by C A Oliver
“I like it; the name is most fitting for its purpose. May ‘Ganol wallen’ do us proud when the time for blood and death arrives,” Aewöl concluded grimly.
*
One night, when the stars were bright in the sky, and the full moon illuminated the tower’s pale radiance, Curwë could not help but pay a visit to his former lord. He had been greatly inspired by the music and dancing that evening, and the joyous uproar from around the bonfire had lightened his heart. He was dressed magnificently, in a tunic of rare silk studded with fine jewels. A precious gold diadem decorated with rubies sat atop his long, chestnut hair. His wardrobe, that had been the cause of so much malicious Irawenti gossip, had nonetheless been saved from the shipwreck. He intended to fully enjoy the last remnants of his former richness, and his clothes were the symbol of the fame and power he had earned in Essawylor. He left spiteful comments to others and had always ignored any malevolent remarks directed towards him. He was excited that night, and it showed in the light in his beautiful eyes. Their colour was a shining green, so unusual among the High Elves that it was thought, among the maidens, that Curwë’s emerald eyes possessed a bewitching power, capable of charming any Elvin female according to his will.
But, that night, Curwë was not attempting to conquer the heart or favours of any maidens; he had made the most striking discovery of his life. Sauntering up to his lord and friend as if they had parted just moments before, he addressed him in his characteristically impudent manner.
“My Lord, I must say, I am rather glad you did not completely butcher that first spy that night aboard the deck of the Alwïryan. What mighty blow it was though, and I do not doubt the miserable spy would have been honoured to have perished under such a glorious hand! It just so happens that his brother, our new friend Vyrka, son of Vyerkyasin, if I remember his ancestry correctly, is extremely grateful.”
Curwë made a dramatic pause for effect.
“I now understand why we risked our lives, souls and swords to cross the Austral Ocean. Look at what the generous Vyrka has brought for us… a jug of Llewenti wine!”
Roquendagor gave a quick look, but the weariness of his gaze showed his utter lack of interest in his companion’s acclaimed beverage. Even the bard’s humour was unable to lift the veil of darkness which imprisoned Roquendagor’s soul. Yet Curwë was far from giving up and continued with his theatrical oration.
“This may well be the most delicious beverage one could hope of tasting for miles around; unless, that is, one was to peruse King Norelin’s personal reserves. I imagine that Vyrka picked up this example from one of the settlements of the Llymar marches. The wild Elves take what they need when the need for it arises, dangerous though it may be. And, my Lord, I must say, I concur with them entirely, for I would risk my own life in the blink of an eye if it meant I might hold my lips to such a bewitching fluid again.”
“I might have a taste of your wine, Curwë, if you promise to stop calling me ‘my Lord’. I do believe I was clear on the matter,” Roquendagor answered severely.
“It is somewhat difficult to converse with a person without using his name... but pardon me, your lordship, I insist, for the wine of these islands will lighten your heart and clear your thoughts. It is a blessing from the deities of the Llewenti! I, for one, would be more than happy to swear my allegiance to those matriarchs if it meant I could quench my thirst with such delightful drams each day. Yet fear not: I am several jugs away from betraying you entirely.”
While the bard continued his flowery speech, Roquendagor decided he might as well honour his side of the bargain. Taking the amphora with both hands, he examined the clear, golden liquid within, and took a moment to inhale its vapours. Then he drank several long gulps, without paying any particular attention to the vast aromatic richness of the exquisite beverage. A symptom of his curse was that he could no longer detect the taste of food or drink, however glorious it might be. Having drained the jug, he paused for a moment, trying to discern what effects the golden wine might have had, if any. Soon enough, a powerful energy flooded through his limbs before finally reaching his heart and his head. The fluid seemed to wash away the impurities from his soul and resurrect his will. In a moment of absolute lucidity, he turned to his companion, his voice lighter from the drink, but still authoritative.
“As sweet as any fine Elvin lady!” Roquendagor declared.
“A fine remark, my liege,” approved Curwë, visibly happy at the reaction.
