by C A Oliver
Curubor nodded, before continuing with a more hopeful tone.
“Nevertheless, our actions were not in vain for, in the end, King Norelin’s servants were defeated and the four tombs are now safely within the entrenched camp of Llymar’s army, ready to be picked up by our fleet. Who knows? Perhaps this conflict has triggered yet another devastating series of events, like a tiny block of ice breaking off the top of the Moka Kirini’s peak, which then tumbles over a cliff and sets off an avalanche…”
Again, the Blue Mage knowingly smiled. Aewöl, without hiding his disappointment, replied,
“You like to speak in riddles, my lord.”
“I suppose I do, but I don’t even realize it anymore. Perhaps, if you were as old as I, you would understand… But you must all be weary after so much storytelling. When old friends gather after a long stretch apart, it’s quite right that they spend some time musing over the intervening days. I’d say we’ve done just that. But now you should rest, for we leave at nightfall. It’s a long way to the beach of Asto Salassy, and the journey will not be without its dangers. Many are those still looking for you. The first watch should fall on me; it is my duty. I will make sure nothing dwelling in the forest of Tios Llyi troubles us.”
That being said, Curubor leaned against a tree and wrapped himself in his blue cloak. He drew a handful of rose petals from his pocket and breathed in their delicious scent. After closing his eyes, his face seemed to relax. In his fingers he rubbed a pitch of fine sand, almost the colour of gold. The Elves from Mentollà also felt weary. They appreciated the Blue Mage’s offer. Feeling now at peace under his protection, they allowed themselves to recover from the exhausting few days they had just lived through. Soon, a comatose slumber came upon them, as deep and restorative as what Men call ‘sleep’. Though birds returned to the small clearing, even their shrill cries did not wake them.
*
Aewöl had drifted off after a few moments like his companions, his anxious and cautious nature reassured by the sound of their soft breathing. After a while, however, slumber eluded him. Sunlight had pierced the canopy of leaves, and the brightness made him uncomfortable. The sun was high in the sky, red and hot. He tried to lie still, but finally he could put up with it no longer. Driven by some impulse, he sat up and looked around. All about him lay sleeping shapes. Only Curubor was awake. He sat with his back to the one-eyed Elf, extremely close to where Curwë lay. Aewöl carefully approached the Blue Mage and looked down at him. Curubor seemed to be praying. His eyes were closed, but his lips were moving, mouthing silent incantations. The one-eyed Elf crept up to right behind the ancient mage’s head. At that moment, Curubor suddenly moved his hands out of sight, as though his rings were embarrassing him. He muttered some incomprehensible words and then woke up completely, as if alerted of immediate danger.
“Forgive me, my lord, if I frightened you,” said Aewöl, his tone humble and apologetic, but his glance suspicious.
Curubor gave a gasp, shivered, and then became quite rigid. He could not utter a word. After a moment, visibly embarrassed, Curubor felt the need to share what was troubling him.
“I’ve been having difficulty finding peace. Recent events have affected me more than I would have thought. There are times when even a wise Elf is dragged by his hair and forced to face the darkest moments of his past. Even worse is the obsession with what the future will bring... I suppose thinking your death is imminent can cause this type of strain.”
Aewöl immediately suspected something odd was afoot. He must have caught the Blue Mage in the middle of casting some kind of spell. Aewöl looked down at Curwë, who was still immobile despite their loud exchange, and wondered what Curubor had been up to. Aewöl proceeded as if he knew something was amiss, though he was unsure of what had happened.
“I saw you,” he said, his gaze cold and heartless.
Curubor quickly regained his composure. The ancient mage was now standing in the middle of the campsite, his deep azure gaze fixed on the one-eyed Elf. Finding his usual confidence, he made an effort to appease Aewöl with rational thinking and a balanced tone.
“I needed to ensure that your friend had not deceived me. The situation demanded it. These are no ordinary times, and the stakes are high. Unusual times mean unusual methods. But all is now well, for I know that Curwë did not lie to me, though he could have told a lot more.”
