The Lonely Seeker

by C A Oliver

  “Matriarch Nyriele, may I ask a question?”

  With a gentle smile, the young high priestess responded.

  “Please do, Mayile.”

  “You have not mentioned the Daughter of the Islands. Is she not the servant of Eïwele Llya?”

  “Indeed, she is, Mayile, you are correct. The Daughter of the Islands is the messenger of Eïwele Llya, who we also call the Mother of the Islands. But this came later, much later, after the Green Elves reached the Archipelago’s shores.”

  “Tell us about that, Matriarch Nyriele! Oh please!” her audience begged unanimously.

  The young high priestess gave in with pleasure.

  “Our clans came from across the Austral Ocean, from the tropical forests of Essawylor on the Mainland. One day, a very long time ago, our white ships finally reached the shores of this Archipelago. News of our coming spread rapidly. The three sister Deities were so overjoyed that, for a time, they would leave their hideouts and walk among our ancestors. They said that the Green Elves had been summoned to the Lost Islands by Eïwal Ffeyn, who had delivered them from the tyranny of the Gods. They warned that because of their jealous nature, those Gods feared the Elves’ power would grow too great to be governed, and thus encouraged the Giants to populate the Archipelago and put them in place to rob the Elves of their rightful kingdom. Following the advice of the three sister Deities, our clans claimed the Lost Islands as their own, destroying all those who stood in their path.”

  “And the Deity of War and Hunting, Eïwal Vars, taught our ancestors how to make steel swords and spears! And also, strong bows and enchanted arrows,” said Melyne, a radiant maiden with shining eyes and long curly hair.

  “Yes, I learnt about that too!” added Megyle, another young apprentice. “Eïwal Vars also made shields for them, and the Deity of Storms, Eïwal Ffeyn, emblazoned them with images of the birds he had created. That’s how the arms of our clans were made.”

  Nyriele could see that her pupils wished to know more about this ancient period of history, dating back more than twenty-five centuries. She went on.

  “Indeed. That is how the Green Elves were so well armed in what we would later call ‘The wars of Birds and Stones’. The Giants and other creatures marshalled their forces and took to the land, forgetting their origins in the mountains, spreading across the Archipelago in great number. War wrecked the Lost Islands for many decades. This was the time of Aonyn dyl Llyvary; it was during these wars that his great spear was forged. The Giants were eventually driven out into the farthest corners of the isles where they could be watched. It was in those days that Eïwele Llya chose one of the Elves to become her envoy, to speak out and give warning to those who did not abide by the laws of nature.”

  Mayile was at this point getting excited.

  “I saw her!” She could not help but exclaim, her eyes blazing like two magnificent sapphires. “Some years ago, I saw her, after the great ship of the Blue Elves washed up on our shores. I crossed her path, near the temple of Eïwal Ffeyn in Llafal.”

  A discontented murmur ran through the temple’s classroom, as the other pupils of Eïwele Llyi’s cult expressed their incredulity at what Mayile claimed. The large, high-ceilinged room, made of white stone from the nearby mountains, was adjacent to the main shrine. The grumblings of Mayile’s fellow pupils echoed throughout the vast classroom. It was as if all the heroic characters, whose images decorated the numerous stained-glass windows above, were muttering in disbelief along with all the maidens. Mayile raised her voice to make herself heard.

  “She’s an Elf like no other! She is part-animal and part-statue. I remember her eyes; they looked like they were made of shining stone, like emeralds, and she had tall antlers like a great stag of the forest.”

  The general murmur turned to open dissent, and Mayile almost had to yell the proof that would guarantee her story.

  “I saw her, I did! My friend Marwen will tell you. She was with me that day. Marwen is now a priestess. She serves Matriarch Lyrine. No one would dare doubt her word.”

  Nyriele finally ended the tumultuous debate. As soon as her clear voice was heard, she had her students’ full attention and calm was restored. She looked at them with love and pride. The young matriarch was standing in front of a dozen apprentices of Eïwele Llyi’s cult. One day, they would become priestesses of the Deity of Beauty and Arts. Nyriele knew what influence her teachings would have on their futures. She continued, conscientious of the effect her words would have on her audience.

