by C A Oliver
“Queen Llyoriane willingly agreed to be possessed and bruised by the savage deity of tempests, to allow her people to come to this new promised world. She started her reign with an act of sacrifice. I would even say… by striking a bargain. It should be remembered, for it tells us of the integral values of the matriarchs.”
“I do not understand.”
“I think you do not want to understand, Curwë… The matriarchs all descend from Queen Llyoriane’s bloodline. Believe me, Curwë, they do not give their love without expecting something in return.”
This offense against the dignity of his beloved set Curwë’s imagination afire. “Then I will offer her the mightiest of gifts, you hear me, Fendrya, I will offer her the mightiest of gifts!”
Sweat was dripping from the bard’s forehead. Fendrya almost had to cry to make her point heard.
“Do not misundesrtand me, Curwë, that is not what I meant. The favours of matriarchs cannot be bought with gifts. That is not how they think at all.”
“And neither is this my way of making my feelings clear,” spat Curwë with pride. “I spent my youth reading the works of literature of my people, the Silver Elves. I know tales of undying love, stories of everlasting commitment. There are some Elves of my kindred who accomplished heroic deeds just for the sake of love. They changed the course of history.”
Fendrya was frightened by what she was hearing. Passion was overwhelming Curwë.
“I hope you are not serious. You are saying this to mock me, aren’t you?”
“Did you know that the mightiest of the Silver Elves descended to the Halls of the Dead to confront Gweïwal Agadeon?” recalled the bard. His eyes burnt like emeralds, as if he himself was ready to take the path down to the king of the Underworld’s domain.
Fendrya was now panicked, as she could perceive madness in his eyes.
“Stop it, Curwë! Stop it!” she cried. “Cil, Cim Cir! You are making me unconfortable with these children’s tales. Siw! Stop playing with me. You frighten me. When I looked at you just now, I saw you would indeed be bold enough to take that dark path. Would you really risk your life just to shine before the eyes of a maiden?”
“And what if I would?” said Curwë, defiant as ever.
CHAPTER 3: Gelros
2716, Season of Eïwele Llya, 46th day, Gwa Nyn, Llanoalin
“How much that venison?” the bearded Man asked.
His clothes were expensive looking but too large for him, and his eyes darted about with that sneaky gaze typical of the former barbarians whom King Norelin had recently allowed inside the realm of Gwarystan. His pointed beard clung to his torso, almost covering the scar on his neck.
“Eight copper coins, in lawful currency, cast with the effigy of the king,” the Elvin merchant responded after a pause, an indifferent look on his face.
Hard currency was required for any exchange between Elves or Men in the kingdom.
The Elvin Merchant was perched behind his stall on a wooden stool. He extended his long legs like a cat stretching its paws after a nap; with this movement came the muffled scraping of metal on metal. Under his broad, worn cloak, the Elf was armed to the teeth with swords and daggers.
He had positioned his cart in the far corner of the city square, away from the bustle of the market.
There were only a small number of goods for sale, among them pheasants he had probably hunted down himself. The birds he had caught were males, with brightly decorated tail feathers and prominent wattles. They had value as within the kingdom of Gwarystan, Elves never kept herd animals, and Men were not permitted to either. Hunting was the prerogative of nobles or prized fighters, and the only source of meat for the communities.
By the look of his bedraggled traveller’s clothes, it appeared that this Elf was more at home tracking and hunting along the woods of Gwa Nyn than trading in the cities of the king.
“I have five coins for your two birds small. What you say?” The bearded Man proposed, depositing the said sum on the table.
His coins came in a variety of sizes. Their actual value depended on the metal they were made of and their weight. At first sight, his money looked lawful given the reddish rune that was engraved on its side. The Ruby College had the monopoly of coin minting in Gwarystan.
Though he relied on lingua Llewenti to communicate, this customer’s linguistic prowess, like most Men in the kingdom, left a lot to be desired. His aggressive tone was that of a determined dealmaker. As the excitement of striking a bargain rose within his chest, sweat began to drip from the bearded man’s forehead.
“I am not interested,” replied the merchant with the same indifferent tone.
The Elf added to his elusive answer a few words in an Elvin tongue unknown to the Man with the beard. The language was coloured with innumerable vowels that intermingled with each other like the undergrowth of a dark forest. Only a few isolated consonants were recognized by their abrupt sound.
Seated in the shade of an oak tree, it was difficult to make out the Elf’s features. What the bearded Man did notice was the unusual paleness of his interlocutor. After standing before the stall for a few moments more, he realized that the merchant was hardly paying him any attention. The Elf’s gaze was fixed upon one of the second-floor windows of an imposing house that bordered the marketplace. The large edifice was something of a focal point in the city. It dominated the sole wharf of the small port where, along with several fishing boats, a swanship was docked.