Sensing an opportunity to cheer his companion, the bard decided to elaborate.
“Indeed, there is nothing quite like the flavours of our finest maidens; even this precious wine cannot compare…This morning I spent a fair amount of time contemplating the coming and goings of the beautiful Irawenti females in our community.
I could not help but think that our friends of the clan of Filweni have adopted the wisest attitudes towards love. The Irawenti value freedom above all things and enjoy the life that has been granted to them. They forge temporary bonds that are mutually beneficial and can be broken without pain or regret. Love can last a night, a year or even centuries; it does not matter. The promise of everlasting commitment does not interest them, for they are wise enough to understand that, like the tide of the Ocean, love ebbs and flows as it will. It is the Irawenti who have fully grasped the essence of Gweïwal Uleydon’s teachings.”
Even before Roquendagor began his retort, his angry gaze revealed his disagreement.
“The only Irawenti I pretend to know are Arwela and Feïwal. They are not at all as you describe; they seem to be wise beings, with complex souls that long for the noblest of feelings.”
Honour was at the cornerstone of Roquendagor’s values; sworn oaths were sacred to him. In truth, he had grown up among the Hawenti aristocracy, breathing in the same stale air, embracing the same arrogant ideas, and always reaching for the same obstinate conclusions. Now, the knight was realizing how divorced he had been from the Irawenti communities, ignorant about their ways and customs. He nevertheless continued.
“Love between two Elves is the most precious gift, for it holds the power to procreate and prolong, through a beloved heir, our immortal life. That irrevocable bond should be protected at all costs, for great evil comes when others try to sever it.”
Curwë, sensing that the tension was growing and that his rhetoric was losing its charm, changed the subject.
“Our generous friend Vyrka told me that Elvin ladies are very different in these lands. They are more dominant when it comes to relationships. They have the right to freely select as many companions as they wish, and each companion knows his place: as intimate friend, devoted protector or passionate lover. The Llewenti live in a matriarchal society where the women hold communities together and participate in clan rule.”
“A detestable custom!”
“A just condemnation, my suzerain! As for myself, I would never succumb to such tyranny,” Curwë replied obsequiously, trying to provoke a reaction by repetitively referring to Roquendagor’s former high rank.
The knight smiled, appreciating the humour behind the audacious tactics of his companion.
“You do not need to live in the shadow of my glorious self forever, my friend. You have already paid your debt to my family many times over, with your courage, loyalty and service. Back in Essawylor, your potential was stifled. Whatever deeds you achieved, whatever distinction you earned, whatever virtues you may have been celebrated for, you would never have been rewarded with what you deserved. Your triumphs would have been seen as a challenge to those of higher rank, a reminder of their mediocrity and lack of ambition. You would always have been considered a scion of an unknown bloodline, a Silver Elf with green eyes and fair hair, with neither family nor lineage.
But your time has come, Curwë. The archipelago awaits you. Therefore, step out into the light, and show this new world your merits. I am sure there are many minstrels on these islands ready to sing of your future feats,” he claimed.
These generous words filled Curwë with joy; even though he would always consider Roquendagor his lord, mentor and revered master, such a vow of friendship did him much honour. Overwhelmed by happiness and gratitude, Curwë stood and shouted to the stars.
“Elves of Llymar! Elves of the Llewenti clans! I drink to your good health and fortune! May the deities of the archipelago bless you for producing such glorious nectar! I would cross the unfathomable ocean again for another precious sip!
However, beware. Beware! For the mightiest Elvin heroes have reached your shores, and, with their formidable deeds, they shall change your fate forever!”
CHAPTER 5: dyl Avrony
2709 of the Llewenti Calendar, Season of Eïwele Llyo, 120th day, Tios Lluin, Forest of Llymar
“The bird of prey spiralled upwards into the sky, as if performing its mating ritual. Once it reached a certain altitude, it dived down towards a young Elvin lady, who looked up, saw it and tried to escape, fleeing in terror. Everything seemed lost until a great peacock, with magnificent green plumage, sprang from the bushes and intervened between the lady and her aggressor, in a desperate attempt to protect her. The two birds began to fight; which would triumph was uncertain, for although the bird of prey was more aggressive, the peacock was tough and fiercely defensive.
