An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  Curubor’s argument was becoming overwhelming. Camatael tried to fight back.

  “The Ruby College believes there is nothing more perilous than trying to swing the balance of power within the Kingdom. He who attempts it shall have fierce enemies among all those who have benefited from Norelin; he shall only find weak allies from the very few who might think the change beneficial.”

  Curubor agreed. “War is always a deplorable last resort, and I always work to avoid it. But, when it is already at our doorstep, we must find ways to benefit from whatever the outcome may be.”

  “And I expect you claim to have the solution?” Camatael Dol Lewin asked irritably.

  “I would rather say that I have different solutions to offer. Now, I always believe that a little impatience can ruin a great project, that, if necessary, we must postpone action and wait. Sometimes I have aborted my attempts to act as many times as there are days in a moon cycle until… the right moment arrived.

  That moment has now come, Camatael. You are the one who can help me. You talk of the King of Gwarystan… of the Ruby College… you always refer to a higher power when expressing the positions, you defend. I appreciate your distance, for it demonstrates that you are keeping your own beliefs and hopes hidden.”

  Camatael suddenly realized that he was being driven to betrayal by the cunning mage’s speech. He decided to end the conversation abruptly. The king’s envoy knew enough of Curubor’s intentions. He stood tall and concluded the meeting in an imposing, solemn voice.

  “Powerful Westerners at the Court will request that the guilty be punished for triggering a new war and breaking the Pact. King Norelin will follow their advice, for he has too much to lose. He may well gather the armies of his vassals and invade the Forest of Llymar to demonstrate his authority. No prince, no Dol lord, no guild master will dare oppose him. The traitors shall end up on the rocks below the Gwarystan cliff...”

  “Please calm yourself, Lord Dol Lewin, and look at your map,” Curubor offered.

  The Blue Mage set his cold gaze upon the king’s envoy and whispered to him, in a cold, deep voice.

  “The Elves of Llymar did not light the fires of war; they are simply defending themselves against barbarian aggression. To cross the grassy hills of the Arob Salwy, in strength and in number, is their most fundamental right. Believe me, the king would find few allies to support any kind of retaliation against the clans of the Llymar Forest.”

  Then, half smiling, he continued, soft and ensnaring.

  “Other factions will be eagerly looking for the slightest misstep on the part of King Norelin. The Dol Valra and the Dol Talas are among those Hawenti houses that are waiting for the first opportunity to challenge his legitimacy. They will not have taken the closing of Eïwal Lon Temple lightly. You studied the deity of wisdom’s teachings with their children. You know them. They learnt from the clerics of the Temple of Light that there are lines that should never be crossed, not even by a King.

  If Norelin chooses to attack us, he will face the wrath of most of the Dol houses, and also of the majority of his own Llewenti subjects. They may have abandoned their clans’ ancient customs but hear this: they have not forgotten their origins! For now, the northern forests of Nyn Llyvary are only home to four small cities, whose names echo like the many defeats of another age. Soon, history shall tell how the matriarchs of clan Llyvary walked alongside the survivors of Ystanetrond, the fabled archers of the clan Ernaly, and the last hero of the Avrony bloodline.”

  Curubor could feel Camatael hesitating. He smiled with all the grim humour of an ancient sage, which the king’s envoy found more humiliating than the laughing jeers of a youngster. Camatael immediately reacted.

  “I could call my guards. I could summon them to seize you. I could have you locked up in one of the city’s deepest cells, where even your magic would be completely useless.

  And yet, the power of your voice must still be great, Lord Curubor, as great as when, long ago, your enlightened opinions influenced the decisions of the Dol Etrond lords. Now, as our meeting draws to a close, I almost feel gratitude. So, I thank you for your words. I shall consider each of them carefully and weigh up every piece of your advice…

  But for now, you will honour me with your presence, as a... guest.”

  Curubor smiled at this. He could see a new dawn breaking in his interlocutor’s mind; its contours were gradually becoming visible, like a landscape emerging from the fog. He replied, persisting with his persuasion attempt.

