by C A Oliver
“If you are stupid enough to believe that, you know nothing of the rune of Ernaly’s powers. Swear, if you want to live!” commanded the warlord of Tios Halabron.
The guards of clan Llyvary were right behind the door. The scraping of their metallic armour could now be heard distinctly.
“I will leave Llafal... I swear...” said Curwë finally, almost breathless.
“And?” insisted Mynar dyl, more threatening than ever.
“I... will not appear before... Matriarch Nyriele... again…”
“Swear it on the rune of Ernaly, cursed Hawenti, or be lost!” Mynar dyl murmured, his tone insistent but his voice low.
“I swear,” Curwë finally committed. But he spat on the greenish pendant as Mynar dyl brought it to his lips. The emeralds of the Ernaly rune glittered brightly as the Llewenti warlord applied it to Curwë’s cheek, like an ointment rubbed into infected skin.
“There, your fate is sealed,” said Mynar dyl with an air of triumph. While the fire of victory burnt in his eye, Curwë’s face grew despondent in resignation.
The clan Llyvary’s guards appeared at the study’s entrance. They commanded the clan Ernaly fighters to drop their weapons immediately. Tyar dyl Llyvary, the warlord of Llafal, walked through the door.
His tan-leather coat, weapons and helmet were all adorned with the white swan of Nyn Llyvary. He was armed with a long sword, and an oval shield hung at his side. On his back, his cloak was the light green of his clan.
With a very polite tone, Mynar dyl admitted the old Elf inside the study, declaring emphatically that he was most welcome.
Tyar dyl moved forward slowly, as wanting to witness for himself what had happened in this room now that all noise had ceased around him. The warlord of Llafal looked for a long time at the faces of those present in the room, as if Eïwele Llyo, the deity of foresight, wanted him to learn the truth from their features: the calm of Mynar dyl; the satisfaction of Naloy; the coldness of the clan Ernaly’s fighters; and the lost gaze of Curwë.
“What happened here, Master Curwë?” Tyar dyl asked in a laconic tone, his gaze fixed steadily upon the owner of the house.
Mynar dyl did not give him a chance to respond, cutting him off by dropping Rymsing on Curwë’s desk as if by accident. The fine broadsword slowly fell onto the wooden surface with a metallic thud.
All looked at its shining blade with fascination. The silence was deafening.
After observing the fabled glaive for some time, Mynar dyl finally spoke.
“The Blade of the West and the scrolls of Dyoreni are recovered, noble Tyar dyl...
Clan Ernaly had to rescue Master Curwë in his own dwellings after he was taken hostage by Dyoren. It appears the Renegade was ready to use all available means to push Curwë into revealing precious information, information that he did not even have...
I regret to inform you the Renegade managed to flee. But we took his precious sword from him, and he has also left behind the scrolls of the Dyoreni. These spoils offer me some comfort. It is a great achievement to have these items in our possession, and will no doubt fill our matriarchs’ hearts with joy.”
Still standing in the middle of the study, Tyar dyl remained impassive, like an old bird perched on a branch, his head to one side, watching the scene with both mistrust and disinterest. Perhaps he was waiting for Curwë to confirm the warlord of Tios Halabron’s tale, but the bard remained silent, his eyes empty, still in utter shock. Once again, it was Mynar dyl who provided an explanation.
“Master Curwë was very affected by the events, as you can well understand in someone threatened with death. He has been held hostage for some time, and was perhaps tortured, by a mad Elf desperate for information. You must imagine Curwë’s distress, for he would never have been able to satisfy the requests of such a troubled mind. His captor was obsessed with the testament of Rowë and the lost Swords of Nargrond Valley. He used potent sorcery to make him talk and keep in place.
Curwë’s liberation was fast, but it came late...
He expressed his wish to return to Mentollà as soon as possible, where his friends will be of some support. He has asked me to be of assistance.”
Mynar dyl looked to Curwë. He held out his hand in a gesture of friendship. For a moment, it seemed as if the mark on Curwë’s left cheek glimmered with a greenish glow. At last, Curwë spoke out, his voice weak.
“I shall go back to Mentollà... now... I have nothing more to say.”
