by C A Oliver
Mynar dyl saw with satisfaction how Voryn dyl nodded in acknowledgment before taking his leave. Not for the first time, his brother was setting out on a dangerous journey without questioning its purpose, blindly obeying instructions. What Mynar dyl felt in that moment was the thrill of power, real power: the kind of authority that can decide the future and write history.
Mynar dyl’s mind was finally at peace; he basked in this delicious haze of success. All his actions, all his efforts, were driven by an innate desire to plan, to act and to rule. His extraordinary, highly developed set of abilities distinguished his clear superiority in such affairs. The clan Ernaly’s matriarchs, its noble dyl, the commanders, guild masters and stewards all now appreciated Mynar dyl’s unique nature. The time had come for the other clans of the forest to appreciate it too. Much was at stake; he had a great responsibility in the future of this land. The hawk's preferred time for hunting was before nightfall, just as the daylight begins to die away. And, indeed, the clouds were gathering above, and night would soon be upon the Islands. Mynar dyl was the most powerful Elf in the clan of the hawk, the clan Ernaly.
Others were bound to fall short in one way or another. The matriarchs were mere females. Their power was to be reckoned with, but, crucially, they had no experience of bloodshed. The warlords of the clan Llyvary were either brave but very young, or much older, experienced Elves, who were close to joining the spirits of the forest. None had his firm convictions, his iron resolution or his strength in command. Gal dyl was inherently weak and easy to manipulate. He was the worthy heir of the clan Avrony. Curubor was a Hawenti. This High Elf, unfaithful to his king, could certainly not be trusted. At best, he could be used.
Rest and recreation were unfamiliar to Mynar dyl, and before long he was on his way, swiftly moving on to the next task. Whereas daylight was necessary to carry out his responsibilities and exercise his body, the night was a unique opportunity to read, write and compose music.
He appreciated being alone in the shadow of the night. Then, he felt able to capture the true essence of the Elvin world, in both its material and ethereal dimensions. Those were his favourite moments. Lost in his thoughts, he dismissed his guards, returned to the shelter of the Eïwaloni, and went over to his precious musical instruments.
It was then that, to his most alarm, he discovered that he was not alone. For some time, he froze, suspended by sheer dread, before finally catching his breath. He kneeled slowly, in a display of utmost respect.
“Daughter of the Islands! This visit is an immense honour!”
“Mèolpa girith[41]!” the fabled matriarch spat back aggressively, her eyes burning like two shining emeralds. She thrust her antlers into the air like a stag before battle.
“I am forever grateful for your assistance. You bring much honour to the clan Ernaly. I have profound respect for you because you have remembered your origins. This is most helpful, and increasingly essential, as the threats against us accumulate.”
“The ambitions of the clan Ernaly are nothing to me! Only the Mother of the Islands is of any consequence,” said the ancient Elf, her deep voice flooding the room like a torrent cascading down a mountain. Her face showed tension and, even anger.
“I understand, and I respect your duty to the Mother of the Islands. You are the emissary of Eïwele Llya, entrusted to protect the archipelago. Your eyes see far beyond the interests of the clan, but I beg you to consider that we, the dyl Ernaly, are faithful servants of the Mother of the Islands.” Mynar dyl bowed to further demonstrate his submission.
The Daughter of the Islands approached the warlord and murmured in his ear the story of her unexpected visit to the matriarchs of Llafal.
“It was no common hurricane that struck the northern shores of Nyn Llyvary. Eïwal Ffeyn attempted to break free from his bonds. The storm deity has now become dangerous. His imprisonment has driven him to madness, and he is becoming uncontrollable. I fear his wrath and his thirst for revenge. His destructive power could severely wound these islands, were he able to escape that vast oceanic prison. I foresee that his vengeance would be blind and furious; he could shock the archipelago and its natural balance forever.”
“Eïwal Ffeyn shows no mercy,” Mynar dyl replied, his voice charged with devotion.
The Daughter of the Islands then spoke of the matriarchs of Llymar, and in particular of Lyrine’s self-assurance and temerity.
