The Lonely Seeker

by C A Oliver

  Aewöl nodded. “Time will tell. Remember, the oath of Lormelin stands between them.”

  The mention of this ancient curse caused them a certain uneasiness. Whenever they referred back to their cruel past, their feeling of isolation deepened even further, and this shadow passed over them now. Aewöl, usually so cold and unfeeling, suddenly seemed vulnerable, his lack of self-confidence unconcealed. Curwë believed that his friend’s lifelong quest for an identity was the source of his weakness. Aewöl went on, but his tone was now devoid of all joy.

  “The following day, from our vantage point in the mountains, we saw the army of Nellos leaving the gorge. The Westerners were abandoning the battlefield and heading towards Tar-Andevar. We could see them dispatching scouts across the entire region, so we waited for nightfall to make our next move. Gelros informed us that your corpse had not been found in the ravine below. You had disappeared. We quickly understood that those scouts were after you. As a result, we decided to split up. Roquendagor led the wounded northwards. Curubor and Camatael accompanied him to the beach of Asto Salassy, where Gal dyl’s army was retreating to, and where the fleet of Llymar is still anchored. The Green Elves had already dug in at the beach. I decided to stay behind with Gelros and look for you.”

  The conversation between the two friends lasted a while. They were enjoying each other’s company even more than they needed to rest. But, when the sun reached its peak in the sky, Curwë felt he needed more time recovering in bed. He was still weak, despite the restorative qualities of the pure forest air. Aewöl composed a short message to be sent to Roquendagor, to inform him that Curwë was safe and that they would soon join him at the Elvin army camp.

  Gelros was expert in the ways of birds; he could tame and befriend even the wildest of them. The scout knew some of their simple languages and could charm them with ease. Gelros chose a blackbird which dwelt within range. He persuaded him to visit the northern beach of Nyn Ernaly, find the Elvin camp and look for a crow’s nest, set atop a long pole. Roquendagor was familiar with this type of communication, which they had used extensively during the wars of Essawylor. Gelros wrapped the small scroll, which Aewöl had written, around the bird’s leg. He guessed that a raven could cover forty leagues in a day. It meant their message would, in all likelihood, reach Roquendagor before nightfall. This task done; the two Elves resumed their activities. Gelros quickly disappeared into the woods.

  “Barbarian tribes dwell in the forest of Tios Lly. Rumours of an Elvin army on the northern shore of Nyn Ernaly must have spread. The barbarians will be eager to defend their hunting grounds. We must stay vigilant,” he warned before leaving.

  Gelros climbed to the top of a tall pine tree that gave him a dominant view over their campsite’s boundaries. Up in the air among the branches, the surrounding woods rolling out before him, he could easily spot any potential enemy approaching below, whilst he himself remained completely hidden.

  Meanwhile, Aewöl was immersing himself in the study of several small manuscripts that he always carried in his satchel. They included maritime maps, population figures of the Lost Islands’ cities and price lists for various products, he had managed to gather when dealing with the clans of Llymar and the Breymounarty company.

  Aewöl was focussed on his work, using all his attention to plot out mysterious plans. He was first and foremost an alchemist, always seeking to capture the essence of various forces, from the composition of raw materials to the ebbs and flows of commerce.

  Again, a painful awareness of his loneliness threatened to take hold. In order to escape that familiar, oppressive feeling, Aewöl was now fully absorbed in his task. From that point on, the words and numbers flowed, and, after a while, he had amassed several pages that were covered in lines of writing.

  *

  Eventually, just before sunset, Curwë stretched himself out and arose from his bed of leaves. His dreams had been pleasant, and his bruised limbs showed further signs of recovery. He was soon chatting away with his usual good humour, showing an interest in Aewöl’s work.

