by C A Oliver
Meanwhile Curwë, uninterested in his companion’s opportunism, had his gaze fixed on Nyriele. Each change in her attitude, each emotion that flickered across her face, was a chance for him to uncover another facet of her exquisite beauty. The bard was captivated by her unrivalled charm and sincere kindness. Unexpectedly, Curwë intervened with excitement.
“Aewöl is right.”
The others turned to him in surprise.
“Aewöl is right… We could use Aertelyr’s merchant ship to reach the shores of Nyn Ernaly. That guild master is a smuggler as much as he is a trader; I am sure we can come to some kind of arrangement with him. Against a higher percentage of our next shipment, he could have us discretely dropped off on a remote beach. There is our solution. As we speak, his vessel is anchored in Mentollà creek, being loaded with the summer’s harvest.”
“You would do that? You would do that for me?” Nyriele asked with infinite gratitude. “Though I rank highly in my clan, my influence is little. The assistance of loyal friends will be a vital support.”
Curwë bowed ceremoniously. “You now have knights to do your bidding, my lady Nyriele, brave servants who will do anything to help you, for you are indeed the incarnation of Eïwele Llyi’s teachings.”
Aewöl had remained silent during this exchange, astonished by the commitment his friend had undertaken. The one-eyed Elf looked at him impassively… At last, Aewöl joined his bard companion. He bowed in turn, before drawing his two black swords.
“Noble Matriarch, you have kindly listened to the plight of the community of Mentollà. It gives me great hope that such a caring ear has been leant to our just demands. For this, I thank you. My blades will not rest until your father is returned safe.”
Nyriele stood up, seized with emotion. For the first time, she was experiencing the absolute loyalty she could inspire. It felt like a glimpse of royal authority. It felt like power.
“And I gratefully accept your help, noble Elves,” she acknowledged, her voice confident and clear. “May the Deities protect you and grant you fame.”
Indifferent to these outpourings, Dyoren had opted to continue enjoying the residual aroma of Aewöl’s wine, emptying the crystal carafe of all its precious content. It was as if the exquisite beverage’s soothing properties had somehow waned, for the Lonely Seeker’s mood was once again growing anxious and aggressive. He gathered his few possessions, visibly eager to be on his way. Before departing, Dyoren offered them a word of caution.
“The task before you is beset with perils. The knights of the Golden Hand are supported by the sea hierarchs’ army. They have the territories around the wood of Silver Leaves completely covered, with dozens of units patrolling day and night. They also dispatched many spies. Most are not even living beings, for the knights of the Golden Hand are powerful sorcerers… I fear for you, but I admire your bravery… You have my blessing. Remember, saving the secret tombs from the grasp of the knights of the Golden Hand is a lost cause. All who persist in that vain quest will perish. Only the Forbidden Will, the testament of Rowë, can be saved.”
And with those final words, as though he were expressing his last wishes, Dyoren left the room through one of the windows, disappearing into the night. Curwë turned to Nyriele.
“My lady, is it wise to let him go? After all the hardship he has only just overcome, he is weak and vulnerable. Despair is obscuring his mind. I feel guilty that I was not of more assistance.”
Nyriele looked at him with kindness. “You have a noble heart, Curwë, and your sentiments do you much honour. I am proud to have you henceforth at my side.”
She took a breath before continuing. “Dyoren the Seeker does not answer to any of us; he will not bow before the council of the forest, nor even before the matriarchs of the clans. Dyoren answers only to what he called ‘the Secret Vale,’ but that high authority is shrouded in mystery. It is not for us to judge him. It is not for us to assist him. His role in the order of things goes far beyond my knowledge.”
Aewöl was curious, eager to know more.
“Noble Matriarch, what became of the Seekers before him? I understand that several knights, each in turn, previously took the oath and were entrusted with the sword Rymsing. What was their fate?”
Nyriele hesitated. She then decided that Aewöl and Curwë deserved to know more if they were to risk their lives in this expedition.