The bearded Man, as short and fat and as the Elf was tall and thin, interpreted this inattention as an insult to his honour. Sweating more profusely than ever, he stood up as tall as he could. He would not tolerate another insult to his dignity. The Man made an aggressive gesture with his hands to remind the merchant of his duties towards his customers.
This move offended the Elf.
Suddenly, he stood up from his seat and stared at the bold customer.
“Never do that again!” the Elf whispered as their eyes met.
The bearded Man stood frozen. He could not help but wonder how so much violence and pride could be found in just one set of eyes. He felt like he was confronting someone who had returned from the dead, someone whose soul had haunted the Three Dragons’ Lair before being sent back to walk the earth. But religion had never interested the short, fat Man. He decided to explore this matter no further and fled like a coward. He even left behind the five copper coins that, just a moment before, he had been ready to defend with his life.
Seeing his customer bolt like a frightened hare, the merchant muttered a few words in his mysterious Elvin language.
“E ow tumat sur ywlo.”
The Elf was momentarily distracted from the window he had, until then, been observing so carefully. When his gaze returned to the façade of the great building, he shivered.
‘Serog Agadeon! She has closed the curtains. Something is wrong…’
His heartbeat suddenly accelerated.
*
The merchant’s cart moved slowly up the street. It paused just before the gate to the imposing building the Elf had been watching. From this new elevated position, he could look out over the city’s market square and only dock.
‘The city is quiet. I am glad we chose this lost place,’ the Elf thought.
Llanoalin was a small port located at the mouth of the Sian Senky in the north-eastern parts of Gwa Nyn. Only fishing boats and flat-bottomed vessels could be found along its only wharf, for the harbour’s waters were not deep enough to host the great merchant ships of Gwarystan guilds. Elvin vessels and Westerners’ galleys had to unload their heavy cargo at Ystanoalin. The high towers of Lord Dol Oalin’s city could be seen on the other bank of the wide river, a few leagues to the west.
The merchant spun the cart around with difficulty. He then heaved it up the final few feet of the street’s slope, finally propping his cargo against the gate. The Elf then fell back against the cart, breathing heavily after the tremendous effort.
A sleeping sen
try, wrapped in fine chain mail and holding a long spear, was awoken by the din. The guard left his post in front of the locked compound gates to confront the newcomer.
“What’s your business here?” he asked, looking suspicious and annoyed. Two bronze Dragons upon an amber backdrop, the insignia of House Dol Oalin, were woven onto his red cloak.
“I come from Ystanalas,” panted the newcomer in reply. “I have a special delivery for the steward of the Port.”
The sentry looked puzzled and then frowned. Examining the unexpected visitor more closely, he noticed that the merchant’s face was incredibly pale, as white as his eyes were black. The guard felt uncomfortable, as he happened to be on duty alone at that late hour. He looked down towards the wharf. The other guards from his unit were supervising the unloading of a small merchant boat flying the flag of Urmilla. The swanship had come from Nyn Llorely with a shipment of fruits and plants. It was not expected and its arrival that afternoon had provoked a certain flurry in the usually quiet port.
At last, after realizing that his colleagues would be of no assistance, the guard looked back to the unexpected visitor who stood before him.
“Show me the seal of those who sent you,” he demanded in an authoritative tone.
“Of course,” the merchant answered simply, and he drew from the inside pocket of his cloak a scroll carrying the dark Pegasus of House Dol Talas.
The guard removed his helmet to get a better look at the densely written document. The scroll was poorly illuminated, due to a shadow cast by the merchant’s cart. The guard did not reach the end of the scroll’s title before the sharp blade of a dagger was stabbed upwards into his throat. The lethal weapon finished its course by piercing his brain. Without even a groan, the sentry fell like a disjointed puppet. His body made a dull thud as it hit the ground. A trickle of blood ran from his neck out onto the dusty slabs.
The Elf pulled the sentinel's body up into the back of his cart. This morbid task required an intense and sustained effort, given the weight of the heavily armoured sentry. But the Elf’s actions remained unnoticed, as the position of his two-wheeled vehicle hid the scene from any witnesses down the street. The Elf then seized the keys to the house’s gate from his victim’s belt. An instant later, he entered the compound, pulling his cart inside the courtyard. The steward’s property was vast, with many different alleys and groves as befitted the mansion of a Hawenti dignitary.
Wherever they dwelled, the High Elves had come to dominate all others thanks to their abilities as craft masters and merchants. They exceled in pure industry and craftsmanship, but they also commanded commerce, a different force that was perhaps more powerful still. Their prosperity and influence in the Islands was mainly due to their ability at organizing trade.
Now hidden from public view, the Elf hurried to park his vehicle at the back of the house’s garden. He seemed to know the layout of the place already, for he quickly found his way to one of the house’s entrances.
The Elf closely studied the runes that were inscribed on the backdoor, but after a time he decided to ignore them.
