by C A Oliver
A figure had walked out of the covered arcades that led to the sanctuary of Eïwal Vars and was now coming up to Temples Square. She did not recognize the mysterious Elf first. He was poorly dressed, though his stature was imposing. His abundant blond hair was flowing over his shoulders and masking his features. Realizing that his odd gait had given him away, the tall Elf changed direction, heading directly towards Nyriele. The young matriarch was about to call to her guards when she recognized the newcomer.
“Oh, Dyoren! It is you! What has happened?” she exclaimed, shocked by the distress she perceived in him.
The Lonely Seeker came right up to her and quickly whispered, almost inaudibly, like one possessed.
“We cannot talk here. Let us meet in the Halls of Essawylor. I am in desperate need of your advice,” and he was gone, disappearing into the crowd that flocked down the slopes towards the great wooden hall.
Nyriele stood there for a moment, puzzled. She realized something unusual was going on. Her first instinct was to inform her father, to seek his counsel and protection. But Gal dyl was away at sea, commanding the swanships on the whale hunt. While Nyriele could have called upon her mother, curiosity for what Dyoren had to say soon prevailed. And, more than that, her heart was full of compassion for the fabled bard. She did not know him personally, for the wielder of Rymsing lived alone in the wilderness, dedicated to his own mysterious quest. Occasionally he would make a sudden appearance in Llafal, or in another of Llymar’s cities, to share the tales of his journeys, what he called the ‘Songs of the Islands’.
Dyoren was renowned as the greatest bard ever to have walked the passes of the Archipelago. A legendary figure among the Green Elves, the eldest scion of the clan Ernaly was also held up as a symbol of creativity.Now that he needed her assistance, there was no way the young high priestess could refuse him. Nyriele covered her head with a light shawl to hide her face. She turned towards her guards to dismiss them.
“You may leave. I will not require your services tonight. I am going to the Halls of Essawylor, to dance.”
She spoke with the lightest, most joyful of tones, in the hope she would convince them. The guards hesitated before finally resolving to depart. Nyriele found their presence unnecessary and embarrassing. She suspected that their primary duty was to spy on behalf of her mother, rather than protect her from some unknown threat. In any case, it would not have been the first time she had participated in one of the great hall’s festivities.
Soon afterwards, Nyriele entered the Halls of Essawylor. A great murmur of the many high-spirited conversations echoed throughout the large reception room. Amid exotic plants and tropical flowers, the vaulted room was decorated with colourful tapestries. A crowd of over four hundred Elves milled carefree about the room, surging in particular around the generously furnished buffets. A swarm of young Elves were circulating among the crowd, carrying jars of cider and jugs of wine, dependably refilling the glasses of the revellers. Elves of all origins and races mingled in the gathering throng, amazed by the sheer magnitude of the festivities.
Nyriele set off towards the furthest side of the great hall, ostensibly managing to hide her identity from the partygoers. The audience were all smiles as the next song began; two Elves from Mentollà, sat around a large wooden table, were skilfully plucking at the strings of their exotic harps. The crowd cheered and clapped along to the rhythm of the new piece. Nyriele then saw another musician, a High Elf with brown hair and gleaming clothes, who joined the musicians at their table, his lyre in his hand.
‘This is the bard Curwë,’ she immediately recognized.
Curwë was the undisputed master of this music from Essawylor known as Muswab. He began playing, and seamlessly the notes of his instrument mixed with those of the harps. His playful melodic line would accelerate, rebound and dance around the lightly textured layers of the harps. Curwë had entered into a state of perfect communion with his art; he was not simply playing his lyre, but rather helping the strings to laugh and dance of their own volition, so as to celebrate freedom and joy.
One by one, other musicians came to sit around the table to join in the Muswab. Another High Elf from Essawylor struck his tambourine to accentuate the contagious rhythm of the song, adding a new drive to the piece. Nyriele saw Gelros, the dark-featured scout from Mentollà; settle down with his large drum, bringing depth and power to the Muswab with its low-pitched beat. More than a dozen musicians had now taken position on the stage, and began to play, improvising verses of their own. The crowd continued to sing in chorus. Over the course of this celebration in music, the hearts of the players had returned to their homeland of Essawylor, across the Austral Ocean, and they had transported their audience with them.
Nyriele was just coming up to the main crowd, dancing despite herself, when Dyoren finally joined her. He had taken the precaution of hiding his face with an azure mask. Many guests had adorned colourful disguises to lose themselves more completely in the feast. Here, just like celebrations held in the kingdom of Essawylor, the masked and costumed revellers could fully indulge their desires to become someone else. Dyoren was the first to speak. His voice, altered by anxiety and despair, contrasted dramatically with the scene that surrounded him.
“Noble Matriarch, I come to seek your advice. You hold my life in your hands, for I dare not speak to anyone else. I fear the charge of treason.”
Nyriele, now more concerned than ever, replied.
“Why would you fear such a thing, Dyoren? And why not directly seek the protection of Matriarch Lyrine?”
“I have been betrayed. I cannot trust anyone anymore. They want… they want to take her away from me.”
