by C A Oliver
“Watch my face, cursed defiler!” Voryn dyl cried out in a final effort. “May you die in this same pain!"
Aewöl spat upon the corpse of the dead Elf before muttering a final tribute.
“I do not accept your judgment, Voryn dyl the Ugly. I'm no worse than you. I am not responsible for the tragic outcome of our conflict. There was no way we could have ever found peace, for I would never have forgiven you for what you’ve done. Consider your death a just retribution… a punishment for your harsh words. This is a just vengeance.”
The wind had ceased. Slowly, the darkness faded, and the woods were bathed again in the light of the stars. The silence was deafening. Aewöl realized that Gelros’ cries of pain had ceased.
Leaving the face of Voryn dyl to be consumed by the self-propagating acidic poison, the one-eyed Elf rushed forward. He quickly reached the glade. The distance between the two casualties was no more than fifty yards. To Aewöl’s utter surprise, the glade was empty. Gelros had vanished. Only some of his equipment could be found: Gelros’ Cruel Bow and two quivers, his own swords and crossbow, and also Duluin’s sack.
Aewöl retrieved the gear. It was growing darker; clouds now obscured the moon’s beam and the sparkling of the stars. Nevertheless, Aewöl’s night vision enabled him to pick out evidence of movement on the soil.
‘Gelros must have crawled to seek shelter,’ he deduced, judging by the numerous marks the scout had left through the bushes and earth.
This trail stopped suddenly at the edge of the glade, but new tracks appeared. Large footprints were sunken into the soil, like that of a bear. Aewöl started to follow this path into the woods. He retraced the steps of the big animal along the trail to the maze of rocks that he had found earlier. There was no further sign of his companion’s presence.
‘Gelros must have been carried away by a savage beast,’ was the only explanation Aewöl could think of.
This finding filled him with dread. He drew his light crossbow, readying himself for a fight. After several hundred yards, Aewöl reached an area of dense boulders. Large rocks blocked the passage. These boulders looked like the remnants from another geological age. Their appearance was that of sandstone, forming large nodules that had resisted erosion. It formed a maze of scattered boulders and tight passages, amid trees of different species such as oak, pine and beech. Mushrooms covered the soil.
Still following the tracks of what he guessed was a bear; Aewöl discovered the entrance to a cave. Between two large boulders was a grand gateway, like that from some ancient temple, with a clear floor of crystal water which welled up at the back. Great stones had been laid at the mouth of the cave. The entrance was only slightly lighter than the total pitch blackness that engulfed the passage beyond.
After twenty steps into the cave, around the first curve, Aewöl felt a distinct temperature contrast between air in the tunnel and night sky outside. He shivered as he progressed into an even darker cavern, beset with many jagged and slippery dangers. The darkness utterly enveloped him, while the sounds of the forest remained some distance behind. His night vision allowed him to distinguish the numerous pitfalls and traps that this rough underground cavern held.
Going down even further into the pit, Aewöl noticed that he could no longer see the tracks left by the bear.
“Damned!” he cursed “The ground is made of limestone. The bear must have walked the calcareous soil without leaving any residual moisture behind. The surface of the ground is dry to the touch.”
Aewöl stopped as he reached a larger underground chamber. Stalactites of various shapes adorned the cave’s ceilings. Five different tunnels sprung out into the depths from that centre point. Alone in the dark, in total silence, the one-eyed Elf realized that there was no hope of ever finding his companion. Overcome by a dreadful feeling of loneliness, he sat on the ground, his back resting against a stalagmite. In the face of his desperate situation, his whole body seized with anguish.
“I am cursed,” he thought. “I will no doubt be in pain and distress for my entire life.”
Aewöl mechanically reached into Duluin’s satchel, looking for some food. He had no strength left. His hand blindly groped about in the small bag. Surprisingly, he came across the cold touch of metal. Aewöl withdrew the small object. It was a small copper ring, encrusted with tiny jewels.