“The matriarchs of Llymar are conscious of their rising power, and they are not afraid to use it. The Lady of Llafal consulted the Oracle of the Halwyfal and called upon Eïwele Llyo. Such a demonstration of power has not been seen for a long time, and it shall not go unnoticed... Her daughter, the young Nyriele, has come of age. I know the power that flows in her veins… This is a dangerous time, laden with so many potential perils, and the coming of this ship from Essawylor is but the prelude to many other grave events that will shape the future of these islands. Matriarch Lyrine has foreseen it.”
Mynar dyl replied, “I have heard your words, and I will keep the Lady of Llafal’s prophecy in my mind. But what am I to do, Daughter of the Islands? What should be the clan Ernaly’s role in the events to come?”
“Be on guard. Observe the balance of things. Keep an eye on the young matriarch, for she shall play a great part in what is to come… Gather your forces and be ready to move swiftly. Eïwele Llya may call upon the hawks of the clan Ernaly at any time.”
“The Mother of the Islands holds our destiny in her hands,” Mynar dyl acknowledged with absolute obedience.
He then stood up proudly, reaching his full height, his glance settled upon an invisible horizon.
“This is it. A ship from Essawylor has reached the shores of the archipelago. The deities have set events in motion once again.”
CHAPTER 4: Dol Lewin
2708 of the Llewenti Calendar, Season of Eïwele Llyo, 6th day, Isle of Pyenty
The darkness of night frayed away upon the shores of the archipelago, dissolving into blue-grey shadows. In the east, a band of light, thin as a sword’s blade, announced the birth of a new day. The Alwïryan was anchored a hundred yards from the southern shore of the isle of Pyenty. Aboard the ship, silence reigned, only occasionally broken by the sound of ropes quivering in the breeze of the dying night. Deep in their reverie, the crew were finally enjoying a restorative night’s sleep after what had been another hard day’s work.
The Elves of the clan Llyvary had kept their word. They had provided equipment, tools, and materials in abundance to facilitate repairs. During each visit, they had taken the same precautions. Arriving on their long canoes at dawn, they would maintain a strict distance from the castaways. They remained silent but showed no hostility. Occasional stolen glances, however, betrayed their curiosity, as it was not unusual for some of them to linger, admiring the exotic beauty of the Irawenti females.
For six days, two teams of divers worked underneath the vessel, armed with long-bladed daggers and various tools. Graving the ship had been impossible due to a lack of resources and time, but the Irawenti, who were excellent swimmers, had set about repairing the keel and the lower shell while the Alwïryan was still afloat. They would remain underwater durably before surfacing, filling their lungs with air before diving down again. Often, when the tide rose fast in heavy weather, the frailest swimmers would be risking their lives, narrowly missing the rocks. When the tide proved too perilous, the need to stay underwater was all the greater; it was then that the sailors would rely upon their captain’s powers. They lined up along the deck to receive his blessing.
Feïwal had mastered the flow of the air to such an extent that he could capture the essence of the wind within his hands. Endlessly generous, he passed on the gift of Eïwal Ffeyn to his followers, allowing them to hold their breath underwater for far longer than natural. From the bottom of the keel to the waterline, the divers removed shells, barnacles and sea moss, the weight of which hindered the ship’s speed.
Some were sitting in a circle spli
cing ropes. Others were carefully caulking the planks of the deck, which had suffered in the humid temperature. Down on the deck, more sailors were busy repairing the sails that had been saved, both the thick, rough canvas for heavy weather sailing, and the lighter ones used in fair climes. All had severely deteriorated. Precision were required to stitch the clan’s sacred runes back into the material.
In the hold, the fighters of the Unicorn Guard, supervised by their commander Maetor and assisted by the sailor Gyenwë, were engaged in the long, painstaking work of repairing the hull, which was still split in some places. Using special tools, they widened any ruptures and filled them with straw, which they then densely packed in using the tops of their axes. Bway[42], a resin originating from Essawylor, obtained from the sap of exotic trees, sealed in those areas. Although the ship’s vital parts still needed serious repair, the Alwïryan was afloat again and just before the Matriarch of Llafal’s period of grace was set to expire.
