An Act of Faith

by C A Oliver

  Beware for the high mages have seized the Flow of the Islands at its source, disrupting the ancient balance.”

  Camatael disliked being lectured by his guest, believing that it was disrespectful. However, he regained his composure and gently added.

  “You may call me Lord Dol Lewin, but rest assured that it is not necessary. You will pardon me if I address you in only the most respectful and conventional terms, Lord Curubor. I have read so many of your literary works and followed so much of your research that I can only treat you with the utmost respect.”

  “My dear Uncle,” Loriele interjected. Eager to dispel the tension, she changed the subject. “Why do you not visit us more often in Gwarystan? We are currently enjoying spectacles and feasts like never before. The most accomplished artists, the most incredible wizards and the most talented bards are celebrating the glory of our king. Each day, the city grows, its towers reaching unparalleled heights. Indeed, our architects have rediscovered techniques which have not been used since the First Age. We have many men toiling for us, and they make efficient workers. Even giants are enslaved to do our bidding! Gold is available to those of our rank in greater abundance than ever before. Norelin is building nothing less than the greatest city in Elvin history. I cannot understand why you lurk with Father in that desolate place of yours, surrounded by wild Elves of… another time.”

  “But there is much to learn from the Llewenti of the clans,” Curubor protested, “as one day you will see. They live according to ancient traditions; they approach life differently, as a matriarchy. I am sure that under King Norelin’s rule, Hawenti females do not have nearly as much influence. Of course, you may find them irritating at first, owing to their idle chatter, superficial preoccupations, natural passivity and their love of leisure and pleasure. But, in time, you cannot help but realise the Llewenti are seizing all the good that life has to offer. They debate endlessly about the flavours of wines, the excellence of certain dishes, the beauty of sunsets, and it is not uncommon to hear them passionately extemporising on the rustling of the forest, the roaring of the ocean or the fragrance of flowers. This simply demonstrates what it is that truly enriches them: their love for the archipelago and their deep regard for their inheritance. Though often chaotic and blundering, there is much goodness in the Llewenti, Loriele,” Curubor concluded sincerely.

  His heir was far from convinced. “But Llymvranone is hardly a place to inspire excitement or happiness. It is a ruin,” said Loriele.

  “Unlike the Forest of Llymar, Llymvranone and its provinces belong to the King. For decades it has been bled of its resources under Norelin’s orders. You cannot think that Gwarystan would thrive as it does if the kingdom’s other provinces had not been so utterly drained and dispossessed. Minerals, steel, fruit, wines, indeed every valuable good is absorbed by the grand city, like a giant devouring its own children to feed its hunger. The destiny of Llymvranone and the region around it would have been very different if our sovereign had granted it to those Houses who had lost everything in the war, and in the Pact that followed,” Curubor pointed out accusingly.

  With a smile, he looked at the two young Elves before him.

  “The Dol Lewin and the Dol Etrond could have ruled Llymvranone. The two of you might have sat upon the city’s throne, as Prince and Princess of Nyn Llyvary. What an exciting thought! How different things would be now…” the Blue Mage speculated.

  “Uncle, it is unwise... dangerous to be speaking as you are,” Loriele protested, frightened by what Curubor was saying.

  “Your naivety and sincerity warms my heart, my dear child. Though I may be somewhat biased, your beauty and spirit is overwhelming, although Lord Dol Lewin may be better placed to say so. It fills me with pride. I cannot deny I have heard rumour that you could become our next queen,” Curubor pointedly suggested.

  “The king’s pleasure lays elsewhere,” Loriele replied sharply, though her uncle could clearly read a certain disappointment in her expression.

  It was incredible to behold the forceful self-confidence and intense ambition which was driving her. The Blue Mage worried for a moment that the future he was planning for her may not, in fact, be suitable; yet his quick mind, rapidly identified another option, a solution.

  ‘Killing several birds with one stone,’ Curubor thought enthusiastically.

  He turned to his grandniece.