Curwë then left his study under the watchful protection of the clan Ernaly guards. He passed by the ranks of the clan Llyvary fighters, who showed him signs of compassion. Through the maze of the House of Essawylor’s rooms, he walked like a bewitched Elf, and was finally guided into his bedchamber. Instructions were given to prepare his gear. Curwë would depart for Mentollà the next morning.
*
The sun was already setting behind the high pine trees of the Halwyfal’s shores when Mynar dyl finished his account of the day’s events. He had explained in detail what had occurred that afternoon in the streets of Llafal; from Dyoren’s flight at the harbour to the final scene in the House of Essawylor.
“The deities of the Islands have favoured us once again, noble Gal dyl...” the warlord of Tios Halabron concluded. “It is nothing short of miraculous that we have recovered both the Blade of the West and the scrolls of Dyoreni in one fell swoop... Imagine... After one of my guards saw through Dyoren’s disguise, the Renegade had no time to go back to the House of Essawylor. May the deities be praised; he could neither recover his belongings nor finish off his hostage. Instead, he chose to flee...”
Nyriele and her father stood before him, bewildered at such unexpected news. After leaving the House of Essawylor, Mynar dyl had decided to inform the young matriarch without delay. Tyar dyl and his retinue had escorted him, along with the Seeker’s precious possessions, to her private quarters at Temple Square. The ‘Old Bird’ had been surprised by Mynar dyl’s initiative. For his part, Tyar dyl insisted that they immediately report to Matriarch Lyrine, who had legitimate authority over such matters. But the warlord of Tios Halabron would not be moved.
Incidentally, when the two commanders arrived to meet with Nyriele, they found Gal dyl there with her. The Protector of the Forest and his daughter were playing a harp and flute beneath the arcades of the matriarchs’ compound. Their easy attitude demonstrated the profound affection of a father for his daughter. But Mynar dyl’s account had visibly taken them aback.
After a moment, Gal dyl spoke. “So, the Renegade managed to escape once again.”
“He did,” confirmed Mynar dyl. “Dyoren used a small boat to leave Llafal before the tide changed. By now, he will have crossed the passes of the Halwyfal.”
Nyriele looked relieved to hear of his escape. “Father, I think it is better this way. We have already recovered the sword of the Seeker and the precious scrolls of his knighthood’s order. This is all that matters to the Secret Vale. Dyoren’s fate is not ours to decide.”
Surprisingly, Mynar dyl agreed with her. “You speak wisely, Nyriele. To tell you the truth, I chose to let Dyoren go... He is my elder brother, the last of my kin. He chose the wrong path in the end, but who amongst us can guess at what burden he had to bear?”
Mynar dyl knew that Nyriele held Dyoren in the highest regard and knew how she always defended him fiercely since his degradation. He was choosing to support her. Eventually, Gal dyl seemed to accept their point of view.
“You are capable of showing mercy, Mynar dyl, and it gladdens my heart. May you be praised for what you accomplished today!
In truth, to become a Seeker is to be deprived of one’s life. I can understand what Dyoren must have felt. For a Protector of the Forest who wields the Spear of Aonyn knows it too...”
The last dyn Avrony paused for a moment. Mynar dyl almost recoiled at what he saw as an indulgent display of self-pity. But Nyriele put her delicate hand on her father’s arm.
“How is Curwë?” she
asked.
The young matriarch could not help showing her deep concern for the House of Essawylor’s master. It was common knowledge in Llafal that Curwë had become Nyriele’s closest friend. She would dedicate time to any of his initiatives. The two Elves could often be seen together, either participating in some artistic event or coordinating the work of various guilds and communities. In truth, the House of Essawylor had become another temple dedicated to the deities of creation and art, such was the energy its master put into pleasing the beautiful high priestess of Eïwele Llyi.
Mynar dyl had expected this question to come. He answered in a calm voice. His tone expressed a benevolent sympathy for Curwë.
“Curwë is shocked, for he suffered greatly at the hands of the Renegade. He was the victim of potent sorcery. Fortunately, he has survived the ordeal. I believe that he will one day recover from this distress. He asked me to organize his return to Mentollà. I hope that the bonds of friendship with his original community will help him through this difficult time. Curwë is a High Elf, different from us, stronger and less susceptible to the dangers of this world. Do not worry, Nyriele, he will recover. I know how close you are to him,” confided Mynar dyl in a mild tone.
