by C A Oliver
“Indeed, I would,” Terela replied, quite soberly. “Realising that I had made a discovery of considerable importance, I set about sealing the entrance with care, and all my workers swore an oath of secrecy. The Secret Vault of Rowë is now secure, and everything is ready for our ceremony.”
The Arkylon concluded, “May the deities of the Islands bless your work, for the benefit of all seeds of Llyoriane!”
The Arkylon was thus expressing his will to proceed with the ceremony which was the original purpose of their gathering.
Terela opened the trap door. Camatael concentrated on the descent.
After going down a wrought iron spiral staircase, the group entered a vault with a stone-paved floor. Myryae and Camatael followed her in turn. The Arkys and their escort closed the march. They found, at the bottom of the subterranean complex, a splendid cave supported by six columns; along the architraves were the different hammers of Yslla smith guild, the emblems of the blacksmiths who forged the Swords of Nargrond Valley. The names of the legendary blades were sculpted in regular form into an altar of pure white marble, rich in ornaments.
Standing amazed in front of the carved representations, Camatael read their names with deep respect, almost with faith: Rymsing, the hope, to the West; opposite was Moramsing, the despair, to the East; then Lynsing, the wisdom, to the South; facing Orsing, the lust, to the North. The names of Aonya and Aksinya completed the list, written in two semi circles, like harmony balancing chaos.
The retinue of the Arkys came into the sanctuary with the solemnity of a royal procession entering a burial place.
As it still stood, the place was a large circular cave with a central crypt, surrounded by six radiating steps. A wonderful marble covering supported by columns stood over in its centre and covered the altar. The architect had marvellously decorated it with gold and gems. He had designed a magnificent mural with golden shields and apples, round and jewelled.
The Arkys and the envoys positioned themselves on the steps of the crypt. A pedestal was carried in procession to the central altar by the knights of the Secret Vale, who held it aloft on their heads.
The Arkylon raised his hands. As he did so, his long golden robes opened, and Camatael caught a glimpse of a cylindrical box attached to his belt. The young lord shivered as he recognized the Testament of Rowë.
The Arkylon opened the ceremony with a ritual prayer to the deity of Wisdom:
“Lon went down into the Mines of Oryusk. The Dark Elves captured him, strung him out upon a rock. On the sixth day, Lon was pierced with an arrow of fire. Lon returned to the light of Ö, leaving us his wisdom as his legacy.”
Terela chanted the following verses:
These are the words of the Lonyawelye.
These are the words written after his death.
It was then Myryae who concluded the prayer:
Elves shall learn from the wise priests of light, they shall learn from the Seers of the Sun. For this inheritance we give thanks to Lon, who sacrificed himself to bequeath it unto us. In death, he gained that sacred wisdom known only to the dead.
The Arkylon then ordered that an adamant pedestal be unveiled, at which point the herald of the Secret Vale’s knights sought entry into the crypt. The Arkylon ordered him to be admitted, and the herald spoke as he set up the artefact in front of his lord:
Almighty deities of the Islands, Protectors of the seeds of Llyoriane. Keep us faithful to our vows; never may we waver, nor be cast down.
The Arkylon stood and beckoned the assembled Elves to form a circle around him at the altar. He urged the ceremony’s participants to proclaim their vows and demonstrate the ties that bind them to the seeds of Llyoriane’s fate.
On the eastern side, towards the rising sun, stood the Arkyllyi. On the south side was the Arkyllya and on the west, the Arkyllyo. On the north side the Arkyvars held the standard of Llyoriane in his hands. The envoys of Llymar and Cumberae positioned themselves in between the Arkys to complete the circle, the symbol of Ö.
“Arise, worthy Elves, the Secret Vale has long witnessed the burden of your trials, and we are ready to grant your request in this instant.”
Myryae and Terela then advanced towards the pedestal and were addressed by the Arkylon.
“Noble envoys of Llymar and Cumberae, you have presented yourselves to be named ‘Followers of the Secret Vale’. The Arkys have deigned to confer that honour upon you. You shall dwell together in unity, for the good of the seeds of Llyoriane.”
Then, the story of Eïwal Lon was recounted. They heard how his wisdom was passed to the Elves of the Islands. Myryae and Terela moved inside the crypt and stood to form the two remaining sides of a triangle. Two knights of the Secret Vale approached with rods made of gold. Both were adorned with the eight gemstones of the Greater Gods, positioned according to the divine hierarchy: Sapphire, Amethyst, Aquamarine, Ruby, Diamond, Moonstone, Emerald and Pearl.
The knights were carrying unsheathed, two-handed swords on their backs. They sank to one knee and held the rods horizontally above their heads.
Myryae and Terela then advanced slowly, each taking a golden rod in their right hand. Following a ritual, they must have been taught in advance, they raised the rods slowly and simultaneously above their heads, before quickly bringing them down in a sweeping blow towards the pedestal. The rods did not break when they struck the adamant. Instead, their gold seemed to stick to the pedestal. The shock was so violent that the two envoys had to drop to one knee.
The earth seemed to quake, and the shrine trembled at its base. But the ceremony continued as the force of the Islands’ Flow was transferred to the pedestal. The Arkylon placed his hands upon the golden rods and declared.
