The Lonely Seeker

by C A Oliver

  “I have no time to rest. That which hunts me will not allow me any respite,” interrupted Dyoren abruptly. “I’ll be on my way in a few moments, but I have much to tell you before then. Please listen carefully.”

  Then, looking at Curwë with fascination, Dyoren added with a distant, dreamy tone.

  “We meet again, Elf with green eyes. How is it that you cross my path each time I am about to fall?”

  Curwë ignored the comment and curtly gestured for Nyriele to sit down. Meanwhile, Aewöl filled four elegant crystal glasses with a refreshing-looking wine, the colour of blackberries. All eyes then turned to Dyoren. After taking a few sips of the precious beverage and relishing every stage of a ceremonious tasting ritual, he began. His speech was slow and hesitant.

  “We used to live in Nargrond Valley. My quest invariably led us to that dangerous place, full of perils…”

  “Nargrond Valley is at the centre of the main island of the Archipelago, Gwa Nyn,” explained Nyriele. “It is protected by high mountains. The territory has been disputed for centuries by the king of Gwarystan’s armies and the clan Myortilys’ units. It is a land of legend, home to many monstrous beings: Giants living by the fire of its volcano, Gnomes seeking to extract its precious metals. Very few Elves have dared set foot in that valley for a long time.”

  Dyoren continued with the authority of an Elf who had.

  “Legends say the Nargrond Valley was created when the fabled Star fell from heaven and hit Gwa Nyn. Its mighty impact split the earth asunder. Molten lava and poisonous vapours flooded down across the region from the great volcano of Oryusk, where the meteorite had completed its destructive course. The very heart of the mountain melted, and stone poured down its western side like liquid fire.”

  “It is said,” Nyriele added, “that the meteorite’s impact was felt across the whole Mainland.”

  The four Elves remained silent for a while, their minds wandering in that distant glen and their imaginations set ablaze. Eventually, Dyoren continued his tale, more confidently now, as if he had been granted the need to speak by an unknown power.

  “A few years ago, I received evil tidings from Nyn Ernaly, my homeland. The pernicious influence of Men was growing beyond control, leading us all to fear irreparable consequences. After the Century of War, the Pact granted governance of Nyn Ernaly to the Westerners, and they chose to establish their main city upon the ruins of Mentobraglin. They renamed it Tar-Andevar, and in a few decades that human town had swollen to great proportions.”

  “It is said that Tar-Andevar is now three times the size it was when ruled by the High Elves,” said Nyriele.

  Dyoren went on. “Indeed, the Westerners are Men of craft. They are builders who tirelessly strive to extend their dominion. For decades, they have fuelled the growth of their fortified town with timber from the wood of Silver Leaves. It is a sacred place up the hills and a few leagues north of the great human harbour. The Westerners worked tirelessly to mine the hills, divert the rivers and fell the trees.”

  “I know what the trees represent to the Green Elves,” Curwë interjected, full of compassion. “It is your belief that you will eventually be reincarnated by your Deities into the flora of the Islands.”

  “It is not a mere belief, foreigner from across the ocean!It is our fate. You still have a lot to learn,” Dyoren spat back harshly.

  His sudden aggression surprised his interlocutors, though it then reminded them that the Lonely Seeker was in a state of little self-awareness. For a moment after his outburst, Dyoren’s gaze became lost, as if his soul were sensing the pain of his ancestors’ spirits as each tree was struck down. After a while, he continued, saddened.

  “But there is worse to come. The Westerners are destroying the wood of Silver Leaves not just to feed their new town with timber. I have come to realize that they are set upon its devastation for a different purpose.”

  Dyoren’s interlocutors were hanging on his every word.

  “A long time ago, the wood of Silver Leaves was chosen to shelter the secret tombs of Rowë and his followers. They hold the testament of the Dol Nargrond lord: The Forbidden Will.”