The Irawenti liked to sing on the deck with joy and enthusiasm, expressing their infinite gratitude that they had survived the ocean’s crossing. The beat of their drums resounded ceaselessly across the waves.
They venerated neither god nor deity, save for Gweïwal Uleydon, the Great Lord of Waters who had always been their protector. However, they firmly believed in the influence of stars over their destiny. They worshipped three in particular: Cil, Star of the West, high in the sky, divinity of hope and promise; Cim, Star of the Sea Depths, which dwelt deep in Essaweryl[43] bay, revered as the divinity of wisdom and regret; and, finally, Cir, Star of the Earth’s Core, divinity of despair and degradation. The wisest Irawenti, the visionaries of the clans, knew how to interpret their positions. The three sacred stars which, according to their beliefs, held their destiny were honoured and praised with ardent singing and fervent prayer.
At night, Cil, their symbol of hope that shone so brightly in the western night’s sky, was celebrated with effervescent fireworks.
Cim, gleaming light of the sea’s depths and dearest in the hearts of Irawenti, was venerated according to their ancient traditions. Enchanted shimmers of light cast from the deck of the Alwïryan illuminated the surrounding waters, drawing the many fish and dolphins of the bight into a wild dance.
The deadly influence of Cir, that divinity of despair and dark light of the earth’s core, had been warded off by sacred fires that were lit on the isle of Pyenty, ablaze in the twilight.
The captain’s report of his visit to the city of Llafal was noticeably vague but this had not diminished the crew’s enthusiasm. Apart from a few historical and geographical details about the archipelago, the only news that Feïwal had shared with his companions was the compelling necessity to leave the wharf and pull away from the shores of the Llymar forest.
These sailors had reached the Llewenti Islands and defeated the ocean; their euphoria would not be affected by the hostile attitude of the clans of Llymar. They had learned that the archipelago was extremely vast, with six main islands and countless smaller isles, and with so many to be explored, the crew’s imaginations had been ignited. The castaways had so far only glimpsed the magical beauty of the archipelago’s landscapes, but they relished the prospect of discovering the Islands’ creeks and beaches. The climate was very different from Essawylor’s tropical heat, and they could not help but wonder about the new varieties of fruit, plants, trees and animals that they might soon encounter.
Many of the sailors had second callings as naturalists, hunters or artisans. Each knew they were about to discover a world, full of mystery, hidden amongst the archipelago’s seas, mountains and volcanoes. Many different Elvin communities also populated the Islands. Descendants of the clan of Filweni lived on the island of Nyn Llorely. The crew’s hearts burst with joy at the promise of a reunion with their distant kinfolk. The Llewenti Archipelago they had reached was a far cry from the idealized promised islands described in their ancient book, it was true. Here they would not be protected from the turmoil of the Mainland, or from the threat of future expansionist efforts from men. But the prospect of discovering new Elvin cultures and traditions was still hugely exciting.
They envisioned realizing the dreams of the generations of sailors and explorers who had gone before them. Neither the insurmountable difficulties associated with returning home to Essawylor nor the idea of leaving their homes and families behind, perhaps forever, ever crossed their minds. Such was their abandon that, despite Feïwal’s words of warning, they felt invincible, as if no ill fate could ever now befall them.
The morning’s mist obscured the view of the sea and dampened the sound of the waves. The chain of the anchor creaked. The shrill cry of a sea bird tore through the air. On deck, in the midst of what was left of the mainmast, stood a formidable Elf of high stature and broad shoulders, shaving his head with great care and attention.
Roquen Dol Lewin would perform this task every morning, alone, never accepting any assistance in the exercise. It was a ritual for him, and a way to unburden his body after the considerable exertions of the day.
The razor blade skimmed his skull with precision, though stubble remained. His eyes, usually piercing and resolute, appeared empty. His large mouth hung open, revealing white teeth that glowed like nacre. The Hawenti lord was lost in his thoughts.