Behold, Llymar and Cumberae dwell together in unity. The luminous ointment is upon their heads and on their garments.
We give you the Sceptre of Lon, symbol of your right to reside within the divine light.
May these rods consecrate your homage to the Secret Vale and be sceptres of righteousness!
May they rise out of our forests and smite the enemies of Llyoriane’s seeds!
Myryae and Terela replied in unison.
A star issued forth from heaven
It has split the mountain asunder
We shall know the way by its light
For a light has come to the Elves
That light is the Seeker of Wisdom
And he shall raise up his sceptre
And destroy the sons of our enemies!
The Arkylon then addressed the Arkyvars.
“Herald of Vars, may you return to the Islands! You have permission to wage war. You have permission to destroy the enemies of Elves.
Now it is time for you to appoint the Defender of Llyoriane’s seeds, the chief who will command the armies of Llymar and Cumberae, who will obey the Arkys’ commands.”
“I have chosen the Defender for his valour and his noble birth,” began the Arkyvars. “I appoint the heir of the House of the White Unicorn for he willingly pledged to lead the ships of Llymar against the barbarians. He deserves our trust and support.”
He was looking directly at Camatael.
The young lord was seized with shock. Nevertheless, as if bewitched by the honour bestowed upon him, he approached and knelt, as a token of his acceptance.
“I hereby declare you Defender of Llyoriane’s seeds,” the Arkyvars pronounced solemnly. “Rise, Camatael of House Dol Lewin. I now arm you with this sacred sword; it shall mark you out among the lords and ladies of the Elves. This is Rymsing, the bringer of hope, the same blade that Rowë forged with the blacksmiths of Nargrond Valley. The legendary glaive of the Dyoreni will now be by your side.
Take it, and let it remain in its scabbard until it is drawn to fight for justice. This sword is yours, until that day comes when the army of Llymar have brought freedom to the Elves of Cumberae and delivered them from oppression.”
The Arkylon insisted, “You must lead the fleet of Llymar to Nyn Llyandy before the
season of Eïwele Llyo comes. What is your purpose?”
Camatael replied with that rare kind of fieriness that reveals so much of a noble Elf’s soul.
“To rescue Cumberae. And I will achieve that purpose. For none in these Islands could serve the seeds of Llyoriane with truer heart than the White Unicorn. I will see that the House of Dol Lewin restore its fame.”
The words of the young lord, last of his lineage, somewhat faltered towards the end of his reply. There was something pleading in his words. They touched the Arkylon, who lowered his voice before continuing.
“Then go to it, for it is also the Secret Vale’s will. Who are your protectors?”
“My Protector is Lon the Wise. But my prayers also go to the deities of the Islands, to Vars the fighter and the hunter, to Llyi the beauty of Spring, to Llya the profusion of Summer and to Llyo the veil of Winter.”
Then the Arkylon, in accordance with the ritual of his Order, knelt and laid the rune in his hand upon Camatael’s chest as a sign of blessing. He made oath that the Secret Vale’s power would follow him until his task was fulfilled. The other Arkys followed in turn, each pledging their oath.
A moment later, a great noise erupted within the Vault of Rowë, as all the knights of the Secret Vale cheered. The entire retinue of proud fighters had been quietly waiting to see this rare ceremony completed, packed inside the small underground hall.
Camatael could feel their support, and it was having a profound affect upon him. He knew in that moment that his honour and esteem had never been higher. The lord of the House of Dol Lewin experienced the thrill of true power flowing through his veins. He felt a great strength, which would allow him to perform his new role with the utmost dedication and passion and lift the hopes and spirits of those Elves who would follow him. He had known for some years that safeguarding the Lost Islands was his one true calling. He now felt confident he would play his part.
CHAPTER 5: Alton
2716, Season of Eïwele Llya, 66th day, Nargrond Valley, temple of O Vaha, before dawn
All the lanterns throughout the temple were extinguished in unison. Once the unseen power had exerted its influence, all became dark and still. The units of Cumberae and Llymar then crept stealthily along the temple’s alleys and out through a gap in the western wall. They would disappear into the surrounding woods before daylight to avoid being seen.
It was already warm; the air was thick with the fumes from Mount Oryusk. A noxious stench pervaded the air.
A long column of a hundred Elves were heading north-west into the woods. Scouts were leading the way, with archers close on their heels. The envoys and ambassadors remained safely in the middle, each protected by their guards. The knights of the Two-Winged Lions closed the march, four of them carrying Alton Dol Nos-Loscin’s empty sedan chair on their shoulders. Progress was difficult through the wild vegetation of these isolated parts, but all were anxious to travel swiftly. They had received their summons; the Pact Gathering would take place tomorrow.
They wished to get as far away as possible from the king’s forces while it was still dark. The units of Cumberae and Llymar knew a royal embassy had been established nearby, in the ruins of Ystanargrond, and they did not want royal troops on their trail. It seemed, at least, they had so far kept their presence in the valley unnoticed. But Myryae’s warning had been firm.