  Nyriele could not help but flinch at the news. She stepped back unintentionally. Aewöl’s one eye widened, filled with curiosity. He leaned forward. But it was Curwë who spoke first.

  “What is the significance of that holy scroll?” he asked feverishly. “Why is it so important to you?”

  Nyriele immediately intervened. “That answer, Dyoren will not give you,” she insisted, “Know only that Rowë Dol Nargrond was the greatest Elf ever to set foot on the Archipelago. The best scholars and artisans of all Elvin races flocked to serve him in Yslla, the city at the centre of Nargrond Valley. Rowë and his followers left us the mightiest of legacies: first, the legendary swords forged from the metal of the Fallen Star and, second, a testament, the Forbidden Will, that none shall read until the time comes.”

  Swept up in her own agitation, the young matriarch had revealed more than she had intended. She became quiet, her closed expression making it clear that she would say no more. But then, to the surprise of all, Dyoren continued, impatient to reveal what he knew, and perhaps eager to rid himself of a burden now too great to bear. He poured himself another glass of wine and turned to the others, his speech now slurred.

  “When I was entrusted with Rymsing, one of the legendary swords of Nargrond Valley, I became Dyoren the Seventh. Other Seekers had preceded me, and all had failed to complete our noble quest. Rymsing is the last blade of Nargrond Valley that we still possess. Its wielder’s task is to find the five other swords… Until now, I too have failed in this mission… though I have learnt a great deal.”

  Nyriele tried to comfort him. “But you were also charged with defending the secret tombs of the fabled Bladesmiths, those mighty Elves who made the swords of Nargrond Valley.”

  Dyoren looked away, his concern and dismay were visible. Nyriele added.

  “Those four Elvin tombs are the only ones in the Archipelago, for the tradition of the Green Elves dictates that bodies of the dead be returned to Eïwele Llyo’s care. Priests of the Deity of Fate will normally place bodies into pools or lakes, which are thought to be part of Eïwele Llyo’s domain… The High Elves, however, cremate the remains of their dead upon funeral pyres. Rowë and his followers, one of them of Llewenti ancestry, are the only exceptions I am aware of. They were buried in tombs.”

  “It is said their bodies were wrapped in shrouds soaked in the perfume of Eïwele Llyo, so that their remains would stay unaltered,” Dyoren explained.

  “For what purpose, I do not know,” Nyriele confided.

  “I do not believe that anyone knows,” said Dyoren. “But that purpose must have been of considerable importance; such extensive resources have been deployed to hide the four tombs in the depths of the Silver Leaves Wood. This is why I have spent these last few years trying to delay the progress of the Westerners.”

  Curwë expressed his compassion.

  “And you have been alone, for all that time?”

  “To hold Rymsing is to never be alone. There is nothing comparable to her presence and influence. She loved me, and I gave her my life. Now I see that my efforts were vain.”

  Dyoren regretted, like reciting the words of an improvised poem.

  “How did it come to this?

  How is it that I now must run like a hunted deer?

  How is it that her touch is now cold as ice?

  How is it that her gaze is full of resentment, and that she looks at me as if all my pride were depleted?

  How is it that she no longer visits me with her dreams?”

  Dyoren became overwhelmed with despair; he was speaking faster and faster, the words flying out like a thousand birds fleeing a stormy sky. Was he talking, or was he singing? He rose from his armchair and faced Nyriele, forcing her to witness what he felt.

  “My love for her, my love for Rymsing pains me! It spits upon me!”

  Dyore
n was half-singing now in his agonising fever.

  “She has broken her vows!

  She has run me into the ground!

  Do not wonder why the strings of my harp are broken!

  Do not wonder why my vocal chords are wrecked!

  The music… has ceased.”

  For a time, a frozen silence reigned. The three Elves around Dyoren were overwhelmed by the sheer depth of feeling carried by these few quasi-verses. Each listener remained quiet, paying homage to the suffering, artist. Aewöl was the first to speak.