  “Your coming to Llymar, Loriele, is a great event for the clans of the forest. Your reputation precedes you; you shall be honoured with attention and devotion that you cannot imagine. I do not doubt that you shall appreciate the opportunity to expand your horizons and complete your education.”

  The connotations of those last words did not escape Camatael who raised an eyebrow. There was more to Curubor’s plan than he was letting on. The Blue Mage was an artist, a performer who could pluck upon the strings of his emotions with infinite dexterity. Camatael resolved to keep his wits about him, even more so than before, as Curubor dismissed his grand-niece.

  “My darling, you remember Duluin the Tall, commander of my knights. He awaits you outside with a present that your father and I have picked out for you with care. I hope our gift will be to your liking. I hope it shall be a great companion, who will help you to discover all that Nyn Llyvary has to offer.”

  “It must be a stallion, Uncle! A white stallion! I am sure of it! Oh, Uncle, you have remembered how much I love horses. Thank you, I love you so much.”

  Overcome with joy at the generosity of her much missed grand-uncle, Loriele became almost child-like, charming her audience.

  “Hold on! Hold on!” the ancient Elf cried, rising up his hands before Lady Loriele could embrace him. “You have no idea what the gift shall be, and perhaps Curubor’s promises are not to be trusted at all,” he said with a knowing smile. He knew that his young heir could charm with her exaggerated innocence.

  “Now be on your way, darling, and enjoy yourself. Lord Dol Lewin and I have matters to discuss. After all, the king’s envoy has not sailed to Llymvranone only to enjoy your company. His master has entrusted him with a mission of the upmost importance.”

  Camatael Dol Lewin stood up and, with all the elegance of a high-ranking courtly Elf. He escorted Loriele out of the room and took his leave of her with a graceful bow. For a split second, their eyes met and, in that moment, his desiring gaze showed how much he wanted her. This flash of fervour came as a surprise to the young lady, and she felt a flutter of pleasure.

  Quickly regaining his composure, Camatael turned to his servant and gestured for him to leave and take the bird with him. He subtly ordered the falconer to gather his knights and have them bar all access to the reception room.

  Camatael then summoned, with a few quick incantations, a gust of fresh air. An invisible force drew one of the heavy purple curtains aside, revealing a hidden alcove. The king’s envoy gestured with his hand, and a large table slid out from the alcove into the centre of the room. A vast, colourful map of the archipelago covered the entire table top, upon which there stood hundreds of lead figures, painted in vivid colours. The statues symbolised cities and fortresses, mines and carriers, armies and fleets: all the key elements of a vast game. Curubor saw that what lord Dol Lewin had in his possession was an incomparable work of art. For the first time in many years, he felt envy.

  “Lord Curubor, please take a seat. We have much to discuss. I must admit that the message you sent us did provoke particular emotion in Gwarystan. I trust that your influence in the Forest has helped resolve the tensions of which you spoke.”

  “Lord Camatael, I did not mention everything in my missive, for I feared that it might be intercepted. One can never be careful enough, and certain important tidings deserve to be delivered in person. I have much to tell.”

  Intrigued, the king’s envoy sat up in his chair. He leant forward, preparing to digest each of Curubor’s words, to measure their weight and to fathom out how much was fable and how much truth. Camatael Dol Lewin was focused. H
e knew that he was faced with a cunning orator.

  For more than an hour, he listened without interrupting and, as the Curubor’s story progressed, Camatael’s amazement turned into incredulity, and his patience into a contained wrath. The Blue Mage’s speech ended at the point when the nine matriarchs had appeared on the steps of the Temple of Fate, and it was announced that the Llymar’s army would march to war.

  Camatael leaned back in his armchair, like a commander regrouping his units before a decisive charge.

  “You are telling me that castaways from Essawylor have settled on the northern coast of Nyn Llyvary. They are rebuilding the forbidden fortress of Mentollà. They have breached the Pact and defiled the king’s glyph stone. And you tell me that the clans of Llymar are unaware? That the matriarchs do not know of events occurring fifty leagues from their sacred shrines? Do not take me for a fool, Lord Curubor,” Camatael accused, his voice was marked with aggression although his composure remained intact.