“Little is known about this unique order, even by the matriarchs. In the Secret Vale, which lies hidden somewhere in the Islands’ mountains beyond the reach of all, those we call the ‘Arkys’ divine the wishes of the Deities. At times, they will call upon a hero to pursue a quest. We believe that their aim is to return all the swords of Nargrond Valley to the Arkys. Legends say there is no task harder than the honour of wielding Rymsing; when it loses hope of finding its sister blades, another wielder, younger stronger, must be chosen.”
“A cruel destiny for a hero who has devoted his life to others,” judged Aewöl with some bitterness.
Nyriele tried to comfort him. “I’d like to think those brave Elves who are left behind will be shown the path to the Secret Vale, and that thereafter they will enjoy a life of peace in the hidden garden of the Deities, among the chosen ones. This is what I wish for the seventh Dyoren once the pain of his dishonour has diminished.”
Aewöl chose not to dwell any longer on the fate of the Seeker. He turned his attention to the mission ahead.
“We all know there is little time. I will ask Gelros to prepare our horses. We will set off for Mentollà at dawn. It will take us several days to reach the tower of the creek.” Aewöl bowed respectfully, before taking his leave.
Curwë immediately offered to accompany the young matriarch home. The festive celebration was still in full swing within the Halls of Essawylor. Indifferent to its now distant murmur, the two Elves wandered through the city streets, up towards Temples Square. They admired the night’s tremendous starry sky. The discussion focused anew on the legendary bladesmith who had forged the fabled swords, and who had left behind the Forbidden Will. Nyriele was explaining.
“Rowë, first son of Nargrond, was the wisest of the exiled High Elves in the Lost Islands. After the army of King Lormelin disembarked upon Gwa Nyn’s shores, to invade the main island of the Archipelago, the clan Myortilys were defeated and the High Elves seized the heart of their realm. It remained a dangerous place, threatened by the raids of defeated Myortilys, and further attacks from darker beings. Its custody was therefore entrusted to Rowë and his house. It was known thereafter as the Nargrond Valley.”
“It seems everyone covets the Nargrond Valley,” Curwë muttered to himself.
“The valley has been the ultimate object of desire since the Star fell from the sky and the meteorite hit Gwa Nyn, which awakened the volcano of Oryusk.”
Nyriele and Curwë walked in silence, overpowered by the beauty of the surrounding scenery. Along the citrus orchards that bordered the sandy walkways, the scent of orange flowers mixed to those of jasmine petals. Below them, the bay was resplendent in its finest natural garb. The moonlight picked out the outlines of sandy islets, exposed in the low tide, tracing the design for ephemeral new archipelagos. They finally reached the steps of the matriarchs’ hall which was Nyriele’s home. The two Elves were reluctant to part company. Curwë once again renewed his pledge to support the expedition to come. Suddenly, his voice rang out, clear and vivid. He had been overwhelmed by the beauty that surrounded him, and he began to sing.
“Lost in the Ocean, we had given up our fight,
So, I read the tales of Llyoriane through.
I dreamt of being the Llewenti Queen’s knight,
Now I walk in the moonlight with you.
I was purposeless and vain but will now march straight,
I was stooped and feeble but will now stand strong,
For I do your will and entrust to you my fate,
I serve you, Nyriele, sovereign of my song.”
These words came out
hesitantly as the bard improvised the rhymed verses. The fact that he was expressing his feelings unselfconsciously, without fear of failure, made the performance even more moving. Nyriele smiled and, all of a sudden, handed him her silver necklace.
“Take this, take this with you. It will prove to my father that you have come on my behalf.”
Before Curwë had time to refuse the precious gift, or even to thank his benefactor, she was gone. Nyriele breathlessly reached the upper quarters of the great hall where the matriarchs resided. Her heart was beating furiously; whether it was from the steep stairs or the intensity of this new, unknown feeling, she did not know.
“Good night, Nyriele,” said Lyrine, standing in the entrance of her own room.
