the noble Dol. In fact, their oath forbade them from ever commanding armies. Instead, they dedicated their life to mastering the Islands’ Flow, to studying all kinds of magic. The secrets of alteration, enchantment and conjuration had been known to them for centuries. They also controlled platinum, gold and silver; they were the coin masters and decided on the price of goods. This was perhaps their greatest source of power; as the Hawenti saying goes, everything and everyone has a price.

  The high mages of the Ruby College were the greatest power on the Islands; they guarded the most sensitive secrets and influenced the fate of all. They had even overcome the Llewenti deities, who they now held prisoner far, out at sea, in the depths of volcanoes or in hidden mountain vales. The Ruby College had served and advised the line of Hawenti kings since the First Age. This had continued throughout the golden reign of Lormelin the Conqueror but, now, under the young king Norelin, their role had become less defined.

  Almit had never stood a chance of being accepted into that prestigious assembly, a fact which he finally admitted when he joined his granduncle in Llymar. But his daughter, Loriele, had remained in the capital and this decision was proving a shrewd one, for her involvement in court affairs meant that the House of Dol Etrond had not entirely fallen out of royal favour. For the most part, however, over the past few decades, it had been overlooked; indeed, mostly ignored, for it was commonly known that Almit and Curubor had dedicated their lives to the restoration of old stones and the study of lost legends.

  Curubor reflected. The disturbing encounter with the Master of Guild of Sana had left him feeling vulnerable and doubtful.

  ‘I know in my soul that I belong on the archipelago. I love my homeland more and more with each day that passes, as truly as any scions of Queen Llyoriane, as religiously as any matriarch of the clans, and as passionately as any Protector of the Forest. My heart is filled with the archipelago’s pervading sensuality when I walk in the shady paths of the hills and bays, when I breathe in the spirited oceanic air, when I hear the joyful melodies and behold the Islands’ dancers. The noble truth is that, after a century of living in the forest, I have been transformed into an authentic Llewenti: a free Elf who would sooner give up the eternity promised to High Elves than ever abandon his desire for a joyful and chaotic life, however temporary that life might prove.’

  *

  The morning of their fourth day of navigating the Sian Kanny, the boat reached the edges of Llymvranone. Curubor’s entourage had disembarked a few miles upstream, under the cover of the surrounding hills, leaving only Duluin to guide the small boat into port.

  The port was built at the river’s estuary around five small, rocky isles, a gateway to the open sea. Leaning on the ship’s rail, Curubor looked at the city with nostalgic sadness. He contemplated the fallen towers and ruined domes that lined both banks of the Sian Kanny.

  Llymvranone looked ruined, chaotic and fragmented. Two and a half thousand years of troubled history had inflicted many dark scars on the city. Though the baleful vista of decapitated towers, disembowelled houses and crumbling battlements had a certain attractive, historic grandeur.

  Before the last war, few cities could have matched Llymvranone’s size and wealth. Curubor vividly remembered the forest of masts: the incessant comings and goings of small boats along the curves of the river. It was in this very harbour that representatives of all Elvin trades upon the archipelago had gathered. One could find clothes from Arystan[58], carpets from Ystanondalen[59], wine from the hills surrounding the Sian Kanny, and jewellery crafted in Gwarystan. Manufactured goods were transported by merchant ships from the Islands to be exchanged for minerals and metals, fruits and wine, gold and coins. The Blue Mage could still picture the white smoke of the forges which used to rise in the clear morning air. Llymvranone was the home of Nisty steel, considered the strongest in the archipelago; save for a rare compound originating from the valley of Nargrond. The city had been so-named because of its strategic position, as it commanded all the trade routes of the archipelago. The peak of this once-glorious place was now nothing more than a distant memory.

  Due to its location, Llymvranone had been ravaged throughout history by High Elves who had besieged the Llewenti; by barbarians who then drove out the Hawenti armies; by Men of the West who reclaimed the city and finally by King Norelin’s troops who forced Westerners to surrender. All these invaders had left their mark. For centuries, the city had fallen victim to the disputes of different races. Each onslaught had forged its spirit into a volatile alloy of resignation and fierce resistance. Yet those who lived there, the old and the young, knew in their hearts that it would always remain Llymvranone, the city upon which the fate of the archipelago was written.

  A few High Elves still lived within its walls. They were survivors of the sacking of Mentolewin[60] and refugees from Ystanetrond[61] who had migrated after that city’s fall. These Elves held the most important positions within the city’s army and guilds, where their talents and abilities could not be surpassed.

  There were also some Morawenti whom unsurprisingly lived in a separate community. Due to their exceptional knowledge of alchemy, alteration magic and smithing, they were seen as essential to the city’s prosperity, and were therefore rich and influential.

  The vast majority of Llymvranone’s surviving inhabitants, however, were Llewenti. Many had turned away from their clans and chosen to live under the protection of the High Elves, sharing in their wealth and comfort.