His spies had reported the two Elves were occasional lovers. This news had hurt him very deeply. For one thing, such a relationship interfered with his own plans but also, and perhaps more importantly, it offended his core principles. Mynar dyl secretly believed the only seeds of Llyoriane were the Llewenti, rightful owners of the Islands and the only children of the deities. He considered all High Elves as evil and dangerous, cursed scions of the Gods, whose race was plagued by the lust for riches and power.
But Mynar dyl had been wise enough to hide his great disappointment. He knew that any matriarch of the Llewenti was free to choose whoever she wished to be her lover. It had been so since the dawn of time, since the reign of Llyoriane, the queen who had, among her many admirers, picked some of the deities of the Islands themselves.
Meanwhile, Gal dyl frowned. He felt hurt and irritated by Mynar dyl’s last words, which referred to his daughter’s relationship with Curwë. Gal dyl did not seem to share the same compassionate feelings for the bard from Essawylor.
“It is right that Curwë should go back to Mentollà; that is where he truly belongs. I believe he has more in common with the wild Irawenti than with us.”
It was not the first time that, as a father, he had expressed his dislike of some of his daughter’s friends. But not all of Gal dyl’s questions had yet been answered.
“Now, I wonder why Dyoren would risk his life to question Curwë. What valuable secret could the bard possess to justify such bold act?”
“This is a just remark, and I must admit that it also amazed me,” answered Mynar dyl.
He paused for a moment and frowned, as if still puzzling over the unresolved question of Dyoren’s motivations.
“Though I cannot be sure,” Mynar dyl eventually confided, with a secretive tone, “I believe Dyoren wanted to question Curwë about the testament of Rowë.”
“But why would he do that now? Why would Dyoren take such a desperate risk, after such a long time? The Nyn Ernaly campaign and the fight for the testament of Rowë goes back almost four years,” wondered Gal dyl.
“Perhaps the story of Curwë and Rowë’s testament only just reached Dyoren’s ears. The Renegade interpreted it in his own way. He probably thought that Aewöl had not been the only one who had read the forbidden contents of Rowë’s will. Perhaps he thought that Curwë had also absorbed precious information, potentially about the Swords of Nargrond Valley and where they were now.”
Gal dyl remained unbelieving. “This would make little sense. The testament of Rowë cannot be read, we now know this, the lord of the House of Dol Nargrond made sure that its contents could be known only once. Besides, I personally addressed the matter of Aewöl. I made him pay for his sacrilegious act.”
“This is true enough, and you acted well on that day, Protector of the Forest. But who knows what goes on inside a troubled mind? Dyoren has spent his entire life seeking the lost Swords of Nargrond Valley. It is his sole obsession. I believe he would stop at nothing to obtain information that could help him on his quest,” argued Mynar dyl.
Gal dyl seemed to consider this last point as a fair argument.
“Maybe you are right, Mynar dyl, that would go some way to explaining his actions. Dyoren was not in the hall of sails when the Daughter of the Islands enlightened us about the true nature of the testament of Rowë. But Curwë was, as was his sacrilegious companion Aewöl. I heard the two were close friends. Isn’t that true, Nyriele?”
Gal dyl turned to his daughter with a disapproving look. Nyriele’s blue eyes expressed a sudden malaise. With an effort, she forced herself to smile and, suddenly, her face was blessed with unreal beauty. The young matriarch looked like the finest creature ever conceived, an Elf blessed by Eïwele Llyi with overwhelming beauty. She stroked her golden hair with grace. The two warlords immediately fell under her spell. There was no way to resist her charm.
A knock at the door interrupted the scene. Nyriele rose, tall and slender. She crossed the arcades’ hallway to answer the door.
Nyriele wore a delicate beige gown which greatly enhanced her elegant silhouette. It felt natural for her to display her beauty for, among the priestesses of Eïwele Llyi, it was not considered vain. Mynar dyl looked at the soft curves of her body, his imagination set ablaze.