  “Mayile speaks the truth. And I have a very good reason to believe her. She is referring to one of the few meetings my mother and I had with the Daughter of the Islands.”

  A profound silence fell; all were astonished that their beloved tutor had been present at such an important event. Some of the apprentices looked to the marble statues that adorned their classroom, like as many heroes who could suddenly spring into action. The statues all showed legendary figures performing their immortal deeds.

  “The Daughter of the Islands is indeed no common Elf. In the old days, she was known as Lore, the eldest matriarch of the clan Ernaly at that time. Her power is still immense; try as one might to erect fortresses to escape her grasp, is no use, for she can take any of the various forms with which nature has endowed her. She is often seen as a mighty stag, her resplendent antlers flashing through the fields and forests. Some say that the Daughter of the Islands can change herself into a giant hawk and fly across the straits. Indeed, she has been known to roam across all of the Lost Islands.”

  Nyriele wished to say no more. It suddenly felt as if a shadow were passing before her, like the lurking, distant memory of a cruelty from long ago. Just as she was turning away, to hide her distress from her students, there was a knock at the classroom door. The young high priestess gestured for Mayile to go and open the door. The blond maiden, always spirited and willing, soon welcomed in a beautiful lady, lightly dressed in a white robe. All the apprentices immediately recognized Fendrya dyn Feli and rose at her arrival. The Blue Elf, somewhat embarrassed, addressed the room, her words coloured by her exotic accent.

  “I am deeply sorry for interrupting your class, Matriarch Nyriele. If I had known…”

  “We were just coming to an end, Fendrya; you have arrived at the perfect moment.”

  The young matriarch turned to her class and dismissed her apprentices before continuing.

  “I must thank you, on behalf of all of us here, for the gift you made to the temple. These sea pearls will be treasured forever, as indeed they deserve to be.”

  The two ladies exited the classroom to walk about the temple’s nave, as the murmur of the chattering young Elves faded into the distance. Reaching the centre of the nave, Nyriele and Fendrya stopped in front of the main altar of the shrine. They took a moment to contemplate the unique sculptural masterpiece. It was made entirely of black marble. Eïwele Llyi’s, main commandment was carved into the marble: ‘Pysa argola’, meaning ‘give yourself to art’. Fendrya resumed the conversation. She was excited and spoke quickly, though she had not yet fully mastered the Llewenti tongue.

  “I believe we discussed the calendar of the Blue Elves last time we met. Do you remember? It would give me great pleasure to explain it in further detail. Do you know what’s most amazing about it?” Fendrya began.

  “No, I do not. But I look forward learning everything about it,” Nyriele politely replied with her most beautiful smile.

  “Our calendar divides a year into forty-four ‘solar terms’. It sets specific dates to mark important changes. The wisest among my people understand that seasonality has a great influence on our mood and health, and consequently we adapt our diet according to the solar terms to limit the impact that changes to weather might have upon the body. If you look at this chart, it might become clearer.”

  Fendrya unfolded a beautiful piece of embroidery she had herself created. She was very skilled with her hands and was particularly gifted with a needle. It required both p
atience and perseverance.

  “How remarkable, this is state of the art!” exclaimed Nyriele as she marvelled at the work’s complexity.

  But suddenly she remembered a conversation with her mother, and her focus on the calendar waned. Nyriele remembered that Matriarch Lyrine had warned her of the Blue Elves’ cunning, of their ability to manipulate. They could easily utter nice words and offer precious gifts, but there was little chance they would honour their side of the bargains which had been made.

  Since their arrival on the shores of Nyn Llyvary and their heroic defence of Mentollà against the barbarians, the Austral Ocean’s castaways had been granted many honours and privileges. First, land had been handed over to the new warlord of Mentollà, Feïwal dyn Filweni. He now was also a member of the council of the forest. Nyriele knew how important it was to stay vigilant around these refugees from distant lands. Though gentle and friendly, they did not share the same values, beliefs or ambitions. Her mother’s words echoing in her mind, Nyriele suddenly felt cautious and cold-hearted. She turned to Fendrya abruptly.

