The Valley of Nargrond

by C A Oliver

  “The Irawenti were nomads, who used to roam the plains of the Mainland, until the chaos of the early First Age forced them to flee…” started Roquendagor.

  “Forced us to flee?” she asked, failing to properly convey her sense of outrage at the statement. “You mean that my forefathers fought their way bravely up to the high valleys of the Ivory region, away from the turmoil of the Mainland.”

  Roquendagor faltered, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “Indeed, that is what I meant…” he corrected before continuing. “Then, for more than two millennia, the Irawenti lived peacefully in their haven. They extended their realm into remote vales, under the protection of their high mountains’ peaks. They became ever closer to the Llewenti, who had settled in Essawylor, and the two races developed trade and alliances. The culture and craft of your forefathers benefited greatly from these contacts.”

  “The Llewenti also benefited a lot from the knowledge of the Irawenti,” Fendrya could not help but add.

  “Indeed, they did,” agreed the complacent knight. “This very long period of prosperity ended when a large horde of Men attacked Essawylor’s western borders, marking the beginning of a long war, called the ‘Wrath of the Trees’.”

  “We were sworn allies of the Llewenti clans and we honoured our pledge,” reminded Fendrya, her tone insistent.

  Roquendagor nodded in agreement. “I know your ancestors did, and they fought the horde of Men ruthlessly. However, after countless battles, they finally withdrew behind the protection of their mountains. The Irawenti realized that their Llewenti allies had become obsessed with the legend of the Fallen Star, and that their clans were organizing expeditions across the Austral Ocean to find the last refuge of the Elves.”

  “The Llewenti decided to abandon Essawylor. Why would the Irawenti keep fighting for a realm that was not theirs?” asked Fendrya.

  “Forgive me, I am not implying that it was wrong or dishonest. I simply learnt at the Diamond College that, for over four centuries, the Irawenti stayed in the refuge behind the high-mountain passes, until they finally resolved to hunt down the Desert Horde from the woods of Five Rivers.

  At last, the Irawenti clans marched on Essawylor and routed the human invaders, driving them off into the confines of the desert.”

  Fendrya looked surprised that Roquendagor’s account of her forefathers’ long history had ended so abruptly. Her next question was almost vindictive.

  “How can you not mention King Iraw, the great hero who led my people to victory and reconquered Essawylor?”

  “Iraw? That name rings a bell… but I must admit I cannot recall his feats. I suppose praising the only king the Irawenti crowned was not the Diamond College’s priority. It was mostly Hawenti scholars who attended those history classes, and few were interested in the legends of your people,” admitted Roquendagor, somewhat tactlessly.

  Fendrya felt offended. “Cil, Cim, Cir! This is precisely why your account also omitted Azuw, the first guide of my nation, the wisest of rulers. Azuw participated in the council of the Elder Kings. He decided not to accept the gift of immortality offered by the Gods. Thus, the Irawenti came to be counted among the seven Elvin tribes who chose to remain free, unlike the so-called High Elves.”

  Immortality, that cursed gift of the Gods, irremediably segregated the High Elves from the other Wenti. Fendrya had mentioned it because she was angry and, on some level, wanted to punish him. Roquendagor felt disappointed and a shadow passed over his expression.

  Fendrya realized she had gone too far. The priestess pushed ahead with her lesson with passion, to distract Roquendagor from the sudden anguish which had seized him.

  “Siw! King Iraw was a distant heir of our first guide, Azuw. Iraw had been captured and tortured by the Men of the Desert Horde after a skirmish at our border. Divine intervention freed him of his bonds. Gweïwal Uleydon manifested himself to him. The Lord of all Waters blessed Iraw with his protection. He returned to the Ivory Mountains wearing the insignia of his new charge as messenger of Gweïwal Uleydon. The hero was then crowned king of all the clans. Possessed by his new faith, he convinced his people to worship the God of Seas and to free the shores of the Austral Ocean from the presence of the repugnant Men of the desert.

