An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  The Alwïryan now traced its way through the Austral Ocean, heading south. Strong marine currents were drawing it irresistibly towards the infinite south. Never in recent history had a ship from the kingdom of Essawylor strayed so far from its shores.

  Almost three hundred Elves were aboard the Alwïryan. Artisans or sailors, all of them possessed that dual obsession for freedom and for exploration.

  The vessel was their only kingdom and ultimate refuge. They worshipped it as a deity and cherished it like a precious steed. Beautiful, elegant and powerful, the Alwïryan was one hundred and thirty-foot-long and twenty-foot-wide. Most of its power stemmed from its eighty oars, yet two masts supplemented the great ship’s speed and manoeuvrability. Its triangular sails could navigate the high seas, and, when faced with heavy storms and headwinds, its rowers could take to the deck. Its two collapsible masts reduced its air resistance during storms. From the top of the masts, the sailors could look out over the sea from a height of one hundred feet. They had built this marine animal with the exotic wood from the silver trees found on the shores of Essawylor. Its rigging weighed more than the royal forge, and its lanyards, laid end-to-end, stretched out for more than half a mile. Thanks to the hull’s shallow draught and the great height of its keel, this magnificent vessel could face the open sea sure of its ability to overcome most dangers.

  Feïwal had chosen the most direct and the most dangerous course towards the Fadalwy Atolls, those desolate islands at the heart of the Sea of Cyclones which had been named after his father. He was following the flight of migratory birds, retracing the path taken by his ancestors.

  The route through the East would have meant confronting the vastness of the Sunrise Ocean, the dwelling of Gweïwal Uleydon, God of the Seas. That crossing would have been much longer and there was always danger for a ship in unknown waters. The ancient texts prohibited navigation through the domain of the almighty sea god. None among the Blue Elves would dare to defy the word of their most revered divinity. The few sailors who had taken this route and returned had reported strange tales of enchanting mist and bewitching songs that intoxicated the mind and induced a lethal stupor.

  The western way would have meant a long, dangerous coasting along the rugged shore of the endless equatorial steppe of the Anroch Desert. In those inhospitable regions, there was no hope of replenishing food or water, and the threat of barbarian warships was omnipresent. No explorer had ever returned from those maritime kingdoms, a vast mosaic of human tribes equally disparate and warlike.

  But that night, Feïwal was beset with terrifying dreams, nightmares, and, despite the good news that his brother had delivered, Feïwal knew these dreams to be bad omens. His mood was dark, his gaze full of worry and concern. Checking the position of every single sailor in his crew, he crossed the deck in silence. He noticed that no one was talking, no one was singing. Only the northern breeze blowing into the sails could be heard that morning.

  “Today is the 290th day of 2542, by Essawylor’s reckoning, or year 2200 of the Second Age, as the High Elves would call it,” proclaimed Nelwiri decisively, with his usual good humour as he turned to a fresh page of the ship’s log.

  “It is the 98th day of our navigation. Let us hope there will be many more to come,” he added sardonically, to cheer his brother.

  “You should not mock the gods, son of Fadalwy! You should know better after all the deaths we’ve had to mourn!” harshly replied the captain of the ship.

  “Siw[8]! I would not dare have such a thought, but you will permit me, I hope, to enjoy this north-westerly breeze, which is gently pushing the Alwïryan towards our glorious future. Let me note down our position and speed. Do you see how powerful the ocean’s current is today? It’s certainly unusual; almost unnatural, I’d say.”

  Nelwiri stood on the elegant aftcastle of the ship, on a slightly elevated walkway, which allowed him to look over the lower deck and stand just beside his brother. He held the helm with a firm hand as they headed south. From time to time, he glanced at the wind rune, one of the clan’s most sacred relics, which was placed in front of him to help him stay on course. But his attention was mainly focused on monitoring the wind and the sails. Too swollen, they could tear, and even break the yards. If they deflated and beat against the mast, the ship would lose pace.

  Nelwiri had a connection with the Alwïryan, as if he were the only link between the hull and the rigging. This was a hard task, and one which he rarely abandoned. Only Gyenwë, another renowned marine pilot, replaced him for a few hours each night.

  Nelwiri was a true Filweni who, amid the boundless space of the ocean, lived fully, marvelling endlessly at the glorious days, the exquisite nights and spectacular sunsets. He was revered by all for his knowledge of the ocean and famous for his numerous heroic feats onboard. He inspired the rest of the crew with his bold deeds and unflinching bravery. Tall and thin for a Blue Elf, he was an incomparable ship master, despite his apparent playful recklessness.

  *

  Nelwiri noticed that the clan’s two other dyn were about to join them on the aftcastle.

  “Today, we will have our council earlier than usual; Luwir and Arwela are joining us. They look concerned too. I trust they could not get much rest and they are eager to discuss our options.”

  A beautiful, elegant Irawenti lady climbed the stairs first, dressed in light blue robes, her long dark hair flowing in the wind. Her name was Arwela dyn Filweni. She was the elder sister of Feïwal and Nelwiri, considered by many to be the wisest of her people, skilled in healing and in the reading of the stars. She was a rare and precious figure onboard, for few practitioners of her art ventured on the open seas. Love for her brothers and her commitment to the clan’s quest had driven her on this long and perilous voyage. She made use of her considerable learning, and her deep understanding of the sailors’ souls, to ward off bad fortune and to inspire hope.