Nyriele was taken aback by the unexpected encounter. The young matriarch often felt guilty and embarrassed in her mother’s presence; any show of initiative from Nyriele somehow always felt like a challenge to Lyrine’s authority. Nevertheless, she managed to put up an innocent front.
“The sky is beautiful tonight!” she said, marvelling at the multitude of stars that illuminated Llafal like as many heavenly lamps.
Lyrine responded, her tone somewhat matter of fact.
“Indeed, it is; this summer’s night is a gift from the Deities …”
She paused before continuing enigmatically.
“It is odd… I was reading an old scroll tonight… beautiful poetry that charts the sundering of the Elvin races a long, long time ago, during that night when the stars were so bright. Like other Elvin nations, the Green Elves and the Blue Elves were unwilling to bow to the Gods, refusing their summons. They chose the perilous corners of the Mainland over divine protection… and over their gift of immortality. In ancient songs of our people, some echoes of which are still remembered in the Lost Islands, we hear that our ancestors parted from the High Elves and chose a different path… We became independent and also… different. We grew into another race… and were never meant to meet again those who made a different choice. From the beginning of times until today, our bloodlines were not supposed to comingle…”
There was a pause. Nyriele was hesitating before responding to her mother.
“The seer of the clan of Filweni,” the daughter began, “that noble lady they call Arwela, once told me, ‘Gweïwal Uleydon plays music for all Elves. The sound of the sea on our shores is his attempt to enlighten our hope.’ Perhaps she was right. Are not all Elves enamoured with the Ocean? Is it not strange that we all joy in the elemental music of breaking waves? Maybe we are not so different.”
Lyrine was visibly displeased with this answer.
“Daughter, I know how much you like listening to sweet music, ¬¬but just remember,” she now warned, “this it is not merely the lyrics that matter. Listen to the resonance of the voice that sings them. This will tell you more about the true intent of the charming singer… I wish you a good night, Nyriele. Tomorrow will be a different day.”
CHAPTER 3: Camatael
2712, Season of Eïwele Llya, 95th day, Tar-Andevar, Nyn Ernaly
The day was fine. It was unusually quiet aboard the merchant ship as it bobbed in the gentle swell. The air was rich with the mingling smells of wet wood, iodine and sea spray. Intense rays of sunshine poured into the small cabin, chasing the shadows from its seldom-seen corners. Camatael moved the scroll further up his desk and continued reading with care.
“…, the Sea Hierarchs have overcome all dangers that have thus far been presented them. But such achievements have not quenched their thirst for discovery.
Let me warn you. No further conquest will fill the emptiness that haunts their souls. Beware, for that day will come sooner than we might think.
House Dol Nos-Loscin predicts that, when this time comes, the Westerners will turn against their allies, commit them all to servitude and impose tyranny. Their eagerness to accumulate power and wealth shall know no bounds.
It is strange, is it not, that these dark omens concerning those who call themselves friends of Elves and vassals of King Norelin should come from a house that is currently facing innumerable deadly enemies.
The barbarian tribes under the command of Ka-Blowna are ruthless. This warrior’s fury is without parallel. His deeds are so demonic that his fanatical troops have come to believe that a Dragon God is marching at his side. Nevertheless, House Dol Nos-Loscin and its allies are holding out. We will not let the principality of Cumberae fall. After all, despite our pain, suffering and fear, our current struggle is of little importance in the greater order of things. The blows you are preparing to inflict upon the proud Westerners, on the other hand, may well resonate throughout history.
Those days we studied side by side at the Ruby College are not so long ago. I am glad that time and distance have not eroded our friendship and mutual esteem. I feel proud when I consider the path you have chosen. I hereby renew the alliance between Llymar and Cumberae and provide the Council of the Forest with all guarantees of the Prince’s support.
Alton of House Dol Nos-Loscin, Herald of the Principality of Cumberae.”