  The Irawenti pledged their souls to the service of Gweïwal Uleydon, in exchange for victory in the war against the horde. This is how our clans finally prevailed.

  After the conflict, my people settled in the tropical forests of Essawylor.

  Siw! At that time, our borders encompassed considerable lands, from the shores of the Austral Ocean to the peaks and vales of the Ivory Mountains. King Iraw recognized twenty-nine children from relationships with his many lovers. These numerous heirs formed the nobility of the Irawenti, those we call dyn. After the death of King Iraw, my people divided their realm among those twenty-nine clans.”

  Roquendagor was enthralled by this tale.

  “I would like to learn more about these legends. Is there any book that tells your ancient hero’s story?” he asked.

  “There are three collections of poetry: Newy, the Stream, Rywë, the River and Rya, the Sea.”

  “Ah yes,” Roquendagor recalled, “I know the names of those ancient works. Queen Aranaele prohibited the distribution of the manuscripts.”

  “No wonder,” replied Fendrya. “The queen of Essawylor felt that the message within those works was a direct threat to her authority over the twenty-nine clans, her vassals.”

  “Did you have access to these forbidden texts?” asked Roquendagor.

  “Of course, I did. My noble bloodline can be traced back to King Iraw. I belong to the clan of Feli,” proudly declared Fendrya, her rebellious eye burning with the flame of freedom. “Newy, Rywë and Rya are the central religious texts of the Irawenti; we believe them to be the word of Gweïwal Uleydon. It is regarded as the finest work in our literary canon. The three poems are structured into verses, which we call suwi, and each suwi is made up of a certain number of lines, which we call awi. The fact that we have the Newy, Rywë and Rya manuscripts in our possession is the most important of Iraw’s miracles: they are proof of his legitimacy. According to the traditional narrative, several scholars, companions of our king, served as scribes. They were responsible for writing down his revelations.”

  “From what you are telling me, I can now understand why the masters of the Diamond College chose not to cover King Iraw’s feats in their classes,” said Roquendagor.

  Fendrya felt encouraged by the knight’s understanding tone.

  “I read the first pages of Newy in my early youth,” she confided. “I can still perfectly remember the moment I opened the book. I was in my parents’ tent, near Essaweryl Bay, barely a few hundred yards from the beach where King Iraw had recited his revelations. Before that, my cousin Arwela had entrusted me with a secret I will never forget.

  ‘First read Newy, second read Rywë, and only then can you start studying Rya, the greatest poem of all time. You will need to read it several times before you can truly measure the magnificence of that work…’ Arwela spoke with such reverence, like a truly devoted scholar. It felt like I was about to unveil the secret of creation.

  One cannot enter the world of Gweïwal Uleydon without immersing oneself totally. It takes a certain amount of time to become familiar with all the concepts and allegories. The narrative frame enables you to enter this legendary world, but only after a demanding and sustained effort.

  The three poems of Iraw need to be reread rather than read. Anyone who wants to properly understand them must first be ready to study his poetry repeatedly.

  I personally discovered the depth of Iraw’s spirit only after long walks along the edge the world. I would pour over the manuscripts as I followed in the footsteps of my king along the paths of Essaweryl Bay. His wisdom was in every page of those ancient writings.”

  Roquendagor looked at the beautiful priestess with admiration. The way she spoke betrayed the intense passion that inspired her. He let
her continue her stories and explanations about the customs and beliefs of her nation, as though time had no influence.

  Eventually, however, his troops tired of splashing about in the shallow waves and began to show signs of impatience; a long journey was still ahead of them. This unit was heading towards the mountains of the Arob Tiude, where the sentries needed to be relieved. The community of Mentollà kept a permanent watch over the barbarian tribes who lived west of Nyn Llyvary, and sentinels were positioned above each path to control routes from the valleys of Men. Roquendagor reluctantly realized it was time to conclude this highly enjoyable exchange.

  “My dear Fendrya, it was a pleasure meeting you again. It is important to make the most of these rare, pleasant moments after the dark days which followed the battle of Mentollà. Our community endured cruel trials…

  I must now be on my way. A long journey awaits my unit. We will travel the paths of the Arob Tiude for several days. There are six mountain passes to cross, forty leagues to walk and a total of twenty thousand feet of hill to climb.”

