by C A Oliver
Camatael stepped in, eager to prove himself.
“We’ve learnt a great deal in Tar-Andevar; it was a risk worth taking. The clan Ernaly are trying to move the tombs to safety; the Golden Hand knights know of their every move. We have learnt that they are already preparing a trap at the Ningy Pool, which the expedition will have to cross.”
“It will not be easy,” added Curubor, “to leave the wood of Silver Leaves with such a cumbersome load. Mynar dyl and his troops will have to face the wrath of the Hageyu Falls. The river will inevitably lead them to the Ningy Pool, where the final cascade falls into the Sian Ningy River. It’s a wild place, where progress is difficult; any expedition party would get entangled, making it the perfect location for an ambush.”
“Who will strike, when, and using what force?” Saeröl inquired impassively.
A long silence followed.
“We were interrupted. We do not know,” Camatael finally admitted.
Saeröl laughed. “You do not know… so you are relying on me to find out… It is more than likely that we will never know the truth. It would be a most perilous task to meddle in the affairs of the king’s dreaded servants…”
The two lords decided to remain silent. Seeing a weakness in their campaign, Saeröl pressed on.
“One thing I would like to understand is the part you’re both playing in all this turmoil. Why, for instance, are you not rushing to alert your friends, the Green Elves of the ancient clans, to tell them of the impending ambush? Would not that be the honest thing to do, and in the best interest of those who are, after all, honoured members of the council of the forest?
This question demanded a certain ability to be creative with the truth. It was therefore Curubor who chose to answer. The Blue Mage spoke with confidence.
“Master Saeröl, your question is legitimate. The truth is that we have not, so far, been directly involved in this expedition. We understand that Matriarch Lyrine organized it in response to a call for help from the Arkys. For her own reasons, she has decided not to involve us. She set up everything in secret with the clan warlords: Tyar dyl, Gal dyl and Mynar dyl. We are not meant to know of their mission, still less interfere.”
“Ah, I see!” replied Saeröl, smiling.
The master of the guild of Sana was starting to enjoy these negotiations. He decided to take Curubor’s reasoning through its logical next steps.
“You are not meant to know about it, yet now you do. You have therefore decided to act, but not, dare I suggest, for the sake of a few units of scouts, and neither to prevent the king from getting hold of the precious will. By proceeding in this underhand way… you must want it for yourself. You want Rowë’s testament, and I would like to know why. Why is it so important to you, my lord Curubor?”
“How dare you?” interrupted Camatael. “How dare you offend us with such accusations?”
Saeröl now openly showed his disdain. Hatred could be seen in his eyes, as he stood up and reached for the blanket that lay across the table. Curubor made his calm voice heard.
“Peace, my lords! Peace between us! We are not here to fight. The stakes are too high.”
He turned to Saeröl and regained his usual professorial tone.
“The testament of Rowë is of considerable importance, Saeröl, as you well know. It is our most important inheritance. We believe it contains divine secrets that were unveiled to Rowë before his death. We believe that the last lord of Nargrond Valley was shown the final challenge that the Gods will impose upon Elvin kind. He then bequeathed that secret in his will. His followers insisted it must not be unveiled until the right time comes.”
“As Rowë himself demanded,” added Camatael, with utter conviction.
“And why would that be?” inquired Saeröl ironically, his lack of concern apparent.
“We know that Rowë,” explained Camatael with fervour, “deliberated carefully on the prophecy that Eïwal Lon had revealed to him. For a long time, he hesitated to share what he had learnt with anyone else, worried about its implications.”
This was no longer a lord of House Dol Lewin talking, but rather a high priest of Eïwal Lon. Carried by a sudden rush of enthusiasm, the cleric of the temple of light continued.
“I believe the Demigod’s words of wisdom influenced Lord Dol Nargrond as he set down his final testament.”
Saeröl smiled sardonically.