In his mind, Aewöl was still dubious, though he felt strangely appeased. Curubor’s voice was melodious, his words reasonable. The one-eyed Elf then replied, though he had become weak and hesitant, as if some spell were hindering his mind.
“There are powers in motion I cannot completely understand. How is it that a forgotten tomb and an old scroll can create such turmoil? Are they really worth all these wasted lives?”
Curubor smiled. His azure gaze was soft again. He could sense that Aewöl was yielding to his natural authority. The one-eyed Elf’s mind was drawn to his by a deep thirst for knowledge. A desire for wisdom had awakened within him. Without realizing, Aewöl now sought to gain a higher awareness of the forces at play. Curubor’s low tone gave Aewöl the hope that, one day, the best kept secret of the Islands’ power struggles might be revealed to him. The Blue Mage put his hand on his interlocutor’s shoulder. His four rings glimmered like as many little candles. Now reassured that he had regained the upper hand in the discussion, Curubor adopted his usual professorial tone.
“The real reason for the king of Gwarystan's fierce determination to capture the testament of Rowë has come to light. Norelin is feeling his weakness. He is trying to prevent a disaster in which he would lose his throne.”
“What do you mean?” Aewöl asked hesitantly. “The king has no heir who could challenge his authority.”
“I don’t mean a pretender to the Ruby throne. It’s not the sword Norelin fears the most, but a mighty threat… This menace is more powerful than his armies and more devastating than his high mages of the Ruby College. The king of Gwarystan wants to intervene before what he so fears is unleashed. He tried to hinder change, to halt history itself. After all, an orderly world is what every monarch jealous of his power desires most. The testament of Rowë has the answer to his profound questioning.”
“How could that be? How could a mere scroll change the order of things?” Aewöl asked, fascinated.
Curubor laughed, but his laughter was without joy.
“That is what you cannot conceive. But you are young, Aewöl... I witnessed the end of the First Age. I had a close relationship then with the Elvin lords of that heroic time. They were capable of creating artefacts that could free us from the laws inscribed by the Gods. The High Elves of yore rose to inconceivable heights. They developed advanced techniques this world has ever seen, drawing upon their deep knowledge of gemstones. They had a purpose; they wished to become superior beings. With the staggering arrogance that characterizes the High Elves, they made a bid to rise to the level of the Gods. Our forefathers once threatened the harmony of Oron, which Gweïwal Zenwon and his peers had so painfully succeeded in crafting. They created their own destiny and, in so doing, wreaked havoc. There is a price for such sacrilege. Believe me; I have had time to think about the ‘order of things,’ as you put it. We have not seen the end of what the Gods have in store for the High Elves, to punish them for their mad ambition. Believe me Aewöl! Our fate, as decided by Gweïwal Zenwon and his peers, will be one of spectacular tragedy. There can be no salvation without trial.”
Aewöl was lost. “I can’t understand what you mean.”
Curubor shrugged. “Is this even worth explaining this to you?”
The Blue Mage looked at the fine cotton blanket that lay beside Curwë.
“The testament of Rowë holds the answer to our questions. The answers to all our questions are inside the sacred box wrapped in your friend’s blanket. It takes a strong will to resist the temptation to open that reliquary. We must find the courage to keep it closed,” Curubor said, a fiery look in the eye.
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br /> Aewöl was on his guard again. “How do you know what’s in there?” he asked, suspicious.
“I have seen it,” Curubor replied with his most haughty tone.
Suddenly, he no longer looked the same; there was a restrained but deep-rooted hunger in his voice.
“Why do you think I have come? Do you believe I would leave the sacred will unprotected? I will personally ensure that the testament of Rowë is safely returned to the Elves of Llymar. The warlords of the clans are waiting for your return and, indeed, someone else is expecting you.”