  “Cil, Cim, Cir!” she exclaimed, feeling pity for Roquendagor. “Reaching those heights must be tiring… not to mention dangerous.”

  “Not if you are well trained and mentally prepared, like we all are,” replied Roquendagor with dignity. “We have a duty towards our community. It is vital that we watch over the western passes if we want to ensure Mentollà’s safety. In fact, walking along the tracks of the Arob Tiude is now a passion of mine. There is no better challenge. The rough terrain of the mountains builds character as well as the body, preparing you for whatever life may throw at you in the future.

  This time, I must be back in Mentollà before summer arrives. We are awaiting the return of Nelwiri. As soon as your cousin comes back from Nyn Llorely aboard the Alqualinquë, we will set sail for Gwa Nyn. I do not anticipate seeing you again before we return from the main island.”

  Fendrya looked sad. “So, I heard. Feïwal dyn has decided to explore Gwa Nyn. I wish you a safe journey… and I have prepared you a gift. It is a potion, like those I have already given you. It will fortify your heart during the trials you will face.”

  Roquendagor took the little flask and murmured a few words of thanks to Fendrya before bidding her farewell. He was soon on his way, ordering his troops at the top of his lungs to form ranks. The commander of Mentollà was thus ensuring their cohesion. He made sure the fighters he was responsible for were always ready to snap into an organized formation. Now running in a single file, the unit disappeared rapidly into the shadows of the woodlands.

  Fendrya remained on the beach, listening as the light echoes of their footsteps faded into the distance. In that moment, she was overwhelmed with a sense of fulfilment. The young lady liked her new, constantly active life on the Islands. She shared her time between Mentollà and the cities of Llafal and Penlla, where she had taken on responsibilities at the temples of Eïwele Llyi. Her current existence was full of surprise, and perhaps this friendly relationship with the former lord of House Dol Lewin was the most bewildering aspect of it all. Moral standards were liberal among the Irawenti, and both males and females were free to choose their partners according to their feelings. The duration of these relationships varied, but there were certainly plenty of examples of love lasting centuries.

  However, though occasional flirtations between Irawenti and High Elves were common enough, lasting relationships were unheard of. Without really grasping the significance of her repeated expressions of interest in Roquendagor, Fendrya was unconsciously setting out into unchartered territory. She was applying the principles of Eïwele Llyi’s teachings to new horizons. Feeling rather thrilled by what the future might hold, she decided to go swimming.

  She stopped when she saw her guards in a tight huddle on the shoreline. Fendrya moved closer to find out what had drawn their attention.

  The carcass of a drowned bird had been washed ashore. An arrow had pierced its heart. Though the wood of the missile was decaying, the distinctive colour of its fletching was still visible.

  Fendrya immediately recognized the dead bird as a ‘white goose’, a unique species of waterfowl most often found in Essaweryl Bay, beyond the Austral Ocean. She knew many different types of waterfowls: general grey geese, black geese and more distantly related members of the species, such as the many kinds of ducks. But the white goose was remarkable; it was as big as a large swan, though it could not fly. Back in Essawylor, this rare bird was considered blessed by the divine light, and indeed the only place she had ever seen one was in the temple of Cim, in Queen Aranaele’s courtyard.

  White geese were said to possess a direct bond with Cim, the star of the deep sea, which shone from the depths of Essaweryl Bay. The sacred birds of the temple of Cim were famous for doing their part in the fight for the safety of Essawylor. On several occasions, the white geese had alerted Queen Aranaele of approaching enemy ships in the bay by squawking and flapping their wings.

  Fendrya had to fight her way through her assembled guards as she waded through the shallow waves. She reached the dead bird with difficulty; her companions were staring at the body in utter confusion, too stunned to step aside and form a path for her. Their attention was focused on the arrow. Their solemn murmurs invariably alluded to the Men of the Desert Horde.

