by Rex Hazelton
Smitten? Humoring himself with his thoughts, the young Woodswane considered his mother's magic before adding, enchanted is more like it.
Nevertheless, as his father told it, he had been totally enthralled by the first glance of Elamor's loveliness, a loveliness that compelled Aryl to seek out the location of the School of the Candle where she was serving as an acolyte at the time. Initially, the Candle Makers had turned him away, but Jeaf's father would not be easily discouraged. So, he continued knocking on the monastery doors until those inside, wearied by his tenacity, let her come out and talk to him.
Aryl was fond of boasting how Elamor was so beautiful, he would have taken on three giants bare-handed just for the chance to meet her. At such times, the great woman would neither blush nor resist his speech. Rather, Elamor would stand tall and proud, not proud of the accolades being heaped upon her, but proud of the man who had won her heart, a man whose value surpassed, in her estimation, all the treasures the School of the Candle had to offer.
It was unusual for a Candle Maker to take an outsider as a mate, but that's exactly what Elamor had done. She fell in love with the rambunctious young man who refused to leave the monastery doors, gladly giving up the prestige living among the Candle Makers gave her for the honor of becoming his wife. By marrying Aryl, she forfeited any possibility of climbing up the renowned order's ranks. Still, she remained a Candle Maker at heart and ardently studied their ways. As fate would have it, because of her inherent magic, she excelled beyond most of those who remained encloistered behind the school's formidable walls. In time, her reputation as a Counselor and Healer became well known. Therefore, she had as much honor afforded her for what she did as Aryl received for his craft.
Jeaf thought his parents went together like a pair of matching bookends that held many stories already told but were ready to accept many more yet to be written. The idea that a swordsman and a pacifist Candle Maiden would marry was novel. Yet, having been raised by the two, Jeaf knew their differences had enhanced rather than detracted from their lives.
Suspecting his mother's questions were coming from a Candle Maker's inquisitive mind, more than from a maternal need to ascertain her child's state of well-being, he finally relented and replied, “I just had a disturbing dream.”
“Do you want to share it with your father and me?” Elamor filled her and Aryl's bowls with the mouth watering stew while she let Jeaf gather his thoughts. Then she sat down and looked expectantly at him.
Breaking off a chunk of steaming bread, dunking it into the stew's broth, the young Woodswane put the morsel in his mouth and began chewing on it as he returned his mother's gaze, pondering the meaning of the light dancing in her rich brown eyes. After a time, he said, “All right,” and began recounting his experience at the dirt hill.
“The crown was made of rubies?” Elamor had put her wooden spoon down before she spoke.
“It was made of silver, but was so encrusted with rubies, the silver was barely visible.”
“Did you put it on?” Excitement filled the Candle Maker's voice.
“No.” Jeaf rubbed the back of his neck. “I'm not certain what happened to the crown. I might have laid it down, so I could fight the creatures.” Shaking his head, he added, “I can't remember.”
“You laid it down!?” Elamor frowned.
“Or, maybe I dropped it.”
Silenced followed... And in that tacit moment, Elamor's mind tried to digest all it had been fed.
“Mother, is the dream important?”
“Indeed, it is, Son! Few have had dreams where the Singer spoke to them.”
“But the voice didn't identify itself as coming from the Singer. I just told you what I sensed.”
“It was him, Son! There's no doubt about it. And his coming to you lets us know that a new chapter of your life is about to begin.” Turning to grasp Aryl's hand with her own, she added, “What that chapter might be about, you'll soon see. For I believe the timing of this dream, coming the day before you're to go to the Eagle King's castle, is no accident.”
Elamor's words reminded Jeaf he was setting off for the Eyrie of the Eagle in the morning, home of Cane the Eagle King. There he would deliver a special sword his father had made to commemorate the king's fiftieth summer of life. How can the dream and the journey be connecte, he wondered? But Jeaf was well aware his mother's intuition was not to be scoffed at.
“What do you mean, it's no accident?” His question was offered as a bridge to those things he felt his mother wished to say.