“Her?” Nyriele asked, now committed to help him.
“My sword, my beloved Rymsing…”
“Tell me plainly, Dyoren: who would dare attempt that?”
But the Lonely Seeker’s distracted mind had lost its train of thought and was now jumping from one memory to another.
“I have not rested since. I cannot sleep. I am in danger, grave danger. There’s madness upon me, a madness I cannot shake… or perhaps it is lucidity? One thing I cannot stop asking: was it my own family who betrayed me or… was it her? Yes, it could have been her… she has been different, changed, ever since the siege of Mentollà… as if she no longer trusts my abilities…”
Nyriele took hold of his hands in an effort to placate the violence of feeling that tortured his soul. She uttered a few words of prayer to Eïwele Llyi, and soon Dyoren found a certain peace and composure.
“Matriarch Nyriele, you are a high priestess of Eïwele Llyi, you are a servant of the Deity of Love and Beauty; you know the secret of hearts.”
“How can I help you, Dyoren?” prompted the beautiful maiden.
“Can the one you love betray you? When you have dedicated your life to her, when you have sacrificed your own fate for hers, is it possible she could betray you and leave you by the wayside?”
“Love is not an oath,” Nyriele started gently, compassionately; “It is not an eternal commitment.”
But Dyoren had lost the thread of his thoughts once again. He began muttering feverishly, like one digging around in the depths of his soul.
“Your beloved, your clan, your very brothers, might one day turn their backs on you and condemn you to your doom. I cannot, I will not survive…”
The desperate Elf was about to faint. Nyriele decided to act. She laid her hands upon his head.
“The grace of Eïwele Llyi be bestowed upon you; may her strength calm your torment and soothe your soul. May you find peace!”
Dyoren was so weak that he could no longer stand. Nyriele took hold of him, guiding him into a chair against the wall.
“I had to swim the strait of Tiude to flee them… I could not rest for days… I can no longer think…” he murmured, before sliding off his seat onto the ground.
Nyriele pushed the chair aside and leaned over him. In the happy confusion of the feast and the music, no one
had so far noticed the dramatic scene taking place. The young matriarch was looking around to find help when she saw him: a tall, thin Elf, with dark hair and lunar-white skin, dressed without ostentation in a black tunic. The left side of his face was covered by a metal mask, shadowy green in colour. But this disguise was no ordinary costume; it was a necessary protection, for this Elf had lost his eye at the siege of Mentollà. She knew him to be the second master of the Halls of Essawylor, a close companion of Curwë. But she could not remember his name.
“May I offer my assistance, Lady Nyriele?” proposed the pale Elf curtly. The gaze of his single eye was sharp and piercing, as if he were extracting the truth from her veins.
The young matriarch hesitated; she could perceive an enigmatic sadness in the gaze of this newcomer: the cold flame of a deeply buried anger. She knew immediately that her powers to charm would be wasted on such an icy heart. But Nyriele did not have the time to be overly cautious. Some Elves from the crowd had already turned in their direction, intrigued at the strange scene unfolding at the side of the hall. Nyriele decided to accept his offer.
“This Elf needs immediate assistance. Could you kindly take him to one of your backrooms? You are one of the masters of this house, I believe?”
“My name is Aewöl, and I am at your service, my lady.”
Aewöl bowed respectfully, and then immediately set about aiding the helpless Elf. Then a look of recognition swept over his face.
“Ah! This is Dyoren… the fabled Seeker,” he whispered to Nyriele. “I thought I recognized him as he entered the Halls of Essawylor. I know him well; Arwela, the seer of the clan of Filweni, faithfully tended to both our wounds after the battle of Mentollà.”
Aewöl’s hand involuntarily reached for the mask which covered his left eye, the remembrance of his severe injury inducing a distant pain. After shaking Dyoren with some force, Aewöl lifted him to his feet and put his arm around his own shoulder. The music was still playing, but this disturbance had broken the concentration of many Elves in the vicinity. They were looking angrily at those who had distracted them, until one guest let out a gasp of wonder. He had recognized the young matriarch of the clan Llyvary.
“Nyriele is here! She has come to dance! Nyriele is here…” The rumour spread across the great hall as swiftly as an ocean breeze through the coastline’s woods.
Nyriele knew that she could no longer hide her presence. It was just after nightfall, and the voices of the bards were joining a new song. They were united in their effort to probe the mysterious beauty of Essawylor music. There was a powerful wave of excitement through the crowd. From the threshold of the room to its besieged buffets, one name was now on everyone’s lips.
"Nyriele… Nyriele will dance…" the murmur rippled.
Just as the song was building, and the musicians had once again captivated their public, the young matriarch made a sudden entrance onto the stage. Her simple light dress, white with brightly coloured patterns, sculpted around her perfect body with a boned bodice. Her shoulders were beautifully naked and her now-unveiled hair was remarkable. Like some mythic divinity, it was pushed back by a diadem and then cascaded elegantly over her shoulders and down to her hips.