  “Is it also for calendrical reasons that your shipwrights are having such difficulty completing the work they promised to carry out? For how long now have they been tarrying in Penlla’s shipyard? These delays in the construction of the new warship Feïwal dyn Filweni pledged to the clans of Llymar are causing frustration. A seat on the council of the forest does not only grant privileges and procure advantages; it also entails duties to the community.”

  Fendrya was taken aback by the sudden severity of Nyriele’s tone. The young lady hesitated for a moment, but the look in her eyes was one of wisdom. She was no ordinary Elf. Fendrya was a cousin of the dyn Filweni. As such, she exerted a certain authority within the community of Mentollà. She considered her answer carefully before replying.

  “No, it is not so. To speak true, delays in building the ship are caused by our discontent.”

  “Discontent?”

  “I am not calling our friendship into question, but it is sometimes a friend’s duty to speak their mind. The clans of Llymar welcomed us and gave us aid after the battle of Mentollà, and we are grateful for that. But the council of the forest now seem to consider that it is the destiny of the community of Mentollà to dwell forever in this island. I believe we made a significant contribution to Llymar when we fought and won at Mentollà, and yet we have not been dignified with a new boat of our own, and the routes of the seas remain prohibited to our kin. Our unique shipbuilding craft we learnt from the God of all Seas himself. I doubt that Feïwal will allow the Green Elves to benefit from the skills of our shipwrights until we have been granted what we so much desire. Is it fair that sails woven with our own hands shall be snatched away, never to be used by us? I think not.”

  A long silence followed. Nyriele contemplated her interlocutor. She saw only benevolence and kindness in all Fendrya’s gestures. She was wrapped in simple white robes which did not fully mask the fullness of her form. Her dangling, colourful earrings and bracelets from Essawylor brought the sensuality of her feminine beauty to life. The softness of her tanned, delicate skin was remarkable.

  Fendrya had joined the temple of Eïwele Llyi shortly after she discovered the teachings of the Deity of Arts and Beauty. The cult Nyriele headed had been honoured to welcome such an influential Elf into its order. The young matriarch was not going to change her mind now because of the rude sincerity of the Irawenti lady’s words. She adopted a more diplomatic tone.

  “I thank you for speaking your mind, Fendrya, and for advising me of what troubles the guide of your clan, Feïwal. I am surprised he did not make his position clearer.”

  “The Blue Elves tend not to swim against the tide. They will never directly refuse a request if they anticipate that their protest would be of no avail. It is part of our nature. We learnt to conduct ourselves in this way from the teachings of the God of all Seas.”

  “I understand. As you know, none can oppose the will of the council. In the case of these restrictions, you cannot deny that their purpose has been to protect you from our enemies at sea, be they the ships of the king of Gwarystan or the great galleys of his human allies. But I will nevertheless plead your cause, so that more freedoms might be granted to your kin. I wish you a safe trip back.”

  Fendrya understood that she was now being dismissed. Bowing respectfully, she took her leave. For a while, Nyriele observed her leaving the temple’s nave. She gazed around the architecture of the ancestral columns, the colours of the wall paintings, and the elegant marble statues.

  Nyriele decided to set out for a walk around her beloved city of Llafal. As she exited the temple, six guards followed her in formation, dressed magnificently in white cloaks and silver mail, bearing the symbol of Eïwele Llyi’s cult, a jasmine flower. Nyriele walked alone along the terraces of Temples Square which overlooked the vast pond below. Her figure was full of grace, and her face was blessed with unreal beauty. Her long, golden hair was held back by a headdress of white flowers. When she reached the open esplanade, the setting sun illuminated the fine silk cloth of her cloak, creating a shimmering light all around her.

