The Lonely Seeker

by C A Oliver

  Dyoren finally reached the path of the matriarchs. A wooden figure of Elvin design marked the secret entrance to the trail. It was a statue from long ago. It showed an armoured High Elf.

  The story went that, in one of the battles of the so-called wars of Ruby and Birds, this knight saw a matriarch of the clan Ernaly escape into the knot of a great oak tree. The High Elf had tried to wrench the oak apart, but he overestimated his might and his hands became trapped. The matriarch reappeared at his back; the knight was now helpless against she he had pursued. She ordered the wild beasts of the woods to devour him.

  Before starting out along the secret path, Dyoren examined the beautiful statue. He could not suppress a shiver.

  ‘It is no surprise that Ernaly artists chose scenes of violence as their inspiration. The Elves of my clan have a fierce nature. When pushed, they relish in cruelty. My two half-brothers are the epitome of the violent Ernaly nature,’ regretted the Lonely Seeker.

  But Dyoren considered himself to be very different. Although his mother had been a renowned matriarch in the clan Ernaly’s history, and one of the most feared, his father had the clan Llorely’s blood in his veins. His parents had not been together for long. Theirs too was a troubled age; the fate of the Lost Islands had been wrested from one conflict to another, as incessant as a mad torrent cascading from the hills. His father had been lost to that violent flow, never to reappear. Dyoren believed his solitary, artistic nature came from that father he had barely known.

  ‘Such is the secret of my lonely fate and the mould for my musical compositions,’ he confided to his shining blade.

  Dyoren came up to a rocky passage, as narrow and treacherous as ever, piercing the sheer face of a mountain wall and winding downwards. He followed the passage until its walls to either side opened out into a little vale, tucked between the encircling rocky cliffs, thick with tall trees and wild plants. Dyoren heard water drilling along the rocky slope, then saw the little silvery stream coming down through the vale. The air was dense with the sweet odours of the mountains: evening flowers, humid earth, and pines.

  Dyoren had chosen this vale as his lair. He believed it would be impossible to locate him here, for there was only one narrow path leading into it, beset as it was with winding gorges, slippery rock walls, and false trails to deter the uninvited. The whole place was a kind of wild walled garden, where the full beauty of nature was displayed in delicate balance. The music of the gurgling stream echoed all around. At the centre of the vale, beyond the little stream, was a grove of clustered pine and cedar trees with a few aged and weathered oaks.

  Night came, and the Lonely Seeker smiled, as if he had been waiting eagerly for darkness to come.

  “At last, we are home” he rejoiced.

  Dyoren headed towards the cliff’s wall and removed foliage to unveil a secret passage, which opened out into a small cave which served as his own private chambers. This place was Dyoren’s refuge, the haven to which he could always return. The cavern’s walls were covered with hundreds of rare books, ancient scrolls and dusty parchments. It was here that Dyoren would read, study and cross-check the tales of old, ever seeking out the smallest details, the tiniest morsels of information that might help him in his quest. Whenever he was away, he always felt anxious to return here and continue his research. Dyoren knew that what he was looking for was there somewhere, amid those unlikely piles of paper, leather and ink. But that night, another priority was haunting his mind. Dyoren reached down and pulled up an old cask he had safely hidden an inch or two below the cave’s soil. Without pausing, Dyoren filled and refilled his cup several times, rapidly swallowing long gulps of that golden nectar he cherished so dearly.

  ‘How sad that drinking is the only comfort I can find...’ he murmured, before rising to his feet ceremoniously, in order to propose a toast to himself.

  ‘I shall drink so that my heart is ever young, and ever filled with songs. I shall drink myself into oblivion.’

  He looked out at Rymsing, which lay bare on the grassy soil of the glade, before continuing.

  ‘Hope is born of desire, and desire must be rooted in memory. You, Rymsing, are my only memory and my only desire. You are my first and unique hope. I know you; you are mine. You give me my energy, like a morning breeze carrying the fresh ocean spray. You are the only one.’