Mayile, one of the apprentices at Eïwele Llyi’s temple, was on duty that day. As she entered the matriarchs’ compound, her blue eyes expressed excitement.
“Matriarch Nyriele,” the maiden started, “the noble Tyar dyl has returned with the guards of the stronghold. He has confirmed the secure recovery of the Seeker’s treasures. Matriarch Lyrine awaits the Protector of the Forest and the warlord of Tios Halabron.
“The noble Tyar dyl stressed that she is waiting,” Mayile added with a touch more urgency.
Gal dyl immediately stood, suddenly tense. He was wearing fine robes in the mahogany and beige colours of his clan, which gave him a look of true nobility, like an authentic heir to the bloodline of Eïwal Vars. Yet, in that instant, his worried look betrayed a certain apprehension for the impending meeting with the most powerful of Llymar’s matriarchs.
Sorrow and pain had inflicted their worst upon the last surviving dyl of the clan Avrony, and despite his tall stature and powerful build, his gaze sometimes failed to conceal his anxiety. He hastily bid farewell to his daughter, like a warlord departing for a difficult campaign.
Meanwhile, Mynar dyl had gathered his possessions. In turn, he drew near and bowed before Nyriele. The shadows of the arcades masked his facial expression as he murmured in her ear.
“The time for you to bear children will soon come, Nyriele, you must know this.”
Their eyes met for what seemed like an eternity. There was a long silence as his burning gaze showed how much he desired to be the father of those future children. His blonde hair was as radiant as ever. In that moment, to Nyriele’s eyes, Mynar dyl was the very embodiment of carnal attraction, like a stag of the forest who had just defeated the last of his competitors. His body and mind were almost completely overcome with desire. Nyriele trembled.
Quickly regaining his composure, Mynar dyl turned to Gal dyl and nodded that he was ready to leave.
CHAPTER 2: Fendrya
2716, Season of Eïwele Llyi, 105th day, Nyn Llyvary, South of Mentollà
The green-tinted moonlight danced upon the surface of the bay’s waters. As its illuminating glow spread to the coastline, the contours of a wooden hut emerged from the night’s mist. Butterflies were swarming around it: an odd phenomenon, given the hour. It was still before dawn and they visited the isolated hut’s only inhabitant.
Inside, more chrysalis slowly began to brush the light clothes of an Irawenti lady who was lying on the ground. Fendrya dyn Feli was resting peacefully on an improvised bed sh
eet made of leaves and sand. Eventually, the butterflies reached her long dark hair, gently coaxing her away from her dreams. The young lady opened her eyes and got quickly to her feet, like an animal of the forest awoken by a strange noise.
Fendrya watched the night ballet of the chrysalis with haggard eyes. She slowly remembered she was being woken up early for a reason.
Once finished with her morning rituals, Fendrya stepped out of the hut. It stood on a beach, south of Mentollà, a wild coastal area along the bay of Gloren. She could feel the strong sea breeze in her hair and could hear the waves breaking. The waters bordering the woods of Sognen Tausy were hazardous, owing to strong currents. Fully exposed to the Austral Ocean's wrath, the dangers of this coast made it a notorious graveyard for sailors. Looking at the multitude of stars sparkling in the night sky, a happy realisation passed through her mind.
‘This will be a cloudless day. The very best time to explore the sea’s riches.’
The woods of Sognen Tausy had a changeable, oceanic climate, much like her homeland of Essawylor. It often rained, but sunny days were also very common. Summer was drawing near, and she knew that in the coming weeks temperatures in the region of Mentollà would soar.
Fendrya examined her surroundings. A few tents had been set up close to her hut, on the edges of the forest. Several small boats were beached on a reef in the creek. She was not travelling through this wild area alone; her armed escort was never far away. The Irawenti liked living according to ways that dated back to the early days, long before they dwelt in the Lost Islands or even in Essawylor. They were nomads who made their home on the sea’s shores. Adventurous and inquisitive about the outside world, the Irawenti were used to travelling vast territories and adapting to the changing natural resources available to them. The proximity of the sea meant that they were always protected; if the need arose, they could quickly load all their possessions into their canoes and escape at any moment.