  “In times of peace, there is little one can hope for. It is only in troubled periods that certain characters can demonstrate the virtues of which they are capable.

  The clans of the forest shall begin a new era with this war, an era in which the great shall no longer devour the small, but where the quick shall annihilate the slow.

  Camatael, I have been watching you for a long time. I have kept track of each step of your progression. You could become the heir I never had. It is up to you to forge your own destiny and, maybe one day, to forge that of all Elves of the archipelago. Gather the forces of the Sian Kanny valley, and sail towards the north. If you manage to conquer Kaar Corkel[65], our victory shall be complete. The barbarians shall fall inextricably into our deadly trap, for their only harbour is their sole means of escape. At this moment, it is almost defenceless. Seize Kaar Corkel and call upon the Druids; Restore their power, and then join us. This is the service the Council of the Forest demands before it welcomes the House of Dol Lewin into its ancient assembly.”

  Camatael violently raised his hand into the air, but a moment later he halted his attack: his prisoner had blurred before his eyes. The image of Curubor slowly began to vanish. Camatael did not move an inch; bark an order or curse in anger. The young lord had begun to understand.

  Camatael allowed the image to disappear, observing each step of the process with a keen interest. He had read of such illusion magic; he remembered it was accessible only to wizards of great power, to wielders of Sapphire Magic.

  Deeply lost in thought, Camatael stood alone long in the middle of the reception room

  What Curubor had just told could have major consequences for the future of the Realm. Closing his eyes, he focussed on every single word the Blue Mage had uttered, analysing both their explicit and implicit meanings. After decades of peace, the Elvin armies were on the move again. Camatael’s mind evaluated the possibilities, weighing the odds and revisiting his many assumptions. His eyes changed to a white colour as he muttered mysterious incantations. Turning towards the table, he looked out across the vast map of the archipelago. More than two thirds of the figures denoting the Elvin armies were painted red: the colour of the Ruby and the colour of the King of Gwarystan. Their overwhelming presence commanded the heart of the Islands, controlling the shores of the Llyoriane Sea. Green, grey and dark figurines symbolised the scattered units of the remaining independent Llewenti clans.

  Then, suddenly, as if influenced by the intensity of Camatael’s gaze, some of the Ruby pieces started to move; they were shifting slowly away from Gwarystan, some of the red even changing to an unexpected yellow or blue. The young lord took in the spectacle with curiosity. He breathed in deeply and remained there for a moment, silent and focused.

  *

  Camatael finally resolved to open the door of the reception room. He moved calmly towards the royal knight on guard duty, showing no sign of the tempest of thoughts that raged within him.

  “Where is Lady Loriele?” he asked laconically.

  “She set out riding on her horse with a cavalier of the House of Dol Etrond,” replied the knight.

  “How long ago did she leave?”

  “It must have been an hour ago… Should we fear for her safety? Shall we find her?”

  “I doubt you could catch her,” Camatael replied simply.

  “Duluin the Tall was with her, my lord. I know him well. We fought side by side at the siege of Ystanetrond. The first knight of the Golden Arch has a strong r
eputation; he is a fierce and heroic fighter. You ought not to worry for the young lady’s safety.

  But has Lord Curubor already departed?” the royal knight inquired, looking behind Camatael.

  “Not exactly… He was never really here in the first place,” replied the king’s envoy enigmatically. “Did you speak with this Duluin the Tall?

  “I exchanged a few words, only briefly, my Lord. He was keen to show Lady Loriele a horse her uncle had bought her. He gave me a gold coin, in memory of the old days. I refused at first but he insisted, claiming that, where he lived, in the Forest of Llymar, money had no value. He even suggested you might be interested in the stamp. The coin is minted with the white unicorn of the House of Dol Lewin: surely a rare currency.”

  “May I see it?” asked Camatael, inquisitively.

  “Here it is, my Lord… please keep it.”

  Camatael took the gold coin in his hand and started to examine it carefully. The white unicorn of the House of Dol Lewin was indeed minted on its two faces. This was most strange, for never in the history of the archipelago had a sovereign allowed anyone else the right to mint currency.