  Luwir dyn Filweni followed her. A robust Elf with a severe expression, he was considered one of the ancients among the clan. The arms of Essawylor, on his silver helmet, were a reminder of his prestige as commander in the army of the kingdom. Luwir was the most experienced fighter but onboard he was known as the oars master. Rowing a ship with a multitude of oarlocks required a great deal of skill and coordination and his crew was composed of highly trained specialists. He knew how to inspire his rowers to work harder and longer without pushing them beyond their limits. That morning, however, his mood was dark. Concern was etched into his face.

  “May Gweïwal Uleydon protect us today and in all days to come,” Luwir began with the Irawenti ritual salutations as he moved to grasp each of his kin with affection.

  The Blue Elves called this warm-hearted form of greetings ‘Abriwa[9]’ and it illustrated the genuine cordial relationships among them.

  “I brought the inventory with me. We have important matters to discuss,” he declared.

  “Abriwa! Luwir, and good day to you too,” replied Nelwiri ironically, his look showing that he had already anticipated what the discussion would be about.

  Luwir ignored him and drew the book from his bag awkwardly. He always dressed for war no matter the circumstances, wearing a brass breastplate and an iron helm. The old Elf opened the book where lists of all the ship’s furniture, supplies and materials were kept.

  “I estimate that we have no more than thirty days of supplies and water left,” he stressed in a deep voice, pausing emphatically. “Today is probably our last opportunity to turn back and return to Essawylor.”

  Feïwal did not respond, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Arwela intervened.

  “It would be wise, Feïwal. The crew’s morale is very low. Our sailors are weary and exhausted, and I fear that they will soon start to despair. They have been at sea for almost a hundred days. Let us go back and restore hope among them,” she insisted.

  Still Feïwal did not respond.

  “Every day, when tending to the wounded, I am bombarded with desperate questions that I do not kno
w how to answer. I try to find words of hope. I struggle with all my strength against the pernicious influence of those cursed sea spirits which plague us. This trip is one long embrace with waves and hail. Small wonder that Irawenti ships have not ventured this far south before,” she continued.

  Seeing that Feïwal remained indifferent to their case, Luwir made a last attempt to convince his captain.

  “Returning home is not a defeat. It is honourable, Feïwal. Siw! We have learnt a great deal. We can come back next year with more experience and better preparation. We now have maps to cross the rocky isles in the Sea of Cyclones. We have lost many days trying to circumnavigate them. Our next attempt will be considerably easier. I say we go back; we can make it in less than sixty days.

  Cil Cim Cir[10]!!! We can return home if we start to ration out the crew today. This is our last chance, Feïwal.”

  To his astonishment, the ship’s captain replied in an unusually harsh tone.

  “It is not so. The dyn Filweni are no merchants. They do not succumb to sickness of the mind or fatigue of the body after a few days at sea. The dyn Filweni demonstrate incredible bravery and resolve. They can endure hardships and perils for months when they are onboard the Alwïryan.

  Do you know why?”

  None of them dared to answer; they all understood that the decision had already been made in Feïwal’s mind. They would sail until the end of the voyage.

  “We, dyn Filweni, have a greater purpose. We have a responsibility to others for we are the keepers of the book of Queen Llyoriane. We are the legatees of her message. Before it is too late, we must find the Lost Islands of the Llewenti, that last haven of the Elves. Only the greatness of our ideal can match our intransigence,” concluded the guide of the clan, his voice trembling with uncontained emotion.

  To the ears of Arwela and Luwir, this prophetic plea sounded like a condemnation. A long silence followed.

  “I suppose this long tirade closes the debate… and we now have the time to address other issues. There are a number of tasks that require our attention,” Nelwiri finally offered, to reduce the tension.

  Their attention, however, was suddenly caught by the deck’s trap door opening. From the bowels of the ship emerged a group of Hawenti[11], as they were called in the language of the Blue Elves.

  Fair to behold, this group of High Elves were heavily armoured with plates, shields and long swords. Pale skinned with fine and beautiful features, tall and proud in their bearings, they stood a whole head taller than the common Blue Elves. Despite their slim build, they looked as strong and robust as they appeared agile and quick.

  The oldest and greatest of all civilisations, the High Elves were extremely graceful and noble, for they were counted among the greatest and most powerful race in the whole world and their actions had shaped history wherever they dwelt. Considered immortal, they did not die of old age for time had no effect on them. Only violent death was offered to them to depart from life.

  A tall knight led them, his head shaven, his chainmail as dark as his eyes. Four of his guards followed him, with a cold and haughty air. Two of his companions, his bard and his councillor brought up the rear.

  Every day at dawn, the same ritual sparring matches would begin: a storm of blows, shouts and wounds to entertain the eyes of the sailors. It lasted the full morning. The knight would participate in this exercise to the point of exhaustion, combating four guards at the same time. The bard was playing the same fighting tune with his harp, repeatedly, obsessively, as though he was trying to exorcise a sick curse from the past. The duty of the High Elves aboard this ship was not to navigate, but to fight.