  “This planning is of vital importance, Curwë,” replied the one-eyed Elf, his tone serious. “The situation has changed. With our newfound reputation that our latest deeds have earned us, we can now nurture even greater ambitions. Going forward, there is little the clans of Llymar could deny us. Lord Curubor has already mentioned one reward; he made a personal pledge to Roquendagor that the community of Mentollà will be granted one of the swanships in recognition of our actions. It was Feïwal’s wish that we could roam the seas of the Lost Islands freely. Do you understand what this means for us? The community of Mentollà can now develop Alqualinquë, its own maritime company. We will finally possess a vessel capable of sailing the high seas. We’ll be able to trade the exclusive goods we produce ourselves.”

  Curwë was excited. “Imagine when the matriarchs hear that the testament of Rowë has been recovered… when they lay their hands on the sacred box and marvel at the beauty of the gleaming glyphs protecting it. I think it’s fair to expect their sincere gratitude.The future certainly looks promising.”

  “More than you could ever hope for, my friend. We control production of rare goods. We have brave sailors to travel the seas and the valiant captain Nelwiri to command them. And, soon, we will have our own ship, the first of the Alqualinquë company,” rejoiced Aewöl.

  He explained his reasoning further, his sole eye bright as ever.

  “The clans of Llymar use no currency. Gold, silver, coins, indeed any kind of money, are prohibited according to their ancient laws. Goods and services are available freely to each individual at the city market. In return, each Elf has to join a particular organization and can be called up to work for the community. Gold, and all forms of currency, are viewed as a pernicious shortcut that some Elves use to elude their duty towards the community and avoid their share of the work. The Green Elves only trade what they cannot produce themselves. Barter between the guilds is the norm. As a result, commerce between the clans across the seas of the Archipelago is limited… at least, it has been until now.”

  “What do you mean?” Curwë asked.

  He had gotten somewhat lost in Aewöl’s overture. The one-eyed Elf ignored his friend’s question and pushed on, turning now to commercial practice within King Norelin’s realm.

  “On the other hand, trade within the kingdom of Gwarystan is far less interesting. The only factor that can slightly affect price is your ability to bargain. Outside of the kingdom’s boundaries, however, where bartering is the convention, trading valuable goods without exchanging gold may well create considerable opportunities for us. Think of it, the clans of Llymar have no common measure of value between them. Without currency, there is no indivisible unit of worth by which one can value other goods, and that’s not to mention the difficulty it causes storing wealth. The conclusion is that the intermediary, whose position enables him to barter with the Llewenti clans, can then smuggle goods into the kingdom of Gwarystan. That participant, Curwë, becomes rich… considerably rich… as Master Aertelyr probably is today. And, with gold, there are a lot of things one can achieve.”

  The bard smiled at his friend’s enthusiasm. Ignoring Curwë’s amused look, which he interpreted as naïve candour, Aewöl gestured, with the silver tip of his polished dagger, to two ground beetles, feasting over the remains of a large snail.

  “That little scene,” murmured the one-eyed Elf, “is a good summary of what commerce in the Lost Islands could become...”

  “What do you mean?” asked Curwë, curious.

  “When the main player weakens and decays, there will always be other factions who can partner up and ruin him.”

  Aewöl always looked upon the outside world with great distrust. He perceived his environment as threatening, and always interpreted any relationship through the lens of conflict. The one-eyed Elf struggled to consider things with any generosity. After some thought, Curwë understood his friend’s point.

  “Are you refer
ring to what might happen to the Gwarystan trading companies if they become cut off by our alliance with Master Aertelyr?”

  “I will let you draw your own conclusions. But, after this new defeat in Nyn Ernaly, King Norelin finds himself in a difficult position. His failed attempt to seize Rowë’s testament isolates him further from his Elvin partisans. To the Elves who identify as ‘Seeds of Llyoriane,’ he now looks like a grave robber. By sending his servants on this mission so directly, King Norelin has openly committed sacrilege against the Lost Islands’ history. News will spread among the realm’s Elvin communities. Many Elves may well turn away from their rightful sovereign. That is when our merchant company, Alqualinquë, will come to the fore.”