  Whatever their origin or homeland, these Llewenti had submitted to the Dol noble houses and adopted their ways. Most of them held only subordinate positions. In addition to a yearly tribute, paid in gold or in kind, they were obliged to pay homage to the king, and in so doing they abandoned their sacred powers over the Flow of the Islands to their liege.

  The boat passed under the city’s only bridge, a bottleneck in the river where numerous vessels would have once made the passage difficult. But now it was all clear; no other ships could be seen on the river. As they docked on the southern bank of the Sian Kanny, a unit of royal guards, clad in red cloaks and plate mail, ca
me to greet them. The Blue Mage only had to lift the curtain of his cabin to be immediately treated with the utmost respect. In Llymvranone, the arms of Dol Etrond were still as deeply revered as the royal rune.

  Escorted by three soldiers with red cloaks, he embarked with Duluin aboard a barge. A final short crossing through the rushing waters allowed Curubor to contemplate the ancestral home of the Dol Etrond in Llymvranone. Somewhat curiously, the king’s envoy had chosen the ruins of Curubor family’s manor as their meeting place.

  No one had yet made the time to organise its restoration. The place revealed much about Dol Etrond’s history: a once rich and powerful House that had suffered severe defeat at the hands of the barbarians. They had been forced to flee and abandon their vast domains in the west of the archipelago.

  Yet, amongst all their lost lands and possessions, this old mansion in Llymvranone remained. There had been a time when the family had dropped anchor there to rest when sailing between their stronghold in the west, Ystanetrond, and the capital city of Gwarystan.

  The rock of Dol Etrond was one of five small isles at the mouth of the river, just upstream from the port. The mansion, an ancient building with classic Hawenti architecture, was built around a round tower a hundred feet high, the only unspoiled part of the structure. A vast garden, now overrun with wild plants and weeds, surrounded it.

  Curubor walked slowly down the path to the steps of the mansion. His entourage respectfully waited behind him. His sharp gaze wandered from one bank of the river to the other, pondering the extensive work that would be needed to restore his property.

  But Curubor’s reflections were soon interrupted by the appearance of another luxuriously dressed High Elf, who was coming to meet him. He recognized Aplor, one of the city’s royal stewards; a skilled wizard and renowned scholar who helped govern Llymvranone in King Norelin’s name. Along with two of his peers, he ruled the vast domains south of Nyn Llyvary: the fishing port Llavrym[62] and the cities of Tios Vyar[63], Tios Gla[64], Tios Vyon and, far away in the east, Tios Lleny. Many Elves indeed lived under the protection of the royal rune in southern Nyn Llyvary.

  Aplor bowed twice to Curubor, showing great respect. He then performed the offering of hands, a ritual salute to honour those of Dol bloodlines: revealing the royal Rune of the Ruby which was etched upon his palms, demonstrating that the king’s magic protected him.

  Curubor asked him to rise and greeted him with a few courteous words. Then, the steward guided the much-awaited guest to what had been the great hall of the manor. Only three walls remained, and the ceiling opened out onto the clear morning sky. Aplor then vanished under the pretext of informing the king’s envoy of Curubor’s arrival.

  Three white marble statues embellished the great hall. They represented the former lords of the House of Dol Etrond. Curubor’s father and forebears were depicted, each pointing their swords towards heaven. In these effigies, the sculptor had captured their glorious deaths on the battlefield.

  “I somehow doubt that statues of me will ever look like these,” the Blue Mage thought with a wry smile. His ambition was certainly not to die fighting the wars of others.

  There had been a time when the House of Dol Etrond had governed Nyn Avrony, one of the Sunset Islands off the Mainland. It was a time when their great city, standing proud above the green pastures bordering the Strait of Oymal, had been a powerful fortress of the kingdom, and its main defence against the barbarian hordes. But countless wars and invasions had eventually taken their toll the great fortification had one day been conquered. When Aplor returned, Curubor was standing motionless, a spider in the corner of his web, his gaze fixed upon the statues. He had known and loved each of these long-departed Dol lords.

  The Blue Mage was invited to join his host in what appeared to be the only intact part of the mansion.

  It was not a very large reception room, but its luxurious furnishings were fitting for a royal residence. At the back, a stage was covered by a vast canopy of purple velvet, dotted with white unicorns which were pinned down at the edges of the platform by heavy strips of silver. The four steps leading up to it were covered with a rich mauve fabric. The room was filled with sumptuous cushions, precious carpets from Ystanoalin and rich furs of the clan Llyandy, and its walls were draped with exquisite tapestries, woven in Gwarystan looms. The tapestries depicted scenes of the kin-slaying wars, where the Dol Lewin had earned incomparable glory fighting against the Llewenti clans.

  The ceiling’s frescoes were carved with the arms of the Hawenti households who were allies of the House of Dol Lewin’s second branch. Light from the chandeliers illuminated the two bronze dragons of the House of Dol Oalin and the silver star of the House of Dol Rondalen, centred on the white unicorn against a purple field.