  “They were shipwrecked upon the deserted coast of a untamed territory, west of the peninsula of Gloren, at the heart of the land of wild Elves. It is a desolate place, haunted by renegades, all marked with the infamous rune by the very rod you carry. They are fierce fighters who were banished by your predecessor for refusing to agree to the Pact. The castaways from Essawylor are a long way from Llafal’s sphere of influence,” defended Curubor, with conviction.

  “This I am unable to believe. Either you are wilfully attempting to deceive me or, worse, you yourself are in league with the matriarchs. This is grievous news you bring from Llymar. The Court of Gwarystan has long hoped your presence at the heart of the Llewenti clans’ territory would be beneficial. I now wonder who you wish to help. The self-proclaimed Council of the Forest has declared war without consulting its suzerain, the rightful king of the archipelago. A usurper is calling himself Protector of the Forest, without even having the authority over a single grove. I am afraid that these developments constitute a severe offence.”

  “Barbarian aggression required an immediate response,” Curubor countered.

  Camatael was tense. “This puts me in a difficult position. I can already anticipate the taunts that will be heard at the court of Gwarystan. The king... the king will be furious. The Ruby College will seek to take immediate action.”

  Curubor had expected a severe response and was not caught off guard. He continued persuasively.

  “The Llewenti clans do not pay homage to the king. True sovereignty lies with them alone. The Kingdom of Gwarystan has no reason to be offended. The clans are only defending what is theirs; they have no obligation to call upon the crown for protection.”

  Camatael was irritated. “If they have so decided, then the matriarchs are blinder and more reckless than I thought. The power of the archipelago’s deities is diminishing as more and more Elves pay homage to the Dol houses. The old cults are declining, Curubor. Where will the matriarchs seek the power they need to weave High Magic?”

  “The coming events are difficult to understand. It is like reading from an ancient stone; the message is complicated and difficult to decipher,” said Curubor, doubt creeping into his voice.

  “A foolish exercise,” dismissed Camatael.

  He decided to explain the position of the king.

  “Our elite circles believe that the days of the Elves are numbered. The Kingdom of Gwarystan has now reached its age of twilight; long and bitter wars have ravaged our provinces, and our once-great race has begun to dwindle. The beautiful Elvin cities of the archipelago are becoming quieter each year, no longer bustling with life and wonder; shells of their former glory. The human multitude’s time is upon us.

  A huge wave is rising, and we are left with one sole choice: are we to be drowned by its flood, or do we ride it?

  How can we possibly fight such a threat, with only few Dol lords who are worthy of their rank, a mere eight hundred units that are actually ready for battle, and less than a hundred warships considered seaworthy?

  We are too few. We cannot resist the rising tide. The only way out is to take the lead, to ally ourselves with the rulers of men, and to strengthen our power by controlling the Islands’ Flow.”

  Curubor immediately responded. “I do not doubt that the masters of the Ruby College have such irresponsible ideas. They poison King Norelin with their ill advice. They believe that we shall be able to convert the men to our way of life, by corrupting them with our gold and illusory pleasures. This is what we did with the majority of the Llewenti, by weakening them with new addictions.

  But the reality will be the opposite. Our alliance with men will be like water mixing with lava. Which do you think will consume the other?”

  “Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored,” Camatael declared.

  “Indeed, they do not, in that you are right.

  But how can you trust your masters so blindly? Did the priests of Eïwal Lon not teach you that doubt should be the foundation of all reflection and thought? The high mages of the Ruby College live cloistered in their towers; they are isolated, confined, and only see the future from their narrow viewpoint. Their pride is as immense as their blindness is incurable. They trample all history underfoot, gaining ever more influence with each new success. They have cast out and constrained the powers of the archipelago’s deities. At the same time, they have alienated the ancient clans of the Llewenti. The masters of the Ruby College did all this to consolidate their control over the Flow of the Islands. The Elves who bow to the king have been deprived of the freedom and magic that is rightfully theirs, alienating them from the very world the Elves themselves created. The high mages have created a world of illusions in which all inhabitants are obsessed with comfort, corrupted by gold and ensnared by duty. Solidarity and compassion are seen as dangerous.