  The king’s envoy found the explanation soon enough. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was a war unicorn that was depicted, not a racing unicorn. The gold coin came from Essawylor, from beyond the Austral Ocean. It came from the elder branch of the House of Dol Lewin.

  Camatael frowned. He understood the message. Curubor’s fantastical tale was true.

  But a commotion in the corridor soon attracted his attention. The steward Aplor, escorted by several royal guards in red cloaks, approached in haste.

  “Hear me, Lord Dol Lewin!”

  “What is it, Aplor?”

  “There are many ships, approaching from upstream, so many! It is as if all the boats from Tios Vyar to Tios Lleny have gathered to sail down the Sian Kanny and meet in Llymvranone. What can this mean? Nobody, to my knowledge, has sent any order to muster the royal army.”

  “It means, Master Aplor, war could well loom before us...” Camatael replied enigmatically.

  CHAPTER 7: Rymsing

  2709 of the Llewenti Calendar, Season of Eïwele Llyi, 6th day, Sognen Tausy woods

  “Siw! Valy Vyrka! Valy keny! E nao fika ki!”[66]

  “I cannot! I cannot Gelros! ... Gelros! Help me!”

  “Ohos wal hega!”[67]

  Gelros jumped from the tree that he was hiding in and agilely landed on the damp soil.

  “Vyrka! Valy keny!”[68] he insisted.

  “If I jump now, I’ll be lost, Gelros,” cried Vyrka, desperate.

  The wild Elf was badly injured, a barbarian arrow embedded in his arm. He was confused and dizzy. He could no longer see clearly. He seemed to have difficulty breathing and beads of sweat sat upon his forehead. He moved as if to join his companion, who was eagerly awaiting him below on the forest floor.

  Vyrka hesitated once more, but finally began his dangerous descent from the top of the tall pine tree. He did not get far. One of the first branches snapped. He slipped, unable to prevent his fall, and crashed onto the ground below. He was overwhelmed with immense pain; his right leg was broken. The bone, cracked at the calf, was protruding through his skin. His now useless leg dangled like an unstrung puppet. In great distress, he could not stifle a scream. His cries tore through the silence of the forest.

  Gelros, annoyed, turned back on his heels to assist Vyrka. He examined the wild Elf scout with little care.

  ‘The arrow was poisoned,’ Gelros thought. ‘That is why his senses are confused. Now his leg is broken. The barbarians will come back in greater number and…’

  “Help me! Take me back to Mentollà, please…” Vyrka implored.

  “E nao llely ken a Mentollà…”[69]

  Gelros did not complete his sentence. With one quick movement, he cut Vyrka’s throat with his short sword. After a brief spurt of blood, the body fell motionless. The victim’s lifeless eyes were frozen in shock.

  Staying perfectly calm, Gelros methodically searched the body of his former companion. Disappointed with what he found, he took only three light arrows from Vyrka’s quiver and a pair of daggers from his belt. He was then on his way, heading southeast towards the ruins of Mentollà. He sped up, reaching a consistently fast pace. Like a shadow among the trees, the scout progressed swiftly, leaving no trace of his passage behind him. His objective now was to join his other companions, Curwë and Nelwiri, who were waiting for him in a secret hideout by the boundaries of Mentollà. These surroundings were new to him, and very different from the tropical forests of Essawylor, but Gelros had a rare ability to always find his way, to blend into all sorts of natural environments; during the day, but most of all at night.

  *

  After an arduous, three-hour journey through the wild, rugged vegetation, Gelros finally reached the haven. It was a small cave, carved into the soft stone of a steep slope and protected by the sprawling forestry. The scout approached the cliff very cautiously. There was no telling how far the barbarian vanguard had advanced into their territory. Climbing the steep rocky wall, he reached an opening. The hole was small but wide enough to check who was inside. For the first time in several days, he could finally relax and breathe calmly.