“Son, your dream was a test.” Elamor adjusted her posture, sitting up in her chair much like the mentors at the School of the Candle were ought to do whenever they gave an instruction. “You see, the dirt hill represents your life and the creatures are a type of your fears and doubts. The Singer was asking if you were willing to do what most aren't, that is, to look into your soul and see the darkness living there.” Smiling softly, she added, “Though you dreaded by doing so you would be forever damaged, you were, nonetheless, willing to undertake the task.”
“But I didn't complete the job.” Jeaf frowned as he contemplated what this might mean. “The beast was so heavy... I felt like I could have died trying to remove the thing.”
“I know.” Elamor sighed. “But there was hope of success, and the magic of hope must never be underestimated.”
Then another thought Elamor had been entertaining, pushed its way to the forefront of her mind. “Because of what you have told me, I have a package I want you to take to Illumanor the Candle Master.”
Rising from the thick oak table where her family was seated, Elamor went over to a corner shelf and retrieved a large, light blue, ornately-designed candle that had stood there for as long as Jeaf could remember. Though his mother made thousands of other candles over the years, and all of them had either been used to aid in someone's healing or to provide light for those who needed understanding, all this time the enigmatic candle remained unmoved. In Jeaf's inquisitive mind, this made it a continual fascination, one he had asked his mother about at least a dozen times before. But to his chagrin, her frustrating reply had always been to simply say, one day you'll know.
Now, after all these years, he watched his mother lift the candle from its resting place and reverently wrap it in sheet of leather. After tying the final knot on her package, Elamor turned and handed it to her son, asking him to lay it by the sword his father had made for the Eagle King.
“Are you going to tell me about the candle?” Jeaf asked.
“Son, it is not my place to speak to you about it. It never has been. Your answers will be found at the School of the Candle.” Gently waving her hand before her face, she whispered, “When this virgin wick is at last lit, then and only then shall you learn what you've wanted to know for all these many summers.”
****
Aryl called off that afternoon's work and took Jeaf and Elamor on a long walk through the surrounding woods. Traveling down familiar pathways, they reminisced about the many summers they had spent with each other. As they went, they avoided brushing up against a patch of poison ivy that Jeaf, as a child, mistakenly thought would make a good hideout in a game he had played with some visiting children. Not long afterwards, the three of them laughed when they saw a doe and a lovely, slender fawn looking at them from the shadows laying beneath the forest's lush canopy. Talking about picnics and swordplay, of feasts and winter storms, and of laughter and tears, the threesome delighted in each other's presence as the afternoon slipped past like a feather carried on the wind.
By the time they returned, the sun had already disappeared behind the tree-lined horizon and dusk was spreading over their home, announcing night would soon come.
That evening Aryl broke out one of the jugs of ale he held in reserve for special occasions. Like honey in both color and taste, the three enjoyed the drink while eating leftovers from lunch. After the casual dinner, Jeaf's father took out his long-stemmed pipe. Vigorously puffing away, he rehearsed st
ories of battles once fought and of kings who once lived.
“Jeaf! Nyeg Warl and Ar Warl were once one land,” Aryl explained, as ever widening smoke rings rose past the loft and toward the ceiling's broad timbers. Soon a host of intertwining halos, those reflecting light coming from a company of candles Elamor had fastidiously placed throughout their home, drifted overhead.
The Oakenfels lived in Nyeg Warl, a land surrounded by seas: the Largryk Sea lay to the south; the Peaceful Sea lay to the west; the Nour Sea was located to the north; and the Breach Sea was found in the east. The Breach Sea got its name from the cataclysm that had created it. It was this event Aryl was now recounting to his family.
“In the days of Ab'Don's youth, after his heart turned evil, the Nyeg was separated from the Ar by a magic the likes of which had not been seen since the Song of Creation was sung. Today, Ab'Don is the fount out of which Ar Warl's darkness flows, he is Koyer's master and Nyeg Warl's bane.” Jeaf's father refilled his long-stemmed pipe before continuing. “At first his evil was hidden by the beauty of youth. Seduced by his charisma, many of the old kings allied themselves to him, hoping he would bring in the age of peace and prosperity that the Candle Makers had long prophesied would arrive. But their faith in the young lord was just wishful thinking. They unfortunately made the mistake of overlooking his greed and pride until it was nearly too late.”