*
2712, Season of Eïwele Llyo, 5th day, Nyn Ernaly, Mentolewin
The pilgrim of Eïwele Llyi looked at his small ring. It was encrusted with various tiny jewels. Little shards of aquamarine, ruby, sapphire and amethyst were visible on its surface. The ring was solid copper, with scratches, dents and signs of wear.
“Do you see?” The white pilgrim asked, turning to the beautiful Elvin lady who stood beside him.
There was excitement in his voice. She drew closer to examine the ring which he held out in his open palm, her thin brows furrowing with attention. Her dark, pinned-up hair, delicate features and elegant neck radiated a warm glow. The slight tan of her soft skin contrasted with her white ceremonial garments. There seemed to be nothing unusual about the ring.
“I see no change, my prince,” she concluded at last.
“Well, my dear, you wouldn’t have lasted long in my father’s guild with an answer like that,” teased the white pilgrim. “Try again!”
“I cannot, my prince. Tell me what your eyes see,” replied the lady. She frowned so graciously that the white pilgrim, under her charm, could not help but marvel at her beauty.
“These amethyst splinters,” he explained with a smug smile, “are glowing an unnatural deep purple. This is a good omen, my dear, a very good omen indeed. The conclusion to this tale is upon us. He is drawing near.”
The lady could not suppress a shiver. Her delicate face was marked with sadness. As she glanced at the white pilgrim’s right cheek, which was marked with the infamous rune of outcasts, she seemed to be holding back tears.
Unaware of his female companion’s turmoil, the white pilgrim rejoiced openly. A smile of satisfaction crept across his face. This dark-haired Elf was tall and thin, dressed in a magnificent white robe which entirely covered his rich, dark clothes beneath. His face was partly hidden by a large hood. There was nothing warm about his fine features, particularly when his icy gaze became lost in deep contemplation and his lips twisted into a contemptuous smile.
The white pilgrim placed a mask over his face. It had been made with leather and porcelain. The design was simple, and its gold-leaf surface gave it a symbolic look. Natural feathers and small gems added to its other decorations painted by hand.
“Do you know that, since ancient times, masks have been used by Elves across the Lost Islands for storytelling or musical performance,” he recalled.
Leaving the discreet alcove where they had been standing, which had kept them away from the crowds, the white pilgrim returned to the central nave of Mentolewin’s ancient temple. It was a place of power, the embodiment of spiritual and political authority, both religious and secular. Throughout the centuries, the white temple of Mentolewin, the main shrine dedicated to Eïwele Llyi in Nyn Ernaly, had been the birthplace of many communities who worshipped the Deity of Love and Arts. The white pilgrim breathed in deeply.
“It is the smell of violets which fills the temple. It is a delight for the senses!” he rejoiced, visibly enjoying the moment.
Emerging from the shadow of the alcove, the lady put on her own mask, securing it with a ribbon behind her head. Hers was a half-mask, which only covered her eyes, nose and upper cheeks. It was highly decorated with silver and crystals. The mask seemed to have been designed specifically for her, as though she were an actress who did not wish to have her beautiful face covered completely.
All around them within the temple, other pilgrims were also masked. This ancient custom encouraged freedom and creativity and was thought to protect Elves from anguish. During festivals such as this, anonymity allowed for short periods of intense artistic invention.
; The white temple of Mentolewin was a ruined monument which owed its beauty to the simple architecture and absence of all superfluous decoration. The love of detail, technical precision and beauty had made this ancestral place outstanding. The ruined remains of the colonnade and dome left no doubt in the pilgrim’s mind about the power and beauty of their original design. The stained glass had been utterly destroyed and the marks left by a devastating fire could still be seen on the cross-vaults which covered the nave’s ceiling.
The ruined walls of the edifice gave the temple’s visitors a panoramic view from within: over the surrounding fortress, the island’s coast and then the ocean. The beauty of Eïwele Llyi’s ancient shrine in the glow of sunset promised a bright new day to come.
“Today, I will sing,” the white pilgrim suddenly declared.
