by C A Oliver
“I know where my duty lies, my Lord. Many were the glorious deeds of those who served under the banner of the White Unicorn. I should not like to stand apart,” replied Camatael boldly.
“These are proud words that do you much honour. Though your strengths differ significantly, the blood which flows in your veins is indeed that of Lewin.”
“Thank you, my lord. Believe me, I have no fear. I know the importance of our task, and I am convinced that we have devised the best plan possible.”
“I appreciate your confidence, Camatael. You are an Elf with rare gifts. I praise your patience, my young companion; it is an invaluable attribute. I know the high standards you set for yourself. I must acknowledge that, since the day you chose to join us in Llymar and abdicate your high position by the side of the king, little progress has been made. That day was four years ago. Others would have expressed impatience by now or worse, their discontent.”
“Since then, I have been entrusted with the temple of Eïwal Lon in Tios Lluin. Dozens of Elves of all origins live under the protection of my banner; I am responsible for the fate of hundreds of followers. This is a most noble task and one that satisfies my sense of duty. I am filled with the Demigod of Wisdom’s love; it inspires me each day,” Camatael replied modestly.
“I know how seriously you consider your new role as high priest of Eïwal Lon’s temple in the City of Stones. Your commitment to restoring the ancient shrine to its former majesty can only be praised. But I sense that your ambition is greater.”
“What do you mean?”
“I remember a certain claim you may once have made. You desired to lead the High Elves from Essawylor.”
“What you say is true,” admitted Camatael. “This formidable unit is worth hundreds of fighters. Their commander, the one named Roquendagor, is a valuable knight who some say can hardly be defeated in open battle. I heard that, back in Essawylor, those High Elves were honoured guards of the White Unicorn.”
“That is correct,” confirmed Curubor. “I know it for a fact. These fierce fighters used to be servants of the elder branch of House Dol Lewin in the kingdom of Essawylor. But nowadays they follow a knight, who is committed to serve only the new warlord of Mentollà, Feïwal, the clan of Filweni’s guide.”
“That arrangement is most odd. To think that the strongest troops of our realm serve a chief of the Blue Elves, a mere navigator! I believe that such able fighters would be better employed as guards of the temple of Eïwal Lon in Tios Lluin,” said Camatael, somewhat harshly.
“Ah… I sense disappointment, and perhaps also disdain, in your words,” commented Curubor. “It is as I thought yet, until now, you have not spoken out. These past four years, you have followed my advice without uttering a single complaint.”
“Indeed I have not, my lord, and I am sorry to speak out now.”
“My dear Camatael, I owe you an explanation. You deserve to know why I have asked you to stay away from them, as I did. Let me tell you, my young friend, this is enough of a connection to have with that cursed community.”
Visibly surprised, Camatael could not refrain from asking more.
“Cursed? I thought you have been fighting for their rights! I have seen you plead the cause of the clan of Filweni’s guide, that Feïwal. Were you not the great architect of his admittance among the council of the forest as warlord of Mentollà?”
Curubor nodded, fully his own master, and continued with his usual professorial tone.
“I know what you are thinking. I can sense the bitterness behind your words. You mean that I have failed to advocate the cause of House Dol Lewin with the same fervour. You mean that, despite your great contribution during the battle of Mentollà, you were not rewarded with a seat at the council of the forest.”
“I did not utter a single word along those lines,” noted Camatael curtly.
“You thought it. Yet you controlled your just ire… ‘He who is slow to anger is mightier than the mighty. He who rules his spirit is a greater victor than he who wins the battle,’ or so Rowë Dol Nargrond used to say. That legendary lord knew the teachings of Eïwal Lon.”
Curubor paused, looking at his companion with care and affection. Eventually he went on.