Aryl's rendition of Nyeg Warl's history was given with bard-like precision. And like a bard, he had recited this story many times before, usually during important events that didn't focus on merriment. Not deviating in wording or nuance, he faithfully dispensed his knowledge, serving it up for his son's benefit.
Reaching out with his Powers of Intuition, Jeaf detected the sobriety filling his father's thoughts. Hmmm, what's he doing, he wondered? Unexpectedly, the casual evening had taken a serious turn.
“It wasn't until he attacked King Winslet and conquered his realm, that the Warl's rulers began to wake from the spell he had cast over them.” Aryl was careful to accentuate Ab'Don's abomination, the foul act that shook the Warl's kings out of their stupor. “After he had Winslet executed, he purposed to take both his daughters and wife as his brides. But before their marriage could be consummated, Queen Puramor took her life; her daughters soon followed her example.”
Finally, seeing the monster for who he really was, the Warl took up arms against the one in whom it had earlier placed its hopes. But long years of slumber had weakened the kings, permitting Ab'Don's hordes to easily sweep over the land. Aided by a magic that the ruthless lord gained through a tryst he had with an ancient evil, a thing that for ages had slept undisturbed near the warl's roots, all was sure to fall into their grasp.”
Heading towards a destination that Jeaf could not yet discern, Aryl's carefully chosen words continued unwrapping the dour saga. “Knowing doom would soon drop its ax head upon their necks, the kings of the western lands called for their people to fast as an act of supplication to the Singer, asking the Warl's Magic to spare them.”
“At the same time,” Elamor chimed in, “the Candle Makers gathered, hoping their combined magic would save the day.”
The elder Oakenfel's mouth broke into a gentle smile, bemused that his Beloved stepped in to recite the line about the Holy Order she loved so much, before continuing. “Whether it was a merciful act of the Singer, the power of the Candle Makers, or both, we may never know. But no matter what the case was, the earth quaked and tore apart, pushing the western lands out into the seas. For forty days and forty nights, the warl shook as the rending continued; raging waters flowed into the tear; castles crumbled; and rivers changed their courses. But in time, the cataclysm ended, the waters ceased heaving, and Nyeg Warl was created. The eastern lands that remained behind became known as Ar Warl. The vast expanse of water separating the two became the Breach Sea.”
Aryl looked intently at his son as he added, “Yet the Breach was not total since part of the Ar clung to the Nyeg as it slipped out to sea and became the place we call the Isle of Regret. At the time of the Breach, a volcano rose out from the Mountains of Sorrow, the range of peaks that cross the island like a bony spin, its violent eruption covering the eastern part of Nyeg Warl in ash. Then after many summers had passed, the volcano ceased its raging, revealing how a remnant of Ab'Don's forces had survived the tumult and inhabited the island.”
Sighing, Aryl spoke slower than before as he said, “Over the centuries the survivors have flourished, growing quickly in numbers. Some say they infest the island as numerous as bees in a bee hive. Eventually they subdued the island, making it the home of the Archan, as they call themselves, descendants of Ab'Don's own people, the Malamor. This is the realm that Koyer rules over.”
Aryl went on to explain how the Archan were fair-skinned like their cousins, but that they, in time, had lost their tall stature to become a squat, heavily-muscled race. How this happened, no one knew. Nor did anyone know how their blue eyes, those that characterized the Malamor, had become black as coal and twice as large. An evil brood of men, some said they had grown more wicked than their Ar Warl relatives and, like them, they believed the shedding of blood gave them magical powers.
After hitting his pipe on the heel of his hand to dislodge the used tobacco, Aryl stuffed it into his vest pocket. “In Nyeg Warl's early years, military expeditions set sail across the Straits of Regret, the narrow channel that separates the Mountains of Sorrow from the mainland, in hopes of defeating the Archan. These were either hindered or destroyed by the sea serpent Laviathon and his ruthless spawn. Yet, even without these monsters, the black waters surrounding the Isle of Regret are always turbulent and barely navigable. This is true even when the rest of the Breach Sea is placid, something that hardly ever happens. The treacherous straits alone claimed many a stout warrior's life and crushed many a ship upon the rocks infesting its expanse like so many teeth rising out of a horrible watery mouth.”