  The knight was of high lineage, a Dol[12] lord from Essawylor, heir to one of the most powerful houses of the Kingdom of the Five Rivers. Roquen Dol Lewin was his name: a great Elf, strong, robust and righteous, an imposing figure with a severe-looking face. It was difficult to determine his age, as he was young for the force that he could muster and yet his natural authority gave him the command of an elder.

  Around fifty High Elves formed the rest of his retinue, prepared to deal with any onslaught from a hostile ship. They were part of the inner circle of the House Dol Lewin’s followers, and all were formidable fighters who had survived countless battles defending the kingdom of Essawylor’s northern border. They now formed the Unicorn Guard, attached exclusively to the service of Roquen Dol Lewin. Although they were certainly not accomplished sailors, their fanatical devotion to their lord had driven them to set out upon this journey, beset as it was with all manner of dangers. A commander named Maetor led them.

  *

  Feïwal considered this group for a while, his gaze fixed on their lord. Memories came flooding back to him.

  “I do not like them,” declared his sister Arwela aggressively as she stepped forward. She was not accustomed to displaying her emotions in such a manner, but she had decided to seize this opportunity to challenge her brother’s authority and blame him for his stubbornness.

  “I know,” Feïwal replied coolly.

  “I do not like their arrogance,” she went on, “The bard Curwë acts like a flamboyant figure. He dresses in the finest silk even whilst onboard the ship, to mark his difference.”

  “Curwë is loyal. He is filled with passion for exploration. He will be a valuable friend. I asked him to record a reliable account of our journey. It will be a significant contribution to our quest,” defended her brother.

  “Siw! All of them behave contemptuously towards our kin. They shirk away from their fair share of the workload. They drink our water and eat our supplies. I cannot understand why we have troubled ourselves with them. They are a burden which will prove increasingly cumbersome,” added Luwir, who shared Arwela’s feelings towards the High Elves.

  “The House of Dol Lewin is a most honourable family and a formidable force in battle. They paid for the peace of Essawylor with their blood. They defended the northern border from the incursions of the desert hordes. They protected our clan over many centuries. We owe them our help,” Feïwal replied.

  “Yet, at the height of their splendour, there were rumours of conspiracy against the Queen Aranaele, whisperings that that they wanted to increase their growing power even further,” Arwela retorted.

  “Since when does my beloved sister pay attention to rumours from the royal court, from that serpents’ nest?” Feïwal asked, still defensive.

  “I do not. But how do you consider the young lord’s counsellor, that Aewöl? He is no common High Elf. He does not belong to the House of Dol Lewin. I was told that his servant is counted among the Night Elves, those who prefer the shadows to the shining light.”

  “I have known Aewöl for a long time. He always demonstrated support for our clan and for all our expeditions. He has studied the ancient writings of the Llewenti Queen Llyoriane and believes in the existence of the lost archipelago. It is Aewöl who convinced Roquen Dol Lewin and his retainers to join us. We can trust him. We will need his lore.”

  Arwela was unconvinced.

  “Trust them if you will. I do not like the thirst for revenge that I see in the eyes of Roquen Dol Lewin. I do not like the attitude I observe in the bard Curwë. I dislike the silence of the lunar Aewöl. They are, altogether, a threat to our endeavours,” she claimed.

  “Siw! Do not judge them so harshly and so quickly,” interrupted Feïwal with authority. “I was in the queen’s halls, Arwela, the day Roquen Dol Lewin burst in with pride, despite his despair. There, in front of the entirety of the assembled royal court, with profound anger in his voice, he told of the defeat of his army. He described with poignant veracity the burning of his city and the plight of his people. I still remember the strong emotion I felt when Roquen evoked the massacre of his family. The words fell hard, and together they formed a direct insult to the face of the lordly Dol and the noble dyn who sat in the hall of the diamond throne, gathered around our sovereign.

  I heard, and I believed his story. Cornered into an act of hopel
ess resistance, the army of the House of Dol Lewin had been decimated because the queen deliberately withheld reinforcements. It was this betrayal which caused the fall of a glorious lineage whose nobility dated back to the dawn of time.”

  Arwela was incredulous.

  “Queen Aranaele, whatever her faults, is not one to regret her actions, still less to apologize. He should have known that. Our sovereign is ruthless. I cannot believe that you would deny us a safe return for the sake of these High Elves who we barely know,” she complained.

  “Undoubtedly, the queen spared him no contempt. I was there when she rose from her throne. I can still hear her cruel words of banishment. I saw with my own eyes how that affront paralyzed the last Dol Lewin with shame. Then, I heard from the back of the hall, the clear voice of the bard Curwë, intoning the song of Lewin. I saw Roquen rising. Galvanized by the impetuous verses, he left the halls of the diamond’s throne honourably. Irreparable words had been exchanged. I knew exile and death were the only two options left for him.

  It was in that very moment that I decided we should leave the kingdom and sail south; I proposed to Roquen that he joins us in our quest across the ocean. We had waited for too long!