  “There’s still a long way from the cup to the lips,” Curwë noted, somewhat dubious.

  The bard observed that, as he had been passionately discussing his vision for this new company, Aewöl had been drinking Dyoren’s reserve of wine without restraint. Curwë could not resist issuing a gentle reprimand.

  “Do not think that you can drown unquenchable longing with draughts of wine. Such a course will only replace your ambitious aspirations with new ones, which would eventually take you to your doom. There are unsatisfied desires dwelling in your heart, my friend, and in no other Elf have I ever seen such thirst for impossible achievement.”

  “We shall see, Curwë!” countered Aewöl. “We shall both see the glorious future of our company unfold. Concentrate on the sales talk: I will manage strategy.”

  Curwë smiled and proposed a toast. “Long live Alqualinquë! Long live the Flamboyant Bard and the Merciless Alchemist! Or I should say… Long live the Hero and the Treasurer.”

  After that improbable boast, the two companions laughed loud and long. A starry sky materialized above them, and Gelros came down from his pine tree. The air was already cool and soft, as if the days of Autumn were approaching. But the scout soon understood that the group would not be leaving the campsite that night. Curwë undoubtedly required more time to heal his burnt skin and bruised limbs and, indeed, another matter played an important part in their decision to stay put. Aewöl and Curwë were laying the foundations of a maritime company. They spoke all night long, until Dyoren’s wine reserve had finally been drained.

  *

  When the morning came, Gelros lay motionless beside the two Elves, his gloved hands clutching his long bow. Indifferent to the noise of their impassioned conversation, his eyes were closed. His mind was travelling through vast stretches of memory, resting quietly in a deep reverie, as was the way of the Elves. The wind was blowing gently through the trees. Other than the chatter of the two recent founders of Alqualinquë, there was no sound in the forest.

  Suddenly, Gelros woke up. In the blink of an eye, he was on his feet. Startled by his sudden reaction, Curwë and Aewöl immediately reached for their crossbows. They carefully scanned their surroundings, but did not notice anything out of the ordinary. Gelros did not say a word and made no gesture. He stood still, looking into the deep shadows of the woods, his hand placed on a great tree. Multi-coloured butterflies were gathering around him. Deep in thought, he looked as if he were listening to the silent voices of the forest.

  “My birds are gone. Something has drawn them away from us,” Gelros finally said.

  There was silence. The forest which, until then, had hidden and protected them was perhaps now yet another threat ranged against them.After a while, Gelros spoke again.

  “The butterflies tell me of azure shapes flying between the trees, of blue bards roaming the woods, inquiring about an Elf... an Elf with green eyes. They tell me of illusions, like evanescent impressions of...”

  A severe voice interrupted him from the depths of the woods.

  “Evanescent... the impressions we make upon the world are always evanescent, if not ephemeral, Gelros the Archer. Didn’t Eïwal Lon once say, ‘By this effort, we put the seal of eternity upon the evanescent moment of our existences.”

  There, on the edge of their campsite, stood an old High Elf, straight and tall, dressed in fine blue robes, a golden arch embroidered on his shoulder. His grey hair was curled in the aristocratic manner. Everything about his appearance was clean and neat, the expression of unimpeachable self-confidence. The ancient Elf strode forward. The sun was just emerging between the trees, imbuing the air with new warmth. A bright beam of sunlight fell upon his face, illuminating his intense azure eyes.

  “Lord Curubor!” exclaimed Curwë.

  “Greetings, Elves of Mentollà,” the Blue Mage saluted them, “I am glad to have found you at last. It is good that you are safe.”

  In other circumstances, they would have greeted him warmly. They had met Curubor several times in Mentollà, for he had regularly visited their community, always offering gifts and words of friendship. A few days ago, too, after being broken free from his captors, the Blue Mage had shown his deepest gratitude to the heroes who had rescued himself and Camatael.