  Nyriele looked out across the landscape, slowly taking in the air, seizing that brief moment of respite to commune with the nature she so loved, and to replenish her own inner strength. But that evening, the young matriarch was troubled by a persistent sense of resentment. Nyriele shivered and flinched as she felt her body growing numb, not from fear, but from a distant and wistful sadness. At first, she took little notice of the remote sensation. Gradually, however, Nyriele recognized the numbness as the dire threat that it was. Her day’s teaching had brought back a painful memory. Flashing through her mind repeatedly, almost obsessively, was her last encounter with Lore, the Daughter of the Islands. That unexpected meeting had now been a few years previous, just after the battle of Mentollà. Lore had revealed her much to her that day. Nyriele, ever since, had feared for her freedom to choose her own path.

  “Nyriele, you are the one the Mother of the Islands has elected. You are the chosen one, for your child shall one day replace me by Eïwele Llya’s side and join the Arkys in the Secret Vale. So be it. Be thankful for this grace bestowed upon your womb,” the ancient matriarch had sternly announced.

  Taken aback, Nyriele had tried to decline. “I never asked for this honour...”

  “None of us freely choose our destiny. Your fate was decided before you were born. I myself prepared the decoctions of plants that blessed the fertility of your mother.”

  A tense silence had followed. Lyrine’s daughter, with her independent nature, had refused to submit to that command.

  “I will not accept this. I am a matriarch of the clan Llyvary,” Nyriele had responded vehemently.

  But the resolution of Lore had proven strong.

  “Hear me well: there will be a day when my time upon the Lost Islands will come to an end. I must find a successor, she who will become the powerful servant that the Mother of the Islands has at her side to do her bidding. You have come of age and your power is growing. You must find the ideal father, from among the clans’ dyn, he who would be capable of giving you this mighty child.”

  Ever since that day, the despotic decree had troubled Nyriele’s mind, for she knew that there were powerful figures who had very different visions for her future. The young matriarch anticipated she would have to confront the will and prejudices of her kin if she wanted to live up to her own higher principles. As she remembered the encounter, Nyriele’s blue eyes expressed malaise and solitude. With an effort, she forced herself to stir.

  ‘Thinking too much about forces beyond our control can be dangerous,’ she knew instinctively.

  From the handrails of the majestic temple banisters, Nyriele was now looking down at a large wooden construction, slightly downhill, on the outskirts of the city. The Halls of Essawylor, as it was named, had been recently built to honour the castaways of the Austral Ocean after their courageous defence of the tower of Ment
ollà. The centre of its structure resembled a large, upturned ship, while from the multiple sides of the building sprung what looked like the oars of a powerful rowboat. The great wooden hall was a place of entertainment and leisure, with recreational facilities, decorative plants and flowers, and a decidedly jovial atmosphere. It had rapidly become Llafal’s most popular venue, for it regularly staged musical performances and held contests.

  ‘That evening, a gathering of Llymar’s artists is programmed,’ Nyriele remembered. ‘The city is teeming with excitement,’ she noticed.

  A cheerful, colourful crowd, primed for the evening’s celebration of music and wine, converged and headed up towards the Halls of Essawylor like an invading army. Nyriele became absorbed in the pleasant spectacle, hoping to rid her mind of the disruptive influence that the Daughter of the Islands’ words still had upon her.

  However, Nyriele’s attention was distracted by a strange and unpleasant feeling that disturbed the calm of her surroundings.

  ‘I can sense the suffering of a troubled heart: some inaudible complaint of a desperate being. It is somewhere around me. Danger could be at hand,’ she feared all of a sudden.

  Nyriele possessed a high sensitivity, which allowed her to pick up on the emotions of those around her. Not only could she see into the hearts of the Elves she conversed with, her expanded awareness could also perceive the troubled thoughts of those at a greater distance. Nyriele immediately scanned the numerous crowds gathered in and walking through Temples Square. She strained her ears to distinguish individual voices amongst the general babble and scrutinized the most inconspicuous-seeming Elves to see through any potential disguise. A moment later, she found him.