  Before continuing, he helped himself to another glass of the golden liquor.

  ‘I remember the day I first held you in my hands. I was brought forth before the Arkys of the Secret Vale. It was the hour of day when the light changes most. The sun was slowly sinking while the moon was opening out into its full beauty. The majesty of the Arkys filled me with awe. I remember bowing low, in deference before their thrones. The Arkylon then said to me, ‘Rise, son of Ernaly, for the Secret Vale is glad of your coming. If you have found our dwellings, your heart must indeed be filled with the desire to serve.’ I answered as though awakening from a deep reverie: ‘I have no memory of what strange paths I have walked to reach the Secret Vale. I followed a stag, a great one, unlike any that have ever roamed the Lost Islands.’’

  Dyoren reached for the oboe that was stashed in a corner of his little cave. After playing a few notes, he remembered.

  ‘That day, I composed this piece of music.’

  It was a simple and vibrant hymn, paying reverence to the ideals of loyalty and respect. It was powerful, poetic and heartfelt: the kind of music that can tame savage souls. The sublime melody rose from Dyoren's oboe: a fragile and pure love song. It produced an almost divine harmony, which mixed irresistibly with the sweet fragrances flowing in from the grove.

  As he played, Dyoren’s face was all compassion, his poise one of noble grandeur; but his eyes were burning with an intense inner fire. His mystical music was building an ethereal bridge between his own spirit world and the magnificent natural environment that surrounded him. Now remembering the melody in full, the Lonely Seeker lay his oboe on the ground and picked up the tune with his rich, mournful voice. Dyoren sang out his finely crafted verses with exquisite nuance. He continued with his song until well after the sun had disappeared over the far side of the mountains’ peaks.

  At last, the moon went down too, sinking behind the highest peaks of Nyn Ernaly that stretched up towards the starlit heaven. Dyoren brought his hymn to an end. He was exhausted in body and mind. He lay down on the grassy soil of the grove, hugging his precious sword close into his chest.

  *

  The next day, early in the morning, the sun was just rising above the peaks of the Arob Chanun Mountains, its rays pouring down through the pines, while clouds of violet and turquoise emanated up from the undergrowth. Nature was shaking itself back to life. A thrush started to sing. The sun, in celebration, sent a single ray of light through the oscillating branches to illuminate the slumbering face of Dyoren.

  Curiously, the current of the grove’s small stream suddenly began spraying up and over its banks with surprising force. The straying droplets slowly began to soak Dyoren’s clothes. Eventually it reached his hair and face, wrenching him awake from his dreams. The startled Dyoren got quickly to his feet. Immediately, intuitively, Dyoren knew he was in danger. He looked down at the broadsword in his hands. The colour of the blade was unchanged, but its usually reassuring presence had somehow ceased to comfort him. Yet, there was no sign of the emerald glow the blade gave off in times of peril. Dyoren was perplexed.

  ‘No Man or Giant has ever found their way to this hideout. Even if anyone identifies the passage in the rocks, he will have a hard time facing the spirits of the forest that guard the entrance to the grove!’

  This new threat was therefore of a different nature. Looking up, Dyoren was shown a kind of answer. The morning sky was filled with hawks; their flocking in such great numbers was highly unusual. While falcons were numerous in the mountainous parts of Nyn Ernaly, they were seldom seen in the Hageyu maze, for it was located close to the waterfalls: the realm of herring gulls and cormorants. Dyoren
held his breath. He now felt scared. Dark memories were rushing through his mind: images of frantic flights from horrible violence in the night.

  ‘I need to flee immediately!’ he realized.

  Dyoren quickly gathered the few possessions he had brought with him. Dropping down his blade, he rushed inside the cave to grab some food. Soon his travel bag was filled with supplies that would be indispensable for the journey ahead. Finally, Dyoren turned back to his broadsword and reached out to seize it, but it slipped out of his grasp. The emerald stones that were incrusted along its pommel scratched the skin of his fingers. Surprised by his nervous clumsiness, he took a breath and then picked the magic glaive up from the grass.