“Camatael, I agree with that which you will not say. You must have known, however, that if I acted cautiously in this regard, I would have had my reasons. It is too early for House Dol Lewin to join the council of the forest. I am afraid that you will need to work harder, and for longer, if you truly wish to earn the respect of the Llewenti clans, most of all their high priestesses. Trust can only be earned over time, but it can be lost in an instant, especially when one deals with a figure such as Matriarch Lyrine.”
A silence followed. Despite being disappointed, Camatael agreed with his mentor about the cautious strategy which had so far been followed.
“You described the castaways of Mentollà as cursed. What makes you say this? You are not accustomed to superstition, my lord.”
“Mark my word, Camatael: a powerful oath stands before them, no less than the vow of a king.”
“How can that be? For centuries, until very recently in fact, those High Elves have lived thousands of leagues away from Gwarystan and its kings. How could they provoke their ire?”
Curubor took a sharp intake of breath before going on to explain, a tremor in his voice.
“Those castaways who now live in Mentollà have no idea; it is that which makes it all the more frightening… King Lormelin’s oath dates from long ago, from the beginning of this Age, a time only your forefathers knew. He who would become known as ‘the Conqueror’ had just been crowned by the assembled Dol houses. I still remember that day, on the sandy beach of Essaweryl Bay, when I took my vow of obedience to the new sovereign… Fleeing from the north of the Mainland, the High Elves had finally found refuge in Essawylor, the land of the Blue Elves. War was raging between the royal houses of the High Elves; two pretenders were fighting for the crown… Aranaele insisted on settling in Essawylor, whereas her royal cousin Lormelin wanted to cross the Austral Ocean and find the legendary Lost Islands of the Green Elves… I fought in what was later named the war of Diamond and Ruby, Camatael. I saw with my own eyes how Aranaele sought to destroy Lormelin.”
Curubor’s eyes were glowing with the vividness of his memory.
“I know all about this war of old,” Camatael interrupted, “the kin-slaying conflict between the Ruby and the Diamond. It led to the rupture of my very house! My forefathers, of the second branch of House Dol Lewin, were right to part from their elders. Lormelin was our lawful king; he had been crowned according to our ancient traditions. History has proved him right. He led our houses across the Austral Ocean and became the conqueror of the Lost Islands. For that feat we must always remain grateful and respect his memory.”
“Lormelin was doubtless a great king,” Curubor concurred, “and one that will always be remembered as such, but the blood of his grandfather flowed in his veins… His dark temper pushed him to pronounce a dreadful vow against those who had defied his authority. A royal oath is a fearful evil, Camatael… I would rather not to repeat those dreadful verses… That oath will endure until the king’s bloodline is spent, bringing chaos, misery and woe to all who confront it, regardless of their guilt or their innocence… The High Elves of Mentollà are direct descendants of those who mercilessly fought the royal banner of the Ruby. They are therefore cursed upon these islands; there will be no refuge or escape from the vengeance of Lormelin’s heir… This is why, my young friend, I ask you to stay away from them. See them as a dangerous weapon that must remain secret, that must be kept safe and far away from us. This weapon we shall use to our advantage when the time comes. The community of Mentollà have no allies. They are doomed, with no recourse except for us. But we must keep them at bay until the time to unleash their power comes.”
“I see,” Camatael concluded simply, and he turned his gaze towards the shores of Nyn Ernaly, determined to conceal the tumul
tuous thoughts that raged within him.
There was, in Curubor’s words, such rationality, such cold heartlessness, that the young Dol Lewin felt hurt, and deeply so. For the first time since Camatael had known him, the ancient Elf was expressing a darker side of his personality. It surprised Camatael. It felt as if the foundations of the values he had learnt at the temple of Eïwal Lon had been shaken.Somehow stung by that recognition and eager to demonstrate his independence and strength of will, Camatael decided to change the topic of the conversation.
“What we shall attempt in Nyn Ernaly is a most perilous task,” he announced unexpectedly, almost brashly. “This shall be the second time I have risked my life in a few short years. If I survive, I have decided I will marry… I now know my life’s higher purpose, and therefore have the strength to become one with my beloved.”