A silence followed. The lady knew her advice would be ignored but nevertheless tried to persuade him otherwise.
“This is not wise, my prince. You could be recognized. It was dangerous enough for you to join this pilgrimage, surrounded as we are by so many Elves from Gwarystan. Why take such risks now?”
“I have been hiding for too long. Now that the end draws near, the time has come for the followers of the Deity of Arts to hear my compositions once more: The Songs of the Lost Islands, the greatest music that has ever been. This place, ruined but magnificent, inspires me. My performance will be such that Eïwele Llyi herself will appear to celebrate my art. I have always wanted to honour the divinity of beauty.”
The white pilgrim drew from his cloak a statuette. The small, feminine figurine, carved from precious ivory, was sublime. It seemed to have an identity of its own. It was endowed with a grace, a charm, which demonstrated the unquestionable talent of its maker. A light dress with a low neckline barely covered her captivating shapes. Her bust was adorned with a white pearl necklace. The white pilgrim kissed the statuette several times before putting it back in his pocket. He looked at the vastness of the ocean before him.
The Sea of Cyclones filled the vast bay, reaching all the way up to the cliffs upon which Mentolewin stood. The edges of the bay softened into a vast sandy coastline. The beach upon the western shore of Nyn Ernaly thronged with Elves, dressed in white robes, forming a great crowd. The cry of gulls above them was unceasing. Marching to the sound of many pipes and flutes, they walked in great numbers along the beach, eventually climbing the slopes which lead to the formidable tower in ruins, upon the Cun Kangna. This imposing hill, rising from the strait of Oymal’s waters, was considered the westernmost point of the Archipelago, and therefore the closest shore to the Mainland. Beyond, others great rocks surged up from the sea, forming a natural defensive line, curving gently to the north.
On Cun Kangna’s slopes stood the ruins of the great fortress of the West, Mentolewin. Its lower walls had been stained a dark purple after many centuries of the gloomy sea lapping at the stones, the waves relentlessly challenged its foundations. This strategic place had been chosen long ago by the High Elves to build the formidable stronghold of House Dol Lewin. Its highest tower had been the largest edifice ever built on the Islands. The silver searchlight at its top had shone far out into the mists of the dangerous strait. No longer could it watch for the ships of the Austral Ocean entering the Sea of Isyl.
That day, the pilgrims walking the alleys among the fortress’ ruins were encouraged to reflect upon the Elves that had swelled around these walls: the skill with which they had built their home, the noble origins of the fortress’ defenders and the joyful lives they had lived there.
“Let us follow this parade. It will lead us to the amphitheatre where artists will be playing music,” suggested the white pilgrim to his female companion.
A small group of Elves, led by white-robed priestesses of Eïwele Llyi, led the parade, accompanied by the delicate notes of the musicians’ harps, which made the air hum most sweetly. After them came many Green Elves with fair hair, males gently comingling with the females. The cortege was progressing according to the music of their violins and wind instruments, which inspired joy and admiration in all who heard. This small group then gathered before the great terrace that looked out over the sea. The procession burst into the Song of Beauty in perfect unison. It was said that the chant had been written by Eïwele Llyi herself.
After the light of the moon had gone and the rays of the sun eventually made their appearance, the pilgrims were all ushered onto the vast terrace to contemplate the silvery waves of the sea at dawn. The entire procession flooded onto the terrace. There, they were met by other priests of Eïwele Llyi, who glided between the different rows of pilgrims, letting the travellers know that the Deity of Arts bid them welcome.
Hundreds of followers of Eïwele Llyi then sat in the great ruins of the amphitheatre, filling its numerous alleyways. They had fashioned many beautiful objects. Colourful paintings, delicate woodcarvings and beautiful embroidery adorned the empty walls; the ancient, cold ruins of Mentolewin had grown fair beneath their skilful hands. The hearts of these Elves were glad, and they marvelled at the grassy glades and crystalline waters of the creeks.