Camatael Dol Lewin dropped the scroll onto the desk of his small cabin and paused for a moment. Only the sounds of the swelling sea and the teetering ship could be heard. The young lord was dressed simply, in traveller’s clothes. He possessed a natural essence of power without seeming to desire its trappings. His icy blue eyes held both intelligence and learning.
This was the third time Camatael had read through that scroll. The diplomatic missive had reached him onboard one of the merchant ships from Cumberae, a vessel that Aertelyr, the guild master of Breymounarty, sailed to Llafal twice a year. Reading it over and over strengthened his determination. Undoubtedly, the message was strongly supportive of the dangerous move that Camatael was about to make.
Alton Dol Nos-Loscin’s latest letter confirmed that their existing partnership, currently founded on trade, could gain an entirely new dimension. Now that the principality of Cumberae was willing to back the forest of Llymar’s move against the sea hierarchs, those powerful allies of King Norelin, it was possible that the two rebellious Elvin realms could soon form a defensive alliance.
‘This is a significant development,’ thought Camatael. ‘Confronted by two new bastions of resistance to the north and the south, the king’s real influence will be limited to the Sea of Llyoriane. His rule is confined to those provinces at the heart of the Archipelago. Norelin has completely lost the control of the south and the trade routes across the Sea of Isyl. Conflicts are raging across those regions, between House Dol Nos-Loscin and the bloodthirsty barbarians. Norelin’s control of the west is fragile; he is now fully reliant upon his Westerner allies to keep the peace on the islands of Nyn Avrony and Nyn Ernaly, where barbarian tribes are constantly rising against their authority. In Gwarystan and across his kingdom, the young sovereign is abhorred by most of his subjects. He has closed their temples and outlawed their ancient faiths. He can no longer afford to blindly support his Westerner friends. Now is our chance to strike. The time to send a clear message has come. The faithful Elves of the Islands, shall not tolerate the abuses of Men indefinitely.’
Camatael, feeling confident and serene, turned to the west and whispered a short prayer to Eïwal Lon, the Demigod of Light and Knowledge.
“Without wisdom, the world would be chaos, and only wisdom is worthy of worship.
I am thankful for the knowledge it brings, blessings to we who abide by your law.
Let wisdom’s influence among Elves be without bounds.”
His cabin was small and cramped, and he was having some difficulty getting used to the rocking boat. To distract himself from the discomfort, Camatael decided to take some fresh air and join Curubor, his mentor, who was also travelling aboard. Accessing the ship’s deck was far from straightforward; he struggled to find his way amidst the various crates and sacks of merchandise stored inside the ship’s dark bowels.This merchant vessel was transporting heavy cargo: principally barrels of wine and
casks full of fruit. It was sailing under the flag of Tios Lleny, one of the dominions of the Gwarystan kingdom, located in the province of southern Nyn Llyvary, a region fabled for bountiful orchards and excellent wines.
When he finally reached the upper deck, Camatael was surprised by the strength of the sea wind. Otherwise, all was quiet. The crew was busy contemplating the influence of the steady eastern gale, which was gently inflating the boat’s only sail. Looking to the north, Camatael noticed with some apprehension that Nyn Ernaly’s shores had already become visible.
Curubor Dol Etrond looked old and severe, his lips were thin and his eyes cold. He stood at the edge of the deck, pondering the waves below. His hair, an unusual snowy white, fluttered in the sea wind. He wore leather gloves, and his azure gown was completely covered by a large ochre cloak of common fabric. Curubor was abruptly brought back to reality by his companion’s arrival.
“I hope you are not thinking of throwing yourself overboard, my lord…” started Camatael, with a sarcasm that sounded foreign in his mouth.
Serious, focused and dedicated, the young lord Dol Lewin was not known for his sense of humour. Curubor smiled. His face, until that moment grim and concerned, had regained its friendly and open composure.
“On reflection, I think I would prefer the warm waters of Penlla Bay,” he responded cheerfully, before continuing with an enigmatic tone. “In fact, I was thinking… I was thinking about you, and the risk you are taking by agreeing to support me in such a dangerous endeavour.”