  But, in that instant, the three Elves from Mentollà felt strangely anxious, unable to find words of welcome. Curubor was meant to be at the Elvin army’s camp with Roquendagor and Camatael, with the wounded, yet here he was, walking alone in the woods. They looked at the ancient Elf, watchful, as he drew nearer, step by step. Finally, Aewöl and Curwë lowered their crossbows, though they both kept the bolts in their hands. Indifferent to their cautious measures, Curubor joined them, his eyes keen and bright, gleaming with satisfaction. The Blue Mage broke the silence first.

  “I am glad indeed to see you again, Curwë. I suspected you would be severely wounded, needing a period of convalescence. So, I have brought you some herbs of the forest that the matriarchs of Llymar use for healing.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Curubor sat down next to where they stood. He lit the fire and started boiling water in a pot. The three Elves from Mentollà stood silent, none of them taking the initiative, as if some spell lay upon them. Unable to stir, they all took a cup of the brew Curubor had prepared. They enjoyed the drink, and soon a pleasurable sensation washed over them. The decoction procured a remarkable feeling of being comfortable and a general sense of well-being. Still feeling in good health and good spirits, they started swapping their stories. They sat on the ground, their hands upon their knees.

  Curwë began his tale. He told of their errand after meeting with Nyriele and Dyoren in Llafal. He spoke, as if he were spinning the yarn in a busy tavern, of their perilous crossing through the Silver Leaves Wood, of their involvement in the battle against the Nellos army, and of his rescue by the Lonely Seeker. Despite his apparent naive keenness, the bard was careful not to mention many of the more intriguing details he had discussed with Dyoren. He did not allude to the question of the Elf of many shadows and his dark sword, nor did he share his theories on that mysterious Elf’s role in the events that had unfolded. Above all, he did not mention his recent acquisitions: neither the testament nor the dagger.

  For a long while, Curubor said nothing, but the ancient Elf’s azure gaze was constantly fixed upon the emerald eyes of the young bard. It was as if he could guess what Curwë was not saying. At last, Curubor sighed with relief when he heard of the Lonely Seeker’s new errand.

  “My heart feels lighter now that I know Dyoren’s part in your rescue. His humiliation was a tough trial for such a brave knight. The matriarchs of Llymar told me he was in peril, having refused to obey to the Arkys’ orders. The Lonely Seeker chose to follow his own path. I fear for him, but I cannot help admiring his courage. Dyoren continues to fight for the benefit of all, true to his oath, and faithful to the principles of the Seeds of Llyoriane. I personally knew each of the six Seekers who preceded him in his duties. Dyoren the Seventh is without doubt the worthiest of our esteem.”

  Curubor smiled as a streak of sunlight caressed his face. Having little patience for non-committal praise, Aewöl could not resist a provocation in response.

  “I do not think we’ve heard your story, Lord Curubor. We have all been wo
ndering how and why Lord Camatael and yourself ended up prisoners of the knights of the Golden Hand.”

  The Elves from Mentollà looked to the Blue Mage. A gleam of sunshine pierced the fleeting clouds to fall upon his hands, his four rings with their different gemstones lighting up as it did so. Eventually, Curubor looked straight up at the one-eyed Elf.

  “There is little to say, Aewöl... Lord Dol Lewin and I played our part in the recent events… perhaps even the most dangerous part. We had to rely on our own skills and intuition. But we were not wise enough, it would seem, for we failed to account for all the dangers that beset us. It is a perilous thing, trying to snare the knights of the Golden Hand. They have grown powerful; not only are they commanders who lead armies, they are also sorcerers with the teachings of the Ruby College at their fingertips. Camatael and I did not realize the peril we were in, so eager were we to lay our hands on the sacred tombs. We could not wait, so we came forth to assist the clan Ernaly troops. Such a little moment of impatience can prove deadly. We arrived too early and, before we could return to the safety of our hideout, spies of the Westerners spotted us, and the knights of the Golden Hand surrounded us. The battle was quick; putting up more of a fight would have been of no use.”