Some sat on dark and lonely rocks to contemplate the tumultuous waves. Many Elves had cast flowers into the sea, and their fragments glittered in the moonlight, filling the rock pools of the coast with what looked like shining jewels. Their robes were sewn with pearls, and their clothes were adorned with a great wealth of gems, gold, silver and other precious items. All were wearing masks of beautiful design. The ruins of the ancient fortress’ amphitheatre, once dominated by the desolate sound of the wind, were now filled with the voices of the crowd. The carved marble that remained told of the days of glory and happiness. The music they played sounded like the most enchanting sound ever to be heard.
“This moment will be the pinnacle of my artistic life,” murmured the white pilgrim as he looked at the audience.
All around him were Elves of all origins. They had come from all the corners of the Lost Islands to this place for a single purpose: to celebrate the gift of artistic creation. More than a thousand Elves were seated in the amphitheatre: artists, musicians, each possessed with that dual obsession for beauty and art. He could not have hoped for a better audience.
The white pilgrim invited his female companion to sit down. He shared a handful of exotic chewing herbs with her. A few moments later, several carafes of golden liquor were brought to them, and it soon became clear that they would need several more to quench their thirst. For a long time, the couple listened with relish to the music, nobler and purer than any they heard for many years. It was full of longing and exquisite poetry. It was as if pipes of silver and flutes of gold were sending forth crystal notes, forming the richest harmonies beneath the rising sun. The closing theme retreated from the tumult that had been gradually building, humming rather with a profound serenity that defined the very essence of music. The white pilgrim longed for the days of his youth. He plunged into a deep reverie, delicately caressing the hair of his female companion.
*
When he awoke from his dream, the sun was high in the sky. There was no more music, save for the myriad sea birds above. Pleasant fragrances seemed even sweeter than before. The light struck his face and he shivered. The white pilgrim arose quickly, seeking the protection of a ruined wall adorned with tapestries.
“My time has come!” he decided.
There, in the shadows of the white linen flapping in the wind, he was protected from the sun. The white pilgrim seized his flute.
The five-holed wind instrument had a v-shaped mouthpiece and was carved from the bone of a vulture wing. He began to blow. The sounds that came out were sensual, exciting, and almost brutal. The audience, caught off guard, immediately applauded, surprised as it was by this music like no other.
Soon, the rhythm carried away everything in its passage, like a wind sewing chaos as it crosses the land. A low melody was then heard, its indistinct elements concealing from the listeners whatever dark pattern created them.
The white pilgrim bullied his audience with his frenetic music, like riders charging on a battlefield. Everyone in the crowd felt the growing sense of power, lust and ego being communicated by the artist.
The entire audience was lulled into a chaotic trance. The symphony was a succession of wild sounds in which nothing complied with classical principles. This music had a depth like no other. It plunged the listener into the realm of instincts, the universe of primal passion, a world of intoxication and almost madness, where nothing is sacred. This music shattered all rules and traditions, arousing that dark pleasure that can only be found in annihilation. It surpassed everything, expressing the power of elementary impulses through the overwhelming violence of the sound.
The voice of the white pilgrim rose. The singer was telling of events from long ago, heavy with regret. He was using his art to make keen sorrows both poignant and remote. Alternating singing and the flute, he also improvised passages of poetry, denouncing the tyranny of fate. His poetic lyrics and distinctive voice made an amazing impression on the audience, who reacted to his wild performance with frantic yells and wild cries. His apparent recklessness, his air of subdued menace, the way he improvised poetry, everything about his stagecraft beat his audience into submission.
It led to excesses among the crowd, dancers abandoning themselves to wild performances which in turn lead to further bursts of energy from the artist. His raw talent had unleashed a surge of freedom of expression among the crowd, which was now culminating in outbursts of violence, as though Leïwal Baos, the God of Frenzy, had bewitched these Elves with intoxication and dissipation. Emerging from the crowd, the artist looked overwhelmed by his own performance. He failed to recognize he was out of his depth; the chaos he had created was beyond what he could have imagined. He spoke out to the audience he had conquered with his art.