The sound of footsteps behind him did not disturb the rhythm of this meticulous activity.
His councillor, Aewöl, came to stand beside him. The pale Elf moved like a shadow, dressed without ostentation in a black tunic. His silver diadem reflected the silvery light of the moon. Due to his own restless nature, he too was ill at ease aboard the ship. He could often be seen pacing distractedly around the deck. Aewöl was tall and black-haired, with lunar-white skin. Though his eyes were dark, they somehow possessed their own intrinsic brightness. His gaze was sharp and piercing. He was a High Elf like Roquen but of different origin and allegiance. Aewöl was endowed with rare talents and powers. He was especially able to discern what is hidden in consciences and to draw out the truth from its hidden veins.
“Are you well, my Lord Dol Lewin?” he inquired.
“Hmm….” was the only response he could solicit from Roquen, visibly annoyed at the interruption.
“The crew is worried, as are your companions. You seldom talk and barely eat. You torment your body with work and exercise. But, most of all, you never rest. It seems a shadow has fallen upon you.”
“Leave me alone. I need to think in peace.”
“Did you believe in honour?” asked Aewöl unexpectedly.
“I did,” Roquen answered instantly, though surprised by the question. Aewöl had been his occult councillor for a long time, and the tall lord knew better than anyone the futility of trying to hide his feelings from his insight. “It is honour that has dictated my entire existence. I am… I was… I was an honourable knight… heir to a powerful House whose memory stretches back to the very awakening of the Elves. I was strong, proud and tall. I never once failed to honour my word,” Roquen said with some difficulty, as if he had to consciously remember who he once had been.
“And did you hail from the Kingdom of the Five Rivers?” Aewöl pressed.
“Yes, I did. It was my home. I was born there. I defended Essawylor. I gave my blood for its salvation.”
“Did you love your family and were you true to the House of Dol Lewin?” Aewöl continued.
“I loved my family and I worshipped that name. Ours is among the greatest bloodlines. We are descended from the heroes who served the High King of the Elves, from those who walked alongside the Gods. The founder of our line was Lewin, who rose to power following incredible feats in war, and who perished in the mightiest battle. We formed alliances with all the great houses of the High Elves; we chose our brides from the Houses of Dol Amrol or Dol Morlin...”
Aewöl continued to address Roquen insistently almost demonstratively.
“The purpose of your existence was to preserve what you held dear: your honour, your house
, your kingdom. Such was the importance of those unbreakable bonds. And yet they were all taken away from you. You were deceived and betrayed. You lost everything or… almost everything. Most Elves, even the very noblest, would not have survived such trauma. They would have fallen to the ground and died or, worse, they would have resorted to murder and destruction until they met their own bitter death. However, despite your inconsolable despair, you have survived. Why is that?”
“I do not know the answer. My abilities diminish day by day; I no longer live up to my rare bloodline. My failure to preserve our fief fills me with the most profound guilt. I am the last ruler of my house and the one who has lost the homeland that his elders had built, strengthened and preserved. My pain is overwhelming; a void, emptiness fills my soul. I live haunted like a spectre among the living. It is strange, I feel as if I already belong in the halls of the dead, whilst I watch my form walking this ship’s deck. I do not know when it will end, or if it will end... indeed, should it end?” questioned Roquen.
“You may well feel like this now, my Lord Dol Lewin. But you have not seen it all. There are many dark paths, paths that I hope you will never have to explore. An ill fate, once endured, can lead you to places of even greater evil, where spirits torture your mind until it loses cognition, clarity and perspective. Despair can turn you against the last loyal friends in your entourage as surely as a fire ravages dry wood. Isolation can transform suffering into murderous madness. So, Roquen, believe me when I say that you are no ghost yet. You have been spared, and now you have the chance to lead a second life.” Aewöl’s expression had changed as he spoke. A pained grimace was etched upon his face.
“What is this fable?” asked Roquen incredulously, but inside he did sense that his councillor might have experienced such cruel suffering himself, having described it so vividly. Regaining his composure, Aewöl explained.