  Fendrya held the dead white goose in her hands. A sacred bird of the temple of Cim had been killed by a barbarian arrow. How could this have happened? How could the Austral Ocean have carried the corpse to this beach of northern Nyn Llyvary, more than two thousand leagues away from Essawylor?

  Fendrya needed to find answers. With an unusual commanding tone, she dismissed her guards and took refuge in her small wooden hut. She immediately began to study the dead bird. She took some surgical scissors and sliced its flesh down to the bone; in this way, she could understand the basic pattern of its physical structure without undertaking a full dissection.

  “There can be no doubt,” she concluded aloud after some effort. “This bird is a sacred goose from the temple of Cim. It was killed by an arrow of the Desert Horde. The ocean has brought it to our shores. I must go immediately to Arwela. She’ll know how to interpret this phenomenon.”

  *

  Nyn Llyvary, Mentollà, one day later

  Feïwal dyn Filweni was standing out in the open, perched on the edge of Mentollà’s highest parapet. He was looking uneasily towards Gloren’s Bay as mist was gathering above its emerald waters.

  His long, dark hair was covering the left side of his face. The silvery feathers and natural vines that were woven into his dark locks were fluttering in the wind.

  The guide of the clan of Filweni remained silent as he looked out. He seemed unsettled, even upset.

  Arwela stood a few yards from him, but at a safer distance from the void. Her manners betrayed nothing but calm. She was oblivious to her brother’s state of mind; her attention was focused on the third participant of this meeting, her cousin Fendrya.

  “Cil, Cim, Cir! You already knew? Didn’t you?” Fendrya repeated, with an accusatory tone.

  She leaned against the keep’s wall, her eyes blazing with anger. Her long, dark-azure hair reflected the glow of the late afternoon sun. Her inquisitive gaze was fixed upon her cousin.

  Unexpectedly, Arwela provided the answer to her question. She had so far ignored the hostile, inquisitive attitude of her cousin.

  “This is not the first dead bird that has come ashore near our home,” Arwela acknowledged.

  A diadem of pearls adorned her head. The light robe she wore was of beautiful design. Its shimmering white and azure tones gave the seer of the clan of Filweni an exotic beauty, like that of some nymph from the tropical seas.

  “You owe me the truth,” insisted Fendrya. “Did I not follow you aboard the Alwïryan to cross the Austral Ocean? Have I not left my family and my clan behind to assist you in your endeavour? I remember your words, Feïwal dyn. ‘The quest for the Lost Islands is a journey that cannot offer any hope o
f return. It is a leap into the unknown. It is an act of faith.’ Well, I performed that act of faith, and I survived. I believe that I now deserve better.”

  There was open dissent in her words, bordering on rebellion. Feïwal felt the need to take immediate action. Irawenti hierarchy was strictly patriarchal and the guide of the clan was the undisputed leader. He only relied on the noble ‘dyn’ for counsel when he judged it appropriate. With a voice full of authority, Feïwal warned his cousin.

  “Siw! Watch your language, Fendrya, and show some respect! Remember where you stand!”

  The Irawenti did not build places of worship to serve their different cults. Instead, priests celebrated their faith in natural surroundings. The sentry’s walk at the top of Mentollà’s keep was one of these dedicated places.

  “Fendrya, there is purpose behind each of my actions,” Feïwal continued. “Every breath I take, every word I say, every decision I make serves a purpose. I have only one goal: the safety of my people.

  When I granted the Council of the Forest’s request to build the Great Swanship the Llewenti so desired, it served that purpose.

  When I authorized Nelwyri to sail the seas of the Islands to expand the trade routes of our guild, Alcalinquë, so that Curwë and Aewöl could accumulate riches, it served that purpose.

  When I asked you to join with the temple of Eïwele Llyi as a spy among the Llewenti, it also served that purpose.”

  Feïwal’s wavy hair was masking his left eye, but the determination in his gaze could be felt all the same. His clothes, so light they were almost floating, gave him a mystical aura. His manners betrayed nothing but authority.