“It’s as if I’m back at the temple of light in Yslla, listening to one of the clerics who took it upon themselves to educate me, though you yourself have more of a naïve charm… What do you expect you can teach me of Lon, or of the lord of House Dol Nargrond? You must know that my father Elrïol, the first master of the guild of Sana, was one of Rowë’s closest companions. You must know that I was raised in the very place you speak of; the Nargrond Valley. Perhaps you are unaware that I performed my first concerts in front of Rowë and his household. Lon the Wise, as we called him at the time, would often congratulate me himself for my virtuosity with the flute.”
Curubor, who had also attended some of Saeröl’s extraordinary concerts over nineteen centuries ago, acknowledged, with a most flattering air.
“With your art, you illuminated that golden era, when Elves of all origins came together in the Nargrond Valley to pursue dreams of shared knowledge. Free from royal rule, Rowë Dol Nargrond was true master of his fief, where he built a realm for the free among those of us who truly sought the Lost Islands that were promised… I mean for all Elves, whatever their origin. I remember his words: ‘The Lost Islands were promised to Llyoriane and to her seeds.’ We are all Llyoriane’s seeds, for our lives are devoted to realizing the vision of those Deities who forged the Archipelago itself. Rowë was the first High Elf lord to understand this. And it was he who lay the foundations for the realm of Llyoriane’s seeds in the Nargrond Valley. Never in the history of the Lost Islands had there been a place which embodied so perfectly this ideal. Do not doubt us, Master Saeröl! Everyone knows the part you played in the glorious history of the Nargrond Valley; that is why we have come to you.”
Saeröl ignored this compliment. It was apparent that he did not share the same noble values. Once again, he resorted to insults.
“How touching! I ought to have spent more time praying at the temple of light. There is little better than children’s tales to soothe one’s soul.”
Curubor placed his hand on Camatael’s arm to dissuade him from the temptation of another aggressive and fruitless debate. The Blue Mage suggested, with a polite tone.
“Perhaps you have developed a different theory?”
“Indeed, I have, although my own views are not hypothetical, but rather verified facts supported by evidence,” Saeröl stated.
He then expressed his views with great conviction.
“Every Elf has a mother and a father. Nobody reaches this world out of thin air. In the particular case of Lon, I always considered his heritage as the mightiest ever known… I knew Lon’s mother well, for it was in the city of Ystanargrond that she gave birth to her fabled son, losing her life as a consequence of her efforts. Meoryne was the noblest, sweetest lady imaginable, a model of wise conduct, true to the House Dol Valra’s celebrated values…”
Saeröl paused for a while, as a skilled orator about to deliver the final blow.
“It was a God that seduced her in the end and not some common divinity either, for it was none other than the mightiest of them, Gweïwal Zenwon. Oh! How I would like to have seen him riding that fair virgin, savagely making love to her… I don’t doubt he visited her bed many times before she gave him a son.”
Camatael, utterly shocked, protested vehemently.
“This is heresy. You blaspheme. How dare you… you degrade everything you come near…”
Now smiling openly, demonstrating the intense pleasure he was now taking from their discussion, Saeröl continued with his argument.
“I said I could provide evidence for my beliefs, hateful as they may sound to your ears.”<
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Saeröl looked with relish at his two interlocutors, already savouring the damage he would cause. Visibly satisfied with their lack of responsiveness, he resumed his inquiry.
“Do you really believe what you were taught at the temple of light? Do you really believe that Rowë, my father Elrïol, the two other bladesmiths, and Lon himself could have been ambushed by a clan Myortilys raid in the mines of Oryusk? That this formidable party could have been defeated?”
Faced with only the puzzled expressions of his tiny audience, Saeröl pressed on.
“Do you really believe that Rowë would have set down so precisely all of his final wishes the day before he was murdered? How could he have known of the danger he would face by visiting the mines of Oryusk, which were after all his own stronghold?”