“You are too young for such a decision!” exclaimed the ancient mage, taken aback.
“With all due respect, Lord Curubor, the High Elves have always wedded in their youth. We have very few children, and it is my duty to ensure a future for House Dol Lewin. The time is right. I shall make sure that my family is held together by a profound sense of kinship. I will cherish my heirs.”
Surprised by this genuine conviction and already anticipating who the bride would be, Curubor now knew he must fight back more harshly.
“We, High Elves, wed only once in our lives, when we are sure of our love. Once we commit ourselves, our fate is changed forever. We are no common Elves. I do not believe that any of our countless ancient tales glorifies deeds of lust, which is all your absurd proposition would amount to.”
“I am no child, my Lord; I know that marriage is the natural course of life for High Elves, though sometimes that course is disrupted by strange destinies. Early in my youth, I chose Loriele Dol Etrond; I have always secretly desired to marry your beloved grandniece. I have waited patiently for us to reach an appropriate age. Despite losing everything with the fall of Mentolewin and the death of all my family, I have ever since been moving up the ranks of power, to prove myself worthy of her bloodline… Four years ago, I followed her into exile in the forest of Llymar. I left behind all I had built in Gwarystan.”
“We all know your deeds, Camatael. Rest assured that every member of House Dol Etrond praises your valour.”
“Naturally, I respect that the betrothal must be approved by her parents. Therefore, I have decided that, should I survive the task before us, I will gather the houses of Dol Lewin and Dol Etrond, and appear before Loriele to offer her the silver ring, proof of my eternal commitment.”
Curubor was caught off guard by Camatael’s implacable resolution. His young companion was ready to risk his reputation to win his heart’s dearest prize. Camatael risked a humiliating dismissal if Loriele or her father Almit, the lord of House Dol Etrond, chose to return his silver ring publicly. Such was the law, though such embarrassing situations had seldom occurred in the past, for High Elves did not choose their eternal partners lightly. Camatael, seeing that his bold declaration had proved successful, exploited his advantage further.
“I am a priest of Eïwal Lon. My spirit is master of my body, and I will never be swayed by simple desire of the flesh. I know Loriele will return my love and that she wishes deeply to celebrate our love in marriage. She has prepared her silver ring too, and has assured me that, one day, we will exchange those slender rings of gold, to bind us together for eternity.”
Curubor had difficulty breathing. He refused to accept that such feelings had developed so quickly between his two protégés. He did not like it; the prospect of their union felt like a threat to the special relationship he had developed with his grandniece. He tried one last cunning attempt to dissuade Camatael.
“There is something I must warn you about, my dear Camatael, and none but I can assume this responsibility. You know how fond of you I am, and the great ambition I place upon your future…”
The ancient mage suddenly looked grave.
“Have you ever considered,” Curubor began, his tone serious, “Almit’s fate after he lost Nuviele, Loriele’s mother?”
“I know she came from House Dol Ogalen. I remember that she died in her daughter’s youth. Many tales recount the despair of Nuviele’s lover.”
“She did not die, so to speak. She disappeared. Almit was devastated.”
“She disappeared?” asked Camatael. “Did nobody try to find her?”
“She was captured but… not ransomed. We looked for her across the Lost Islands, summoning all our influence. But, after a few years, Almit knew that she had died. Their bond had been broken. It almost drove him to madness. Though it did not kill him, the trauma destroyed much of his spirit. Almit will never be the Elf he once was; his future achievements will never be worthy of his bloodline’s valour.”
“It’s true that Almit is cold and heartless,” admitted Camatael.
“I have entrusted you with my family’s secret for one reason: I am warning you. Forging an eternal bond with your beloved spouse will give you a sense of accomplishment. It will also give your enemies a new way to harm you.”
The ancient mage was becoming insistent. Though he almost never talked about himself, he decided to make an exception. He used the third person to accentuate his point.