But then a third winged creature joined the fight; its arrival was unexpected, and its appearance even more so. Its vibrant plumage instantly distinguished it from all other birds, for its feathering was bright red and yellow. Its legs were covered in scales of gold, and its eyes burnt with fierce, striking yellow. It was a phoenix. The legendary creature immediately directed its attacks towards the bird of prey, and a distinctly violent, ruthless confrontation ensued. The struggle was fierce, but the peacock did not seize its chance to withdraw. It seemed determined to defend the Elvin lady at all costs. Joining the bloody melee again, it attacked the mythic bird, wounding it several times before provoking its wrath. The phoenix turned, letting its more dangerous opponent take flight and escape, before striking the peacock with its formidable claws.
“No! No! No!” Nyriele screamed, her eyes filled with tears.
“Nyriele, it is only me. Wake up! The time has come! The ceremony will start in two hours. We must prepare! Wake up!”
The young matriarch opened her eyes, emerging from a terribly intense and disturbing nightmare. She recognized the walls of her house in Tios Lluin. The sun had not yet risen, and her room was bathed in soft moonlight. Gal dyl, her father, was kneeling by her bed. He wore splendid ceremonial robes in the mahogany and beige colours of his clan, cut from the finest silks. In his daughter’s eyes, Gal dyl was the embodiment of true nobility, the authentic heir to the bloodline of Eïwal Vars. Sorrow and pain had inflicted their worst upon the last surviving dyl of the clan Avrony, but he had never succumbed to these knockbacks. He still had his tall, proud stature and powerful build, and he remained as fast and agile as any stag of the forest. In that moment, his long blonde hair was as radiant as ever, but could not conceal his concerned gaze. Beneath his evident anxiety, however, the profound love of a father for his daughter was unmistakable.
“Oh Father, you are alright! I thought… oh, I saw horrible things… You are alright… I am so relieved…”
She then recounted her nightmare to Gal dyl, insisting upon each and every detail, her eyes filled with tears. She threw herself into her father’s arms, her body still shaking with shock and fear. After a moment, she placed her hands on his shoulders and leant back to look into his eyes, telling him again about the most disturbing part of her nightmare.
“I am sure it was a green peacock. The eyespots upon the feathers were unmistakable. It was similar in size to its two opponents, but less heavily built. It fell after being attacked by the phoenix. I do not know if it survived,” she explained, tears rolling down her cheeks. Once again, she sought the comfort of Gal dyl’s arms.
“It was just a bad dream, Nyriele. It will have sprung from your worries about the future. Do not allow your emotions to overwhelm you. It would not be fitting for a matriarch of the clan Llyvary. You must remain strong.”
“My dreams are not like the dreams of others, Father. You know this. I seldom have any at all but, when I do, they always mean something. I have powers of insight. Even Matriarch Lyrine acknowledges it.”
Gal dyl was surprised that his daughter had referred to her mother as ‘Matriarch’ Lyrine. The formality of the title highlighted the ever-growing distance between mother and daughter.
Gal dyl held Nyriele, doing his best to comfort her. Trying to take her mind off the nightmare, he said.
“Did you know that the peacock helps disperse the seeds of many different species of plants, contributing, in its own way, to the circle of life?”
He paused, thinking about his own life, his destiny, and the legacy he would leave behind in Nyn Llyvary. He continued.
“Peacocks live in forests, in perfect peace and harmony with their environment. They mostly eat fruit from the ground. Their song is hailed as the most beautiful of all birds.”
Gal dyl spoke gently, stroking his daughter’s shining hair, deep in thought.