Saeröl paused to enjoy the sight of his interlocutors. Doubt was creeping into their minds.
“On that very day, I received a letter from my father. I can still remember every word. Elrïol knew that he was not coming back. He had written to entrust me with the custodianship of the guild, he so cherished. Before that decisive moment, the old fool had not cared much for me. I suppose it was my own artistic nature that caused his disdain: such a far cry from the rigour of his alchemist’s mind. It must have been a sacrifice for him to write this final message to his sole heir.”
Camatael and Curubor held their breath; they knew the worst was to come.
“Lon, son of Gweïwal Zenwon; Lon, so called divinity of wisdom and light, sentenced to death his four companions… I believe Lon killed his companions according to the rites of old, cutting their heads and limbs from their bodies like the priests of his godly father did to those sentenced to death in the days of yore. That done, he let their remains float inside their shields down the stream of the Sian Dorg: as signs to be interpreted. Access to the Halls of the Dead had been denied to the victims…”
Saeröl let these words echo within his interlocutors before continuing.
“The wise among the Elves understood Lon’s message. The corpses had been rejected by the river; it meant their souls would be trapped in their corpses until Gweïwal Agadeon, the Greater God of the Underworld, deemed their punishment sufficient. Hence, the remains of the four bladesmiths, who had forged the swords of Nargrond Valley, were buried inside tombs, a completely unprecedented act in the Archipelago’s history… Elrian Dol Urmil, Odro dyl Myortilys, Elriöl Dir Sana and Rowë Dol Nargrond did pay for their crimes. They were executed for spurning their divine masters; those who had first offered them their mighty knowledge… Lon could disappear. His task was complete.”
Saeröl was finished. He took his crystal glass and emptied it in a single gulp. Curubor was immobile, deep in thought. The vast cellar seemed darker; many of the candles seemed to have gone out. Camatael too was paralyzed, stunned by such an abject distortion of the truth, such a heretical attack against the cornerstone of the Islands Elves’ faith. His mind started racing to construct opposing arguments. But his lips remained closed and his face turned pale.
“I see you cannot find a single fact to prove me wrong,” rejoiced Saeröl, looking at the priest. “Everything you knew about Rowë and his companions’ tragic ending, you learnt at the temple of light: from songs, tales and poems. How many times did you read the great story of the Myortilys raid, of that grim day when the assassins infiltrated the mines of Oryusk to seek murderous revenge for their lost lands? Dark Elves they were called thereafter, for they unleashed a mysterious force, and Oryusk has been shrouded in deadly shadow ever since.”
Camatael felt like he was falling from a great height. His senses betrayed him, as a feeling of utter emptiness overwhelmed him.
“What if I am right?” insisted Saeröl with relish.
Camatael began to feel nauseous; the foundations of his faith were being shaken.
“What if all you learnt during your youth at the temple of light was a web of lies, spun to maintain the spiritual power of the Arkys over the credulous Elves of the Islands?
Curubor coughed, apparently unaware of Camatael’s turmoil. The Blue Mage was calm and picked up the conversation as if Saeröl’s extraordinary claims were a mere academic curiosity.
“And what of the blades of Nargrond Valley, Master Saeröl, how do they fit into your story?” asked the Blue Mage, his tone one of polite interest rather than outrage.
Satisfied with the effect his theory was provoking and seeing that doubt was creeping into his interlocutors’ minds, Saeröl continued.
“My father taught me little about the blades of Nargrond Valley, though their grand designer had probably been him: Elriöl’s reticence was indicative of the secrecy surrounding their forging and, no doubt, also indicative of his disdain for me. I am neither smith nor alchemist, but I know that Rowë gathered six different metals from various mines across the Islands. He took quantities of gold, silver, platinum, bronze, copper and lead, and mixed them with the meteorite’s iron to produce an alloy which held all of its component properties, but also new ones. This new material had an unparalleled hardness and lightness; they say it cannot be destroyed.”