  “Where is your sword now?”

  Once again, the room fell silent. Seeing the extent of Dyoren’s pain, all feared the worse for the legendary blade.

  “None will find her until I decide it can be so. There are some who desire her for themselves. Some believe they shall win her favour more than I ever could. More still have condemned me as a criminal and, worse, their enemy.”

  “You must free yourself from your pain,” encouraged Nyriele with the utmost sincerity.

  “They claimed that my quest was over, that my duty towards the Elves had been fulfilled. They wanted to transport the secret tombs to Llymar, to snatch them from the grasp of the Westerners. But I could not believe them, for I saw in their leader’s eyes what his true purpose was. He had come for my sword, Rymsing… to take her from me. He said to me, with his polite voice, that the time of Dyoren the Seventh was over, and that an eighth Seeker would need to be appointed to persevere in my quest. Listening to his melodious voice, it seemed obvious, it seemed right, that I should submit to his will, that I should kneel to surrender my only companion, the object of all my devotion. But I could not accept such an arbitrary sentence. I chose… I chose to jump into the void…”

  “The void?” murmured Curwë.

  “Such is my bond to Rymsing. I would do anything to safeguard her… I fell from a great height into the wild torrent below. How I did not perish, I do not know. I can see it only as a sign of Gweïwal Uleydon’s favour. He is the Lord of all Waters and, for a reason I cannot fathom, he decided to spare me that day.”

  Another long silence followed. Nyriele remembered Dyoren had claimed that he had swum across the strait of Tiude to reach the shores of Nyn Llyvary. If that was true, the protection of the almighty God of Oceans must have been upon him. She shivered. The calm voice of Aewöl broke the silence.

  “You refer to your enemies as ‘they’, as if you dare not name them. Who are ‘they’?”

  For a moment, it looked as if Dyoren would not answer the one-eyed Elf. His gaze went excitedly from the emerald gaze of Curwë to the blank features of Nyriele. When he finally spoke, he did so quietly, though his inner rage was palpable.

  “By ‘they’ I mean: my brother Mynar dyl, my brother Voryn dyl, the entire clan Ernaly, and, worst of all, the great stag of the Secret Vale. It is they who declare me their enemy.”

  The defeated Dyoren ended with a sad smile.

  “What have you done, Dyoren?” Nyriele exclaimed, now feeling afraid. “Do you not know the significance of the great stag’s presence? It means, it means… that what Mynar dyl was doing was legitimate. It must have been ordered by the Arkys in the Secret Vale. There is no greater authority for us than those ancient figures! They are the closest disciples of the Deities. Even Matriarch Lyrine bows before them!”

  Sad, weak, Dyoren continued.

  “I know the significance of the great stag’s presence, Nyriele… but I could not bring myself to obey. I was not given a chance! No one was willing to listen; despite the years I have dedicated to protecting the tombs. Moving those graves would be a fatal strategic mistake. The fools would fall into the very trap our enemies have set to locate them! Fighting them for so long, spying upon their servants, I have come to understand their stratagems. They have planned for this very move.”

  “How did you know this?” asked Curwë. “What makes you think your brothers are in danger?”

  The green-eyed bard had naturally sided with the Lonely Seeker, overwhelmed by his show of desperate heroism. He admired this great artist and felt profound sorrow for his solitary fate.

  “A few years ago,” Dyoren explained, “just after the battle of Mentollà, the king of Gwarystan decided to send some of his most fanatic followers to Tar-Andevar. The new ambassadors that King Norelin appointed at the sea hierarchs’ castle were chosen from among his most trusted servants. It was they who would enact the ruby crown’s new diplomatic approach: pursuing their dreams of grandeur alongside the Westerners.”

  “You mean those who call themselves ‘The knights of the Golden Hand’?” asked Aewöl.