  As was the case for all major Dol houses, a huge value had been placed on art and learning. The king’s envoy always travelled with his library, a resplendent collection of precious books and manuscripts.

  On a perch near the steps sat a hooded bird of prey, as motionless and impassive as the falconer who stood guard below. The centre of the platform was occupied by two wide and comfortable chairs which were covered in a purple silk studded with white stars.

  On one sat lord Camatael Dol Lewin, Envoy of the King, a High Elf who, although slim and young, already was a majestic character. He had long black hair, a pale and austere face, and icy blue eyes that held both intelligence and learning.

  As the new ambassador of King Norelin, Camatael Dol Lewin, the third lord in the history of the House’s second branch, was a powerful and skilled Elf. His recent promotion to this influential position had been a reward for his commitment and talent.

  He was known to be a subtle diplomat, extremely well versed in the ways of Hawenti nobility. He was the last Elf of his bloodline, and his inheritance had been taken from him when men had invaded the western islands; he therefore did not personally administer any lands, nor did he rule any communities or cities. He was dedicated exclusively to serving his sovereign.

  Camatael had frequent dealings with guild masters, stewards, merchants, captains and sailors, as well as druids and priests of the six deities. He had precise knowledge of many fields; numerous subjects sought his help, on issues ranging from trade and diplomacy to architecture and religion.

  When sent on an errand by the king, the envoy was also the depository of a unique and fearsome power, symbolised by the scarlet rod he wielded. The common Elves of these territories knew that Camatael’s judgment could mean degradation, imprisonment or even exile.

  The royal envoy could also command armies during wartime. He had the authority to muster units and warships under the King’s banner.

  Camatael’s influence was important. His rugged features revealed his superiority.

  Camatael was comfortably leaning back in his armchair when Curubor was shown into the room. The envoy’s manner betrayed his tension; he expected this meeting to be something of an ordeal.

  Below him, a beautiful and young Elvin lady stood in the middle of the reception room. She was dressed in the finest Gwarystan silk, and her bearing identified her as a noble High Elf of superior rank. Mixed azure tones combined exquisitely on her robes, and delicate jewellery adorned her neck and hands. The golden radiance of her rings, bracelets and necklace formed a stunning contrast with the silky black of her soft hair. Her gaze was as imperious as an eagle’s. Her thin lips and delicate features showed a certain discontent; indeed, her lovely nose was slightly twitching, revealing her usual impatience. This was Lady Loriele Dol Etrond. It was often murmured in the court of Gwarystan that no other lady could make a finer queen, for she was venerated for her sovereign beauty and admired for her remarkable intelligence and education.

  Once Curubor had been granted entry, Loriele turned to embrace her relative. So as to preserve his lordly composure, Curubor coolly stopped her warm greeting, avoiding her touch. Instead, he bowed before the lord of the House of Dol Lewin.

  “Lord Curub
or, welcome to Llymvranone,” Camatael declared solemnly.

  “I am glad to see you, Uncle. It’s been such a long time,” added the young lady genuinely.

  Curubor smiled gently at his grandniece who he had always treated as his own daughter. Respecting convention, however, he addressed the king’s envoy first.

  “I thank you for travelling to Nyn Llyvary… lord Dol Lewin. I am honoured… but you should not gratify me with the title of Lord. As you know, my grandnephew, Almit, has inherited the Blue Helm of Etrond…”

  After a pause, Curubor continued.

  “I am glad that you have been appointed to such an important position, although, speaking truthfully, I had anticipated it. It shows that, despite your lack of lands, fortune and experience, your talents and merits are fully recognized by the King and the Ruby College. This is very reassuring. Although some think I am detached from the pulse of the archipelago, I remain interested in the events of our time, and I have keenly followed your rise. I offer my congratulations for such a rapid ascent. I have heard you are a high-ranking member of the Cult of Eïwal Lon and a reputed scholar in your own right, whose abilities may one day lead to admittance into the College of the High Mages.”

  “You are too kind. Thank you for your encouragement. I have indeed gained some experience, but my true education has not yet begun.”

  Curubor nodded, understanding what the young lord meant. “It takes decades, often centuries, of painstaking research and scrupulous study to even begin to discover the art of High Magic.”

  “One can only learn to control the Flow of the Islands in the Ruby Tower. For those who have mastered it, the shifting tides of the Flow are theirs to command,” and, with this, Camatael’s eye blinked, as though the very wind of ambition, that ceaselessly blew within his soul, had transformed from a gentle breeze into a raging tempest.

  Curubor could not help but disagree. “Lord Dol Lewin, there are alternative paths that a promising young scholar can follow to master High Magic, if he commits himself to prayers and the ways of the deities, so that they may bless him. This path is far less dangerous, for the Flow has its source in the archipelago itself, and the Islands’ deities are its cache.