Ignoring the swell of praise from her admirers as she walked on stage, the beautiful maiden began to perform her first movements. The crowd yelled, cheered and applauded widely. They were immediately taken aback by Nyriele’s style, a succession of unusual gestures that paid little heed to formal rules, using her entire body as she went unpredictably but fluidly from one unconventional move to the next. She was unconsciously adapting her body to the music’s twists and turns.
After a time, the pleasure of seeing soon mingled with the joy of listening because, of all the musicians, the renowned bard from Essawylor, Curwë, stepped forward. As the song and the dancing gradually drew to an end, his lyre emitted a low swell of noise, indistinct and muddled, but nonetheless pleasant. Nyriele ended her sweet movements and stood in the middle of the stage. She looked as if she were hypnotized. The bard’s music became increasingly clear and intelligible. Curwë, sat up on a raised wooden level, was working his lyre with great virtuosity. Like in a strange spell, its music bewitched and delighted the audience. Curwë’s fingers were doing more than playing. They were developing an exotic musical structure, a magnificent architecture of heavenly notes. The crowd applauded, their spirits lifted and ignited. Bewitched, Nyriele listened with fond recollection, until Curwë extinguished the final echo of his instrument. Applause spread throughout the great hall with tumultuous fervour.
“Our gift from Essawylor! The music of the Five Rivers! You interpret life’s beauty like no one else!” the audience shouted with fervour.
Curwë gave a stylish salute to the crowd, who continued to cheer feverishly long after the end of his incredible performance. He then gently offered his hand to Nyriele and, as the other musicians started up again, the two Elves stepped offstage and became lost in the crowd.
“You play the lyre with such beauty,” Nyriele said, somewhat shyly, hesitant to immerse her gaze into the mysterious emerald eyes of the charming Curwë.
“Firstly, this is not a lyre. We call it an Ywana in Essawylor. It was fabricated by the best luthier,” replied Curwë with assurance.
He continued with the same confident tone, apparently undaunted by the bewitching beauty of the young matriarch’s smile.
“Secondly, it's not the way I played which charmed you. It was, I believe, the music itself that you enjoyed. I could tell by the way you were listening, the way you were moving. But I agree with you! The music was magnificent. I am particularly proud of this song.”
Curwë then explained how he had composed the piece, and why it sounded so different from anything Nyriele had heard before.
“I just performed a traditional ballad; its movements are set out with all the precision of a full musical score, yet it is full of elusive gaps and evocative silences. The Ywana travels free, like the sound of the wind at temperate dusk. It imitates the lute song, but its arrangements are stratified, played consecutively rather than at the same time. Its overall structure is that of a descending arpeggio. It’s this that makes all the difference.”
“Ah!” she muttered, now openly smiling.
Nyriele did not follow the full meaning of what Curwë had said. He understood from her lost expression that his explanation had been unsatisfactory, so he went on.
“In other words, this tune was particularly pleasing because its chorus was composed according to the old standards of consonance, as established by the Silver Elves of yore. This is how I infused the delicious trace of exotic melodies into my composition to bewitch my audience. Wasn’t I clever?” he concluded, visibly very happy with himself.
His green eyes were sparkling with self-content and genuine pleasure. Nyriele listened to Curwë talk with sincere attention. She let the handsome narrator lay out his ideas without daring to stop him, without having even the idea of interrupting. He spoke with animation and passion, as if his life depended on each detailed explanation of his art. Instinctively, Nyriele knew that now was the moment to plead her cause. She spoke softly, with an appealing voice.
“I need your assistance… I need your assistance… now…”
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“I said… I need your assistance…”
“If it concerns the art of music, I am the most trustworthy servant you could ever find.”
“No, Master Curwë, this is very serious.”
“Oh, I apologize! I see now that you look distraught.”
“This is not the proper place to discuss this matter… perhaps…”
“Come, come with me. There is passage out of here where the air will be cooler. What can I do? How can I help you?” Curwë asked. He could hear himself; he knew he was speaking with a pining anxiety. “I’ll do anything to assist you.”
“Your companion, Aewöl, has rescued a friend of mine who is in dire need of as
sistance. They must now be in one of the backrooms,” Nyriele finally confided.
The two Elves escaped the clamorous crowd by a side door. They soon reached a large room at the very back of the halls. It was Aewöl’s dwelling. Reaching up to this vast chamber’s high ceiling were enough species of plant to fill a wild, dark forest. Bookcases were loaded with ancient manuscripts. A stock of phials filled with wine was displayed openly, as if the bottles were a fine piece of sculpted glasswork. The fine wood floor and sophisticated decor conferred the place with a striking air of exotic elegance.
Dyoren was sat in a large, comfortable armchair, busy examining the contents of his crystal glass. He seemed to have recovered from his faintness, and his gaze was utterly changed. He looked somewhat uneasy and upset, however; the concoction he had been given had energized his body but impaired his mind.
“What is that he’s drinking?” Nyriele inquired offhandedly, hiding her worry and suspicion that some toxic substance had been administered.
“A liquor from Essawylor,” replied Aewöl, “a decoction of lime and the leaves of Bronyel. Sailors use it to ward off evil sea spirits. It is a very powerful restorative, but in no way should it replace a long period of rest. Dyoren is exhausted.”