“These glyphs have been dispelled,” he murmured with relief.
The Elf immediately set about picking the lock. It proved easier than he expected; after a few moments, a low click signalled that the first stage was complete.
Llanoalin was a small city in Gwarystan Kingdom, known to be a tranquil place. For decades, King Norelin’s peace had prevailed in this small port, and its inhabitants had forgotten the threats of the past. Even Llanoalin’s most influential inhabitants were no longer being vigilant.
The door bent under the pressure of the Elf’s weight before it sprung open, letting a stream of light inside. He stepped over the threshold while drawing another long dagger from his large green cloak. After crossing the parlour in silence, the intruder climbed the stairs which led to the first floor. He knew he was aiming for the building’s second floor, but opposite the next flight of stairs was an open door leading to a vast room, illuminated by the light of the setting sun.
The Elf froze when he heard voices coming from the room, hesitating as to whether he could dart up to the second floor without being seen. As he listened to the voices, he realized it was two scribes enumerating the transactions of the day. One was reading out the trade receipts that had been submitted while the other confirmed that the goods had been stored and accounted for. From their monotone voices, it sounded like this boring task had been going on for some time.
A merchant company bought raw materials and goods at their point of origin, transported them to the markets where they would fetch the best price, and then sold them through its trading posts. The regulations controlling such trade were set out by the king’s council, and royal guards were responsible for severely punishing those who would dare break trading laws. Hence the efforts the two scribes were investing in completing their task accurately.
The Elf was still hesitating, his gaze darting from the open office before him to the staircase up to the second floor. After a deep, controlled breath, he decided to sacrifice a few moments to poison the tips of his two daggers. The intruder drew from his cloak a phial containing a viscous ointment, the colour of black berries. He allowed a few drops of the concoction to fall onto the blades, being careful not to spill it on his leather gloves.
This done, the Elf listened again to the bored voices of the two scribes as he grasped his long daggers.
He rushed into the room. His movements were rapid. After a brief skirmish, the thuds of two bodies were heard in quick succession.
Now with far less caution, the intruder exited the scribes’ office and hastened up the stairs, daggers still in hand. The room corresponding to the window he had been watching was in the central part of the great house. After reaching the second-floor landing, he stalked silently along a corridor and up to a great closed door, which he knew marked the entrance to the steward of Llanoalin’s private quarters.
Once he reached the end of the corridor, however, he found that the door to this room was protected by a locking mechanism, made from thick wooden frames and wrought iron grids. The lock was a complex system that, upon closer inspection, he knew would be beyond his skills to break. Suddenly feeling helpless, he remained immobile, like prey caught in a trap.
The Elf resolved to strain his ears and listen carefully to the conversation beyond the fortified door. Its panels were so thick that he could barely hear. Then, all of a sudden, the voice of an arrogant High Elf sounded out.
“Is that a threat, my lady?”
“It is a fact,” a feminine Elvin voice responded almost as loudly, as though she wanted to be heard.
“You want me to believe that, all these years I have been collaborating with the clan Myortilys, I have in fact been serving the interest of the dark Elves, my own king’s worst enemies?”
“Listen to me, my dear steward! The stakes are now extremely high for you. You have already paved your way to the top of Gwarystan Rock.”
“There is a problem with all this. Why ever should I believe you are an envoy of the matriarchs of Mentodarcyl? What I see in front of me is an elegant Elvin lady of the Gwarystan court. I am sure you are no stranger to plotting and scheming; indeed, I do not doubt you consider them a particular talent. You have lived as a courtesan in the web of political deceit that enmeshes Norelin’s capital. But I cannot imagine you mingling in the affairs of assassins. You are a lowly schemer, my lady, no more. You are simply attempting to blackmail me to get out of trouble.
Allow me to give you some advice. When you lie, at least try to keep your stories within the realms of conceivability.”
“I advise you to reconsider your position. If you do me any harm whatsoever, you will face the retaliation of clan Myortilys. You have already gone too far. You have accepted our bribes. We have proof of your corruption. Did you think that the steward of a royal port could take cuts from smuggling and illegal trade without leaving any trace of his guilt?”
; “You sound convincing enough, my lady. You are very good at your trade. Someone else would probably have been impressed, perhaps even frightened by the threat I see in your beautiful dark eyes.
But I do not fear the murderous power of your gaze… I am still the steward of this port.”
“But for how long? Think carefully now. I am giving you one last chance to save your life. All you need to do is affix your seal onto this scroll and take this charming little box full of precious amethysts. Is that so difficult?”
“It is, my lady. If I let your mysterious companions disembark from that swanship without understanding the nature of the rune which protects them, I would be committing a felony. Believe me; Lord Dol Oalin takes perjuries very seriously.
So, let me ask you one last time. Who are these three strangers you added to the list of passengers without my consent?”
The lady remained silent.