Curubor remembered. “This was the time that the greatest deed in the Lost Islands’ history took place. Rowë was now at the height of his powers, yet he was filled with a profound new concern. Some say that he was given warning: a dream telling him of a distant threat. He thought long about how he could preserve the beauty of the Lost Islands, how he could ensure this last Elvin haven would last forever.”
Saeröl felt encouraged to say more.
“Rowë summoned my father Elriöl to his side, as he knew him to be the ablest alchemist of the Night Elves. The two great lore masters brought two other Elves, of different creeds, to join them in the city of Yslla: Elrian Dol Urmil, son of a shipwright descended from the Blue Elves; and Odro dyl Myortilys, the famed smith of the Green Elves… Together, the four bladesmiths gathered all their skills, and set out upon a rigorous, painstaking task. They made blades of unknown might, unlike anything that Elves had ever seen before: six swords made with the metal from the heart of the meteorite, which had struck Gwa Nyn long ago. They forged the swords of Nargrond Valley with powerful enchantments. Each bladesmith shared every ounce of his knowledge to create these masterpieces, and the blades were each given a name, for each was unique. Their lore is now long forgotten.”
Curubor seemed disappointed.
“You provide us with many details about the genesis of the blades, yet you have somehow said very little. The swords of Nargrond Valley are at the heart of the most important myth in the history of the Islands’ Elves. Their legend has passed down through the generations; they are the symbol of our independence.”
“They were forged before the coming of Lon. This I know.” Saeröl insisted.
He hesitated for a moment, but at last resumed.
“Lord Curubor, have you ever considered what makes Elvin kind so unique, what makes our essence so different from Men, Gnomes and other creatures? It is the extravagance we demonstrate in our creations. There are Elves who do not bow even before the Gods. Pride characterises our aspiration to rise up to the level of divinities, which we try to achieve by designing devices mighty enough to bring an end to the chaos of primitive forces. Elves have the potential to bring eternal harmony to this world that was born from the sick imagination of the Gods. This is a supreme offense in the divine powers’ eyes. Whatever were the original intentions of the four bladesmiths, forging the swords of Nargrond Valley was another insult to the Gods, another crime which deserved harsh punishment.”
Curubor seemed curious. He encouraged Saeröl to say more.
“So, you believe that Eïwal Lon’s coming to the Lost Islands was the consequence of the forging of the blades of Nargrond Valley.”
There was a silence, but visibly excited, Saeröl expressed further his thoughts.
“It is no coincidence that Lon was born in the Nargrond Valley. The son of Gweïwal Zenwon had one true purpose:
to ensure that the lords of the Elves, despite their considerable bodies of lore, do not raise themselves to the status of Deities, that they do not put an end to the cosmic disorder as defined by the divine assembly. I believe that in the eyes of the Gods, Rowë was behaving like a thief. In the early days of his long life, he benefited from their knowledge, living by their side and contributing to their creations. There he learnt to manipulate divine fire, wield the magic Flow and harness the power of gemstones. Rowë then fled along with the High Elves, betraying the oath he had sworn to the Gods…”
For a moment Saeröl’s gaze seemed lost, as if contemplating the consequence of such a betrayal. But at last, he resumed his explanation.
“Rowë allowed his pride to pervert his mind, and set about creating those powerful weapons, whose blades could pierce the Gods’ armour, thus endowing the Elves of the Lost Islands with near-divine powers. With these new weapons, Rowë shored up the newfound independence of the Elves, thus leading them another step away from the Gods’ grasp. Unlike all other species, who obey divine law and limit the purpose of their existence to the role they were entrusted with, Rowë strived to liberate his kin, offering them the freedom to forge their own destinies. The truth is that the Elves living under the protection of the swords of Nargrond Valley threatened the eternal tyranny that the Gods wished to impose on us. This is why Gweïwal Zenwon condemned Rowë and his companions.”