Aryl's jaw muscles tightened as he gathered his remaining thoughts. “Over the multitude of summers that have come and gone since the failed expeditions, the memories of the ancient animosities have dimmed, and, in time, the Archan felt it was safe to build a bridge joining the Isle of Regret to Nyeg Warl.”
Taking hold of his mug's deer antler handle, Aryl took a long drink of honey-colored ale before he looked into Elamor's eyes seeking feedback. Jeaf knew they were exchanging thoughts, but he was unwilling to break into the secret chamber where their minds met, though he could feel the intensity of their exchange. Once the elegant Candle Maker nodded, Aryl continued. “Son! Listen to me!” Placing his hands flat upon the table, he leaned forward as he spoke. “You have been born to a family that has dedicated itself to remembering the old stories. We are those who have not forgotten who we once were and who we may one day be. So, don't forget my counsel: As long as Koyer reigns in G'Lude's dark fortress, Nyeg Warl will never be safe!”
When Elamor took over for her husband, Jeaf felt as if he were cramming for final exams at the School of Learning he had attended as a child. Why, are they intent on reminding me of so much history? The ale was making him sleepy. Can't they finish these stories when I return home? After all, I've heard them before.
But Elamor wouldn't tolerate his fading attention. Using a voice of command, she exclaimed, “Jeaf, you must listen a little longer! Rest will come soon enough.” As she spoke, the sound of wind filled the house and the candles seemed to burn twice as bright as they had the moment before.
Looking at his mother, Jeaf noticed how the candle flames, those standing behind Elamor, danced about her head. He rubbed his eyes to clear his vision. Yet, no matter how much he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling that the candles, now glowing above her, were being fueled by a passion flowing out of her. Amazed at what he saw, he quietly asked himself, “Has the Candle Maker become the candle?” Little did Jeaf know, his words would one day become a popular proverb in Nyeg Warl.
Before speaking further, Elamor took time to brush away the few
wrinkles found on her long flowing dress. Her actions added importance to those things she would soon tell her son.
Employing the reverential tone the Candle Makers were known for, she began her speech. “You are Jeaf Oakenfel, the son of Aryl Oakenfel, the Master Swordsmith and Elamor of the Holy Order of the Candle Makers... My son, the Oakenfel's have a noble history tracing back to Ar Warl. It was there that your father was born to the bloodline of an ancient and noble race of people, a people who birthed the greatest kings the Warls have ever known.
Startled to hear this, Jeaf spat out, “What are you saying!?”
“Son, your father was born a Fane J'Shrym.”
Fane J'Shrym!? How can this be? Jeaf had always thought this was a bloodline lost in antiquity, so removed from the present that he wondered if his mother was jesting.
Undaunted by her son's disconcerted expression, Elamor continued to elaborate. “The prophecies that tell how the Ar and the Nyeg will one day be reunited, to form the magnificent realm of Parm Warl, also state that a king shall come forth from the loins of the Fane J'Shrym. It is said he shall gather this lost and dying people and lead them into battle against Ab'Don's evil realm, and once the Fane J'Shrym have been re-gathered, the power that split the Warls asunder will return and put them back together... When this happens, Ab'Don's reign of terror will end.”
Looking at Aryl, concern showing on her face, she added, “Knowing this, the Evil One has been hunting down all that remain of this bloodline.”
Elamor paused, allowing her son time to digest her words. Then lowering her voice, she continued. “Recently, we've learned Koyer could suspect Aryl of being a descendent of these people. Not more than a day ago we were told he may soon send his White Guard to confirm or deny his fears. But he's not wrong! Your father is Fane J'Shrym! And so are you!”
This news had an unsettling affect on Jeaf, who was struggling with all that he was hearing. He had been an Oakenfel his whole life, and as far as he was concerned he would be happy remaining one the remainder of his days. But now the house of comfort predictability had built, began to crumble, and the room began rocking like a ship fighting a squall's strong winds as the weight of his mother's words fell on him.