  “Yes, indeed. Such is their influence at the royal court in Gwarystan that they are known as ‘The Fingers that hold the Sceptre’. King Norelin elevated those six miserable plunderers to the rank of knight sorcerers. They are a powerful force; some of them are Westerners from Nellos, but they also count among their ranks a powerful High Elf of Dol lineage,” explained Dyoren.

  He took a few sips of the precious wine Aewöl had just served before continuing.

  “There is now no doubt in my mind: the dreaded servants of King Norelin have been sent to find the secret tombs of the bladesmiths of Nargrond Valley. Scattered across the wood of Silver Leaves are metal statues of obscure origin, and with strange powers. The knight sorcerers are waiting for us to make the fatal mistake that will unveil the tombs’ location. They are using powerful sorcery. Mynar dyl does not know the enemy he faces. My brother does not understand the magnitude of the risk he is taking. Instead, he has chosen to betray me and claim my sword for himself.”

  “But they must be alerted. It is of vital importance,” Nyriele insisted firmly.

  She thought for a moment before adding.

  “What does Matriarch Lyrine know of this expedition?”

  “Your mother is already involved, Nyriele. When the units of the clan Ernaly reached the shores of Nyn Ernaly, they disembarked from swanships of Llafal. I learnt that the clan Llyvary’s fleet shall be transporting the tombs across the strait of Tiude. Your father, Gal dyl, commands those ships.”

  Nyriele was suddenly anxious for her father’s safety.

  “Someone needs to warn them of the peril they are facing! Someone needs to go to Nyn Ernaly!” she repeated several times, her gaze eventually fixing on Curwë, as if she wanted him to act as a witness to her distress.

  Curwë was about to offer his services, but then hesitated, unsure of how best to answer such a request. Before he could make up his mind, Aewöl intervened, his voice unemotional.

  “Noble Matriarch,” he began, “we need to slow down and think of a solution. Rest assured that we will support you as best as we can in this ordeal.”

  But his look of scepticism made it clear that he thought the challenges ahead would prove difficult. Aewöl shared his thoughts aloud, detailing each step of his reasoning with the young matriarch.

  “We must indeed depart immediately for Nyn Ernaly… but our community of castaways from Essawylor does not possess a ship that could sail the seas. The council of the forest denied us the right to build a new vessel. You must know this!”

  The accusatory tone of Aewöl’s argument crept into Nyriele’s subconscious, leaving her somewhat unsettled.

  “I am aware of this restriction… it was my mother who ordered it,” the young matriarch conceded, her own tone implying she had not been partisan to that pronouncement when it was made.

  Aewöl concurred. “This discriminatory measure was indeed unfortunate. But one can always reverse that which is wrong,” he stated, somewhat evasively.

  The pale Elf’s one eye then widened in sudden realization.

  “I do believe the answer lies in the question. If we were given such a boat, we could quickly provide our assistance in the events to come. Our Blue Elves’ friends would be an invaluable asset. As navigators on the open sea, they are unequalled.”

  Nyriele was disconcerted. “I understand your plan, Master Aewöl.
But I have absolutely no authority to donate one of our swanships.”

  Seeing an opportunity, Aewöl pressed on.

  “A ship would also be an invaluable asset to the commerce we are currently establishing from Mentollà. Curwë and I dream of establishing a naval trading company. We have plenty of ideas that would benefit us all,” stated the former counsellor of House Dol Lewin.

  His only eye began to shine like a dark amethyst.

  “Master Aertelyr and the Breymounarty are certainly making the most of their profitable arrangements with us. It is their large vessels that must transport our goods across the Lost Islands.At the moment, therefore, only Master Aertelyr can benefit from our resources and know-how.”

  Nyriele could sense that Aewöl wanted was complete emancipation: trade routes, merchant ships and lucrative commerce. These assets weighed heavily in Nyriele’s mind, like the crucial components of a vast game, where power was the prize. She could feel that behind the one-eyed Elf’s soft tone, there lurked ambition, perhaps even greed. She began to find the conversation embarrassing.