“You may wonder how Curubor survived all those struggles, how he still enjoys that which is best in life despite all the trials across the centuries. His secret is simple. Curubor has no bond, he has no tie, he wonders freely. Long ago, he grieved for what he had lost; knowing that those he loved had died in vain. Nothing can affect him anymore, for his time of mourning is over. His bereavement ceased when his father chose to die in a hopeless fight, after failing to save his mother in the final upheavals of the First Age.”
What the ancient mage had confided made a distinct impression upon Camatael’s mind. Curubor, cunning as ever, thought he’d won the case.
“Look to your own future, Camatael. If you are to live up to the high expectations the world has of you, your strength will not be enough. You need to be untouchable.”
A long silence followed, but Camatael had already made up his mind. With a low tone that left no doubt as to the resolution of his will, he spoke.
“I thank you for your advice, my lord, but I have made my decision. If I survive what is to come, I will gather our two houses and offer my silver ring to Lady Loriele.”
Curubor, defeated, had to change his position. He did so as quickly as a fox that chooses a second prey, once he understands the first has escaped.
“If this is so, you force us to seek a swift victory in Nyn Ernaly, for I see now that there will be a grandiose feast to prepare …”
“Thank you, my lord, you honour me greatly.”
Camatael’s gaze became lost in the sea, as he tried to master the flow of his emotions. He remembered the day he first laid eyes on Loriele Dol Etrond. In that moment, he had almost forgotten to breathe. He remembered how the light of the setting sun was diminishing in the king’s palace chambers, back in Gwarystan. From the great hall in the highest tower above the cliff, one could fully embrace that incomparable view of the Sea of Llyoriane. Through the crowds of courtesans and nobles, ladies and knights, artists and musicians, he had seen her.
Loriele was tall and slender, with jet-black hair, her pale skin marked with a tiny mole above her charming lips. Her posture was majestic; upright with a beautifully arched back. She knew no rival. Irresistibly drawn to her, the young lord Camatael had managed to utter a few awkward words of introduction to her. Their discussion soon demonstrated that she was highly educated, deeply cultured and had a rare knowledge of art. But it was the intensity of her gaze which struck him. He had seen, in the sapphire of those eyes, a thirst for life, a hunger for power and for all the pleasures it brought. It contrasted sharply with the childish, almost naïve way in which she held herself. That day, he decided that the heir of House Dol Etrond was born to be a queen: his queen… Curubor, already fo
cused on their more immediate objective, interrupted Camatael’s thoughts.
“Look, we are approaching the mouth of the Sian Ningy. You can already see the walls of the Westerners’ city.”
Camatael turned around, clinging to the bow. Suddenly, he could see the tower of Braglin, the city’s beacon and its tallest spire. For a long time, he kept his gaze fixed upon the great edifice. The sun was now high in the sky. The fresh southern breeze of the morning had cleared the sky above, and seagulls and cormorants were gracefully soaring through the air, embracing the curves of the wind and letting out furious cries. The fortified town of Tar-Andevar, known as the city of Mentobraglin when the High Elves had ruled all the Lost Islands, was the largest city of Nyn Ernaly. Its imposing buildings were surrounded by high walls, which loomed over the mouth of the Sian Ningy. A fabled wonder of the island stood imposingly upon the hilltops above the populous town. The castle of the sea hierarchs had been built in white granite, its gleaming walls surrounding the ancient Elvin tower of Braglin. The rich houses of the Elvin guild masters, the legacy of the town’s golden age, bordered the western bank of the river where most of the trading port’s activity was concentrated. These facades formed an architectural phenomenon, which majestically overlooked the vast quay where dozens of ships of all sizes were anchored.
The coaster, with its banner of Tios Lleny openly unfurled, passed the southern tower of the sea hierarchs’ castle, which oversaw the mouth of the river and protected the bay, where several great galleys from the realm of Nellos were anchored. Camatael took care to examine the formidable vessels.