A silence followed. Aewöl, looking lost under the Blue Mage’s spell, gazed at his two companions still in deep slumber. Curubor suddenly announced that he was heading off.
“I need to go to the forest’s northern borders to meet a messenger and hear news. I’ll only be gone a short time. I have left our path back to the army’s camp unwatched for too long.”
Though he spoke these words lightly, Aewöl noticed that he looked tense, as if anxious to be done with something important. It was difficult to tell what the Blue Mage was thinking.
“Be on your guard,” Curubor warned. “I leave you with your friends. When they awake, prepare yourselves. We leave at nightfall.”
His azure robes had soon swept away into the woods. Aewöl was disturbed by such a sudden departure. He wondered what the purpose of Curubor’s comings and goings were. But his uneasiness soon wore off, and he relaxed, for a while forgetting to regard the outside world with suspicion. He was still the only one awake in the camp, breathing in the fresh air of the day, marvelling at the trees laden with fruits. He felt a sense of satisfaction, even of superiority. Everything that had happened since he left Essawylor was passing through his mind. Aewöl recalled the many perils he had lived through, and the fears he had overcome. His new life in the Lost Islands had been filled with victories. Aewöl could now look to the future with greater ambition.
Suddenly, he snapped out of this reverie, as if the light breeze in the trees had spoken to him. A strange gleam appeared in his one eye. He turned his head, but all he saw was his friend, smiling in his sleep. Aewöl stood motionless next to the slumbering Curwë, the testament of Rowë still wrapped in the blanket at the foot of the bed. He could not keep his mind off the precious relic. Looking around, he realized that there were no unfriendly eyes watching him. Only the wind murmured through the branches, as though inviting him to take the next step. Aewöl shivered. Suddenly, his heart turned cold.
‘What if I looked at the testament?’ he thought, the strange gleam in his eye even brighter. ‘It contains great knowledge of events to come. We are vulnerable refugees, far from home, fighting for our survival. If I had such wisdom, I could be rid of my doubt. I could use whatever it tells me... to protect us.’
A fire was now raging in his eye, and the murmuring light breeze willed him on with ever more insistence. He tried to control his emotions and ignore these urges. After a while, however, Aewöl felt overwhelmed by his impulses. Deep-seated aspirations were resurfacing. The feeling became too intense; he could no longer control the flow of his thoughts. A battle between desire and restraint pervaded his mind. Finally, his will was overcome.
“We will need to know,” Aewöl whispered.
He looked down at Curwë. The bard was resting peacefully, a little smile forming at the corners of his mouth. Then Aewöl made out the cylindrical shape of the sacred box wrapped in Curwë’s blanket. He could see its outline perfectly, like a treasure chest buried only inches beneath the sand. Aewöl knelt down, gasping for breath. He unwrapped the fine cotton cloth. His hands were shaking. At last, he could look upon the precious artefact.
“This is a marvel!” Aewöl exclaimed.
The reliquary of Rowë’s will was a box of rare wood, which he could now see was shaped like a smith’s hammer. Only one-foot-long, it was decorated all around with little jewels. Affixed to its wooden frame were golden plaques. Unlike the sacred boxes used for rituals in Essawylor, the design on its outside was not the figure of a guardian but rather a series of glyphs, made up of fragments of gemstones. To Aewöl’s surprise, these magic markings Curwë had mentioned were no longer shining, as though their protective powers had waned. The one-eyed Elf saw this as a good omen, a sign that he was, indeed, meant to access the secrets contained by the will of Rowë.
Now on his knees, Aewöl sized the box and lifted its lid. It was open. Aewöl gazed inside. He became rigid, as if paralysed by shock, still holding the cylindrical object in both hands. Suddenly, a ray of sunlight pierced through the shadows of the forest, dazzling him. He dropped the reliquary in front of him; it rolled across the ground, stopping when it reached Curwë.
The bard stirred slightly in his slumber. He brought a hand up to his face and, a moment later, the light of day had woken him. Curwë opened his eyes and discovered what had happened.