“The Elves of my clan really are like the peacock. It was not by mere chance that Avrony, our first Matriarch, chose that bird as our sigil and its light green shades to be our colours. She was the last of Queen Llyoriane’s daughters. She was granted the smallest island of the archipelago, though it was also the most beautiful. We are indeed the peacocks of the forest. We have nothing to do with birds of prey and, as your dream rightly showed, we would do well not to mix with them. You said the peacock’s second opponent was a phoenix.”
“A phoenix is similar in size to an eagle. It has a sun-like halo,” explained Nyriele.
“I have never heard of such a creature upon these islands.”
“It hails from the fabled Essawylor and is said to be immortal. Once it dies, in a flourish of flames and smoke, it gains new life from the sun, rising from the ashes and taking flight once again. The phoenix was adopted as a symbol by Queen Llyoriane in the early days of our history. According to legend, one such bird protected her from the machinations of the Islands’ deities.”
This left Gal dyl puzzled. But he warmly embraced his daughter before taking his leave to let her prepare for the day.
Nyriele’s room was located at the top of the house, above the main hall. The view of the forest below was beautiful. Light streamed in through a small window that looked out over the tops of the pines. The furnishings in the room were made from dark wood. Wall hangings, originating from Medystan[49], represented the odyssey of the Llewenti and their Queen Llyoriane. The only other objects in the room were an oak altar, a statue of a matriarch carved from pine, a bed enclosed by blue curtains, and a precious carpet from Ystanoalin[50]. There were no mural paintings, nor any ostentatious decorations to adorn the walls. The room was furnished simply, with carved wood and polished iron.
Nyriele wore white robes, with modest golden jewellery. She was finely but simply dressed. Her favourite silk gown greatly enhanced her elegant silhouette. It felt natural for her to display her beauty, and among the Llewenti it was considered neither unusual nor vain. Every morning, the young matriarch started her day with ritual prayers that honoured beauty and love in all their myriad forms. She opened her window and muttered soft, powerful words out into the forest air. The leaves of the trees around her house seemed to sway back, as if the trees themselves were bowing to her grandeur. The faint moon gently lit her face. She could hear water dripping from the rooftop. She uttered a few final words of prayer.
“Eïwele Llyi’s beauty is all around me, and for this I give thanks. Its radiance lights up my life and nurtures my soul. I shall find beauty wherever it takes root, and I shall help that beauty flourish, so that all may partake in the joy and happiness it brings. I shall always give shelter to Eïwele Llyi’s creations, for her teaching guides the course of my life.”
Having spoken tho
se words, she felt free and light, and could suddenly sense the power of the Flow of the Islands coursing through her veins.
A few moments later, the father and daughter were leaving their small stone house which stood in the western part of Tios Lluin. The streets were still empty. While the heavy mist that surrounded them foretold the arrival of dawn, in that moment it also obscured the sparkle of the stars above. The city of ruins gradually awoke to darkness.
“What do you make of this unusual gloom?” Nyriele asked her father. “Eïwele Llyo obscures the many splendours of the city with a shadowy web of illusion. The deity of dreams is sending us a message. One way or another, she will have her say in what will be decided today.”
They were heading east towards the enchanting vestige of Tios Lluin’s Temple of Stones, which lay at the heart of the ruined city.
The site of the Temple was vast; it occupied a circular area of land that spread out for more than five square miles of forest. Thousands of gigantic stone blocks had been erected throughout the forest, amongst which there were also various monuments, graves, wells and great pits. These blocks created a complex series of paths that, together, made up a symbolic network which mirrored astrological constellations. This map corresponded with the positions of the sun, moon, stars and planets in the canopy of heaven and thus imbued this collection of monuments with complex liturgical significance. It was a place where earth, sun and stars converged. The genius architect of the Temple of Stones had demanded that the huge slabs of blue rhyolite be hauled from the Arob Nisty Mountains across a hundred leagues of steep terrain.
The first person that Gal dyl and Nyriele encountered in the deserted alleys was a young Elf, who wore a long silk gown so fine that she appeared to be dressed in a mantle of stardust. Her face had a serene glow.