  What the Ruby College has made is a world for weak Elves and simple men; they have laid the corner stone for the Kingdom of Half Elves, for everyone and that is to say for no one... but they have made one fatal mistake. They did not understand that the old world is not dead. You cannot erase the existence of thousands of years of history, legends and beliefs. The powers of the College can only banish the Islands’ deities temporarily.

  Also, the Cult of the Three Dragons is not dead; it is merely in hiding. You should know this, for it is what you were taught in your early years at the Temple of Eïwal Lon.

  And now there has been a development of even more import. A ship has crossed the Austral Ocean, fleeing the perils of Essawylor: a vessel carrying hundreds of Elves.

  If one ship can achieve this feat, what is there to stop many more following?

  When last I walked along the shores of the Kingdom of the Five Rivers, I saw tens of thousands of Elves living there. What if something forces them to attempt the crossing? The fate of the archipelago would be altered once again. Do not dismiss the possibility, for it has already happened once in our history…”

  Looking down at the miniature archipelago before him, Curubor added.

  “Your colourful little map could appear to be missing a few figures.”

  A long tense moment of silence ensued.

  “Lord Curubor,” Camatael finally asked, “who do you truly serve?”

  “I serve no one, and at the same time I serve all. I take no sides, my dear Camatael. I work for the greater good. That is my modest contribution to Elvin kind. These islands were given to us as our last refuge before the world falls apart,” recalled the Blue Mage

  Camatael was not impressed. “I hope you are not taking it upon yourself to challenge the sovereignty of King Norelin. It would not be wise. No one, no matter how powerful, could ever succeed in such a challenge.”

  “There are some who did succeed, and recently. It is not by following in the footsteps of he who walks in front that you shall ever find your destiny.”

  Curubor’s eyes were hopeful.

  “I know how the king consciously denied protecting the House of Dol Nos-Loscin and their lands.
History has shown how dangerous it is to alienate that powerful family. The young Norelin is isolated; his position is weak, more so than you think, Camatael! Already, he cut the Llewenti clans off, going against the policies of his father.

  Remember that Lormelin the Conqueror eventually resolved to forge an alliance with the matriarchs; that great king knew failing to gather the support of the Llewenti clans would jeopardize his domination of men. Not only has his foolish son thrown away that, but he has even refused the support of the House of Dol Nos-Loscin. Instead, he sees them as rivals.”

  Seeing in the pallid face of his interlocutor an opportunity, Curubor carried on, more pressing than ever.

  “How can you, Camatael, a former disciple of Eïwal Lon, tolerate such a suzerain? I cannot believe that you have sacrificed the wisdom and the moral strength you acquired in the Temple of Light for the sake of your ambition. King Norelin is now insulting the most powerful Dol House, a family who controls the south of the archipelago and, moreover, all trade with the clan Llyandy. His only purpose is to strengthen his unnatural alliance with the powerful Men of the West: to pursue his mad ambition. Each day he shows some new sign of that bond with the Westerners.

  The king is childless and alone.

  He is already isolated, Camatael! He shuns alliances with noble ladies of the finest bloodlines to experiment in perverse pleasures with mortal women. His half-Elvin bastard children will soon roam the street of the lower city. His penchant for extreme pleasures is obscuring his sight, as do the poisonous compliments and treacherous reassurances he receives from his enslaved courtesans.

  Camatael! Be careful not to isolate yourself with him. A king without an heir is the greatest incertitude imaginable for any kingdom. When minds are pushed to predict the fate of a sovereign power, lines in the sand are necessarily drawn between allies and opponents, as everyone weighs up what they stand to win or lose by their trust or their betrayal. The question of who will stand and who will fall is everywhere. The time has come for auguries, divinations and plots. The time has come for everyone to risk everything, to let themselves be guided by invisible forces to uncertain futures.”