“What have you done?” Curwë cried in panic. “Do you realize what you’ve done? Close it… close it immediately!” he urged.
His friend’s violent intervention seemed to free Aewöl’s mind, as if he was suddenly broken free from the hypnosis that was holding. The one-eyed Elf snatched up the lid and darted for the reliquary. The sacred box was closed again. A tense silence ensued. Finally, Aewöl confessed.
“That was not me, Curwë, I did not mean to do it. The sacred box was just lying there, right next to me. Its glyphs had stopped shining; they were no longer protecting it as if... I was being invited. I do not understand. A strange feeling took hold of me... But I did not see anything, and now the box is closed, as it always was.”
Curwë examined the reliquary before wrapping it back up in the cotton blanket. He did not dare look inside, and instead tried to comfort his friend.
“Say no more. None of us have come to any harm, and the box is intact. Although, you are right, its runes are no longer glowing.”
Aewöl lay still, prostrate.
“Nothing has changed,” Curwë said, trying to reassure him. “Come, let us wake up Gelros. We need to prepare our equipment. We have a long journey ahead of us. We are going back home.”
When Curubor returned from his errand in the woods, the three Elves from Mentollà were standing in the middle of the campsite, heavy with troubled thoughts. They stood with their bags ready, as immobile as statues. Ignoring their sullen moods, Curubor declared, his voice as clear as ever.
“You should come now. I have made sure the way is clear. Night will soon be upon us.”
And, slinging the small pouch that was his only baggage across his shoulders, Curubor gestured for them to follow him. The sun was sinking behind the western range of the Chanun Mountains when their group set out from the forest of Tios Lly. Gelros went ahead. The others followed him in single file.
*
For two days, they strode under the wheeling stars. First, the four Elves crossed the forest of Tios Lly, heading north, tracing their way through the high ferns. Then, they left the protection of the forest’s shadows and, away to their right, they could admire the sea: the strait of Tuide that separated them from their home. When their journey through the wilderness begun, Curubor urged them to make haste, and had they barely exchanged a word since. Tired and uneasy, they rested on the ground, stopping only for a few rare moments to eat food, always on the lookout for danger.
Finally, after another night of running and hiding, they reached the beach of Asto Salassy. The warmth of dawn was approaching. But the morning mist clouded the sand dunes well after daybreak, and they had to wait for the fogs to disperse in order to locate the Elvin army’s trenches. A great falcon, the size of an eagle, circled above them. For a moment, they stood still and silent, showing signs of weariness. Nevertheless, they held their heads up high, for they knew they had managed to reach their safe haven. Their way home was in reach. They were relieved.
As the mist lifted, they began to be able to make out the colourful tents of the Llymar units and, eventually, the green banners of the various c
lans: the white swan of Llyvary; the grey hawk of Ernaly; and the colourful peafowl of Avrony. Birds were flying high above the camp.The Green Elves had dug trenches in the soil around the wooden walls that formed the camp’s perimeter; the sea had filled this trench to form something of a moat. More than a dozen warships were grounded on the beach. The bows of these ships were wedged into the sand, while their sterns were battered by the waves. Their masts dismantled, and their keel deeply buried, the Elvin ships lay down on the vast beach like flightless swans. Their colourful sails, beautifully painted with images of birds, had been refashioned into large tents. The shelters were organized in circles around the command post at the centre of the camp, a large construction of wood and canvas as big as any temple in Llafal. This little city of tents was completed by a wooden drawbridge over the moat.
The sound of intense labour reached their ears, carried by the morning wind. The beating of hammers and clinking of trowels sounded out as artisans continued to reinforce their defences, by the dull light of the torches and flares glowing faintly in the mist.
“See! Fighters are positioned along the entire length of the wooden wall,” said Curwë.
“It is as though the troops of Llymar expect our enemies to launch a full-scale attack at any moment,” replied Aewöl.