“Every black bird and every vulture you see circling above could be a druid spy. Have no illusions: The priests of Eïwele Llya will be watching all those heading to the Pact Gathering very closely.”
“There are other ways information can be obtained,” Alton had also insisted. “Everything around us is a threat.”
The column marched without stopping for an hour. They had only limited supplies so were progressing efficiently, keeping for the most part to the cover of the trees. Whenever they were forced to cross open meadows, the column would stretch outwards and break into a run, like a herd of deer fleeing predators.
A new wind swept away all last traces of the ash clouds, which retreated west towards the volcano.
Before long, Alton was already showing signs of fatigue. His pace was slow and laboured. The young Dol, at over seven foot, was even taller than most High Elves. He had pale skin and dark hair, and his eyes differed in colour: the right was blue while the left was green. His long, pointed ears were a hallmark of his profile.
Alton wore brightly coloured, elaborately trimmed robes of fine silk. These majestic clothes were making his progress difficult. For reasons unknown, the elegant Elf had opted for stylish, ceremonial garments over more practical traveller’s clothes. Only his long ivory staff, beautifully carved at the top into two winged lions, seemed to be of any assistance.
Since leaving the ancient shrine’s ruins, Alton had walked alongside the warlord of Tios Halabron, an Elf he had only just met, but whom he had heard much about. Alton was explaining the final leg of their journey to Mynar dyl in some detail. The young Dol knew the Nargrond Valley well from previous expeditions. Wishing to make his point clear, he stopped and started drawing lines in the soil with his staff.
“The upper valley of the Sian Senky is made up of deep gorges, where cliffs and steep banks border the fast-flowing water. Dams built by the High Elves at the time of Rowë Dol Nargrond constrict its flow at several intervals, forming wide lakes. Below the flanks of Mount Oryusk, the valley then widens to contain, on either side of the river, fertile meadows and orchards. Further east, but before the walls of Ystanargrond, lies a wood. It is called the grove of Llya. This is where the Pact Gathering will take place,” he explained.
As he spoke, Alton winced and shifted his weight, distracted by a pain in his foot. By the time he had finished his explanation, he was sitting on the ground.
Since their departure earlier that night, his condition had steadily worsened. Alton was continually drinking plant decoctions and bitter potions, but these elixirs did not seem to be easing his pain. He saluted Mynar dyl and declared that he needed to withdraw into his sedan chair. The merchant Aertelyr shot him a knowing glance before helping him to his feet.
Alton and Aertelyr stood for a moment as the march flowed past them. They soon saw the two envoys of Cumberae and Llymar approaching. The princess and the matriarch were engaged in a lively conversation.
Seeing that Alton was hanging back, Terela cut short her heartfelt plea before she reached him. Whatever they were debating, she did not share the same views as the matriarch. She seized this opportunity as a reason to change subject.
“My cousin, you seem to be limping again,” she noted.
“I am indeed. The pain comes on so suddenly. I’m suffering with a nasty type of inflammation where the pain keeps hitting in waves. I think the blood is clotting in my tendons; it feels like a demon is eating my foot. I’m afraid it’s quite serious, and soon I will no longer be able to walk,” the impaired Elf confided, whilst wiping the sweat from his dripping brow.
“Is there anything I can do to relieve this suffering?”
“Oh, no! One might as well try to raise waves in a windless sea. Nobody should touch my injury. It would be too painful.”
“This is sad news and I am sorry to hear it. Let Master Aertelyr escort you back to your sedan chair. Our sincere wishes for your speedy recovery go with you, cousin Alton. The Pact Gathering is tomorrow and we need you in a state of good health,” Terela reminded him, before adding with a mysterious tone, “Perhaps you can put your period of recovery to good use. We are in dire need of your advice.”
“I know what it is you expect. I will not disappoint you,” Alton promised.
The princess and the matriarch moved on, closely followed by their guards. Alton and Aertelyr stood to one side of the march. Elvin fighters of the two groups went past them, setting off down the slope with as much haste as the steep terrain allowed. Their long cloaks were billowing in the wind, revealing the long swords and daggers hanging at their belts. Short bows were in their hands and quivers full of arro
ws were at their backs. In the darkness, members of the two clans could only be differentiated by their armour: for the clan Llyvary fighters, thin chain mail and oval shields emblazoned with the white swan; for the Ice Elves of Cumberae, heavier scale armour and plumed helmets.
Aertelyr beckoned with a quick, subtle flick of his hand. Alton guessed that the navigator wanted to speak to him in private, so he muttered a few strange, indecipherable words, and a sharp hissing sound emanated from his lips.
Instantly, the two Elves were cut off from the noises of the outside world, as if both had suddenly become deaf. But they could listen and speak to one another, confident in the knowledge they would not be overheard.
“What is it you want to tell me?” Alton asked. His tone, so often indifferent and aloof, now expressed undisguised concern.
Aertelyr’s answer was direct. “It happened last night.”
“You mean the ceremony has already taken place?”
“Yes. The Arkys met in secret with the envoys of Llymar and Cumberae. The celebration of vows was completed, and our principality is now vassal to a new liege. Terela has given up Cumberae to the Arkys.”