  His eye was caught by movement in the foliage. He could just about make out a lurking silhouette, shifting and shimmering, which he then discerned as a brown and green cloak blending with the gleam of leaves and lower branches. Others followed this first scout. They were walking in formation down the matriarchs’ path.

  ‘It is too late to flee!’ Dyoren understood.

  And he stood still, his sword in hand, its blade cold and bare. He soon recognized the intruder leading the group. It was one of his half-brothers.

  “What are you doing here, Voryn dyl? And why travel with such a heavily armed escort? Are you afraid of walking alone in the woods of your childhood?” Dyoren asked.

  There was no warmth in his words. Dyoren despised his youngest half-brother, who he had always called ‘the Ugly’. Though they shared the same mother, their fathers were very different Elves, and had been renowned as fierce opponents.

  Indifferent to Dyoren’s words and gesture, Voryn dyl ‘the Ugly’ was progressing slowly along the rocks. The dreaded archer held his bow in his left hand, while his right hovered over the string. There was menacing intent in his posture and gait. He could fire that bow at any time.

  Many other Elves of the clan Ernaly now appeared amidst the vegetation of the grove, creeping between the trees and climbing down rock walls. Dyoren knew them personally, for he had fought many battles by their side. They were seasoned fighters of clan Ernaly, dedicated to the service of his other brother, Mynar dyl. Like some harrowing ballet, they slowly positioned themselves at regular intervals, forming a semicircle around Dyoren, closing off all escape routes. He counted them: two units, or fifty fighters in total. Prospects were grim.

  The encirclement was soon complete; Dyoren was now isolated at the edge of the glade. He instinctively stepped back and threw a glance behind him. Dyoren shivered; thirty feet down the sheer cliff face, the wild and cold waters of the Hageyu River were rushing madly towards the falls, whose thunderous roar could be heard from a league away. Dyoren, now anxious, turned back towards the newcomers to question their intent. Suddenly, his face froze.

  “You have also come, Mynar dyl...” He could barely utter the words. “These must be grave times indeed.”

  A slim, elegant figure emerged into the light, like an actor stepping onto his stage. He was dressed with great care, as if he wanted to capture the attention of his numerous spectators, all waiting in anticipation for what was about to happen.

  “What you mean is: I have returned,” said Mynar dyl drily.

  His face expressed calm determination. His beauty had earned him the name of ‘the Fair,’ and indeed Mynar dyl was blessed with a magnetic physical appearance.

  “Remember, brother,” he continued, “this island used to be our homeland.”

  “Your mission must be pressing, for you to have travelled far, and left behind the comfort of your chambers,” said Dyoren, trying to establish some authority as the elder brother.

  “Indeed, I have...” replied Mynar dyl. His tone almost had a noble sadness to it, like a king looking over a realm overflowing with strife.

  He was interrupted by the sound of rocks tumbling down from the steep slope above. Dyoren turned his head to find the source of the noise. A mighty stag had loosed the stones as it walked up a rocky promontory overlooking the glade. The animal was unnaturally large: the size of the largest war horse he had ever seen. But the creature was also blessed with a rare nimbleness. Like a quick mountain goat, it moved swiftly along the ridge to gain the best vantage point over the scene below.

  Taken aback by the sudden presence of this legendary creature, Dyoren then understood the significance of the moment. His features became tense and sweat drilled down his temples. His face was illuminated by another ray of morning sun, as if he were being picked out as the principal character in the drama about to unfold. Dyoren hesitantly sung out an old chant of praise.

  “O Eïwele Llya! O Mother of the Islands! I praise your glory, for if the Archipelago is vast; your realm is even greater.”

  The presence of the stag seemed to inspire confidence in Mynar dyl. With a booming, authoritative voice, well used to giving orders in the heat of battle, the fair warlord then ceremoniously spoke.