  Everything was normal inside. He saw Curwë; the bard was fully absorbed reading an old manuscript. Gelros recalled that the precious text had been a gift from Vyrka. The treasure was, no doubt, loot from one of the burglaries Vyrka had frequently committed in Llafal. Inside the cave, Curwë seemed unhappy; he let the book fall to the ground, complaining.

  “How cruel life is! Here I am, reading the final page of this remarkable work of literature, knowing full well that I shall never read the subsequent volumes. I will be forever afflicted by the lack. What a sad feeling! It is rather like drinking that last glass of wine as you stare at the empty amphora. Those final few sips never taste the same… Nelwiri, you seem to care little for these matters I speak of. Am I right?”

  “Siw! Indeed, I do care. You have my sympathy, my poet friend,” replied the Irawenti sailor, but his ironic tone and strained voice showed that his mind was on other things.

  “I suppose you aren’t affected by life’s little annoyances. Will you not stop that racket? Are you not concerned, anxious? Have these cursed feelings no hold upon you?”

  Nelwiri responded suddenly by running across the room, leaping into the air, bounding off the northern wall to gain momentum and finally kicking against a second wall to perform a somersault. Landing gracefully on his feet, Nelwiri saluted an imaginary crowd.

  “This is no racket! This is Essawylor dancing! You should know better, my artist friend. The following complicated and dangerous move will bring an end to my performance. Cil, Cim, Cir! I do intend…”

  Nelwiri was interrupted by the echo of a bird cry. “I know that sound! There is no such tropical bird in these lands; Gelros must be back!” he exclaimed with excitement as he rushed towards the cave’s entrance.

  Gelros repeated his signal a second time; a traditional call used by Essawylor scouts and was admitted into the cave. Curwë stood up and warmly welcomed his companion, relieved at his return.

  “Greetings Gelros, I am glad to see you. You were away for a long time.”

  “Greetings Curwë, and greetings to you also Nelwiri, we meet again!”

  “Abriwa Gelros! We are eager to hear your news; there are tales of Blue Bards, spirits roaming the woods at night. The forest rustles with rumours of bloody battles and unspeakable horrors,” added Nelwiri, as he hugged his companion with characteristic affection.

  “Why do you come back alone? Where are the wild Elves?” Curwë interrupted suddenly.

  “Dead.”

  “Siw, all ten of them?” inquired Nelwiri, astonished.

  “All of them. Vyrka included.”

  “This is awful news,” replied Curwë. “I had lately grown fond of Vyrka. I could not say that he was terribly smart, but he was generous… very gener
ous. I loved his gifts. What could have happened to them?” he asked anxiously.

  “The wild Elves chose to ambush the barbarian scouts. We killed over thirty of them. Those men are strong and fierce. Without iron armour, they are vulnerable at a distance, but they are deadly in close combat. They are full of fury. I killed eight… But then more came, many more.”

  “What do you mean? How many were they?” Curwë asked urgently.

  “I saw their entire army: several thousand strong. The barbarians have crossed the pass of the Arob Tiude Mountains and entered the territory of the wild Elves, north of our location here. It is nothing less than an invasion,” Gelros flatly declared.

  “Ah! So when the highlanders’ tribes crossed the peak of Nassy Gnanella[70] a few days ago to block our way to the southern road, it was no mere raid. It must have been part of a much wider plan,” Nelwiri realised.

  “Mentollà is now trapped between two fronts. We are at war,” concluded Gelros.

  The news froze Nelwiri and Curwë. Indifferent to their shock, Gelros began to busy himself replacing his equipment. He took the time to drink deeply, before he carefully selected new arrows for his two quivers and filled his pockets with food. He even picked up two black short swords to replace his bloody blades.

  “The Morawenti have always made swords by the pair: one to tell you where to go, the other to remind you who you are,” he added laconically, fully focused on his tasks.

  When the three Elves left their hideout, the forest turned a deep, threatening green. The wind rushed furiously through the branches of the pine trees, as if pushing through the last stretch of a long race. Only the shrill cries of seabirds disturbed the silence of the dawn.