  “We have come to excavate the tombs. We shall convey the remains to the forest of Llymar. They will there be safe from the defilement of Men.”

  “No! That cannot be done,” Dyoren responded with vehemence. “It is too dangerous. The knights of the Golden Hand are watching in wait. The servants of King Norelin have surrounded the Hageyu Falls with many spies. They are using fell magic! You will not be able to leave the wood of Silver Leaves unnoticed, especially if you are transporting the four coffins.”

  Still very calm, Mynar dyl brought an end to the debate. “I did not come here to discuss strategy. I am following orders.”

  “This is unwise. This is ridiculous! Do you know what is kept inside the most sacred tomb of them all? Do you realize what is at stake? It is the one relic we must preserve, at all costs!” insisted Dyoren.

  Mynar dyl remained impassive, as cold and distant as the silver diadem that crowned his head.He ignored his brother’s questions and continued.

  “Those are not my only instructions.”

  The livid Lonely Seeker said nothing in response. His eyes widened in realization. A silence followed, during which Voryn dyl indicated to his combatants with the slightest nod of his head. He wanted them on their guard. The clan Ernaly’s fighters began stretching out the strings of their bows.

  “Dyoren the Seventh, I have come to terminate your charge.”

  Mynar dyl’s clipped declaration hit Dyoren with all the force of an avalanche crushing everything in its path. Dyoren could barely believe what was happening and tried to appeal to his half-brother’s better nature. His gaze went from Mynar dyl to the great stag, unable to take in the very scene that was centred upon him. Finally, Dyoren protested vehemently.

  “Do I need to remind you who I am?”

  “We all know who you were. I can say no more,” replied Mynar dyl, laconically.

  That cold, heartless tone brought the Lonely Seeker’s anger flooding back to him.

  “I am Dyoren the Seventh; the honours accorded to me tower above any clan warlord. I am the great bard whose lyrics have woven the history of the swords of Nargrond Valley. I am serving now as the knight sent forth by the Secret Vale. My errand is of unmatched importance.”

  As he was speaking, Dyoren started to feel like he was merely throwing words into the wind. Mynar dyl kept silent for a moment, giving his speech, when it did come, all the more strength.

  “The situation is critical, and action is urgently required. My brother, your quest ends here. The time has come for the Arkys to appoint a new Dyoren,” commanded Mynar dyl.

  His detached intonation suggested he had received his instructions from a higher authority.

  To illustrate the power vested in Mynar dyl, the stag jumped from its high promontory and came sniffing and snorting into the middle of the glade. The majestic animal then hovered by the water's edge to drink. Driven to despair, Dyoren looked at his blade, Rymsing, which he still held in his right hand.

  “You would betray me?” he asked, barely audibly, overwhelmed by anguish and denial.

  Dyoren
took two steps back and disappeared off the cliff, without a cry.

  CHAPTER 2: Nyriele

  2712, Season of Eïwele Llya, 94th day, Nyn Llyvary, Llafal

  “The three sister Deities, Eïwele Llyi, Eïwele Llya and Eïwele Llyo, have dwelled about the Lost Islands for millennia, long before the coming of the Elves. Together, they have cared for the Archipelago, through its flourishing summers and its freezing winters. To carry instructions, deliver favours and settle the inevitable conflicts, Eïwele Llyi would send forth ‘The Veil’, a vast congregation of butterflies. Its flurry of intense colour could instil hope into the hearts of lowly creatures, and its enveloping cloud could protect many a helpless doe. Eïwele Llya planted giant trees, the Eïwaloni, so that she and her sisters could breathe the vivid air of the forests from their great subterranean sanctuaries. Eïwele Llyo created lakes, like the great Halwyfal we know so well. From all those placid pools of clear water scattered across the Lost Islands, the Deity of Dreams and Fate could watch the Archipelago grow and strive.”