by C A Oliver
The four Elves walked across the long, wide beach. It ran for more than twenty leagues from the forest of Tios Lly to the ocean hills feet. Its sandy dunes served as natural protection for the fields of northern Nyn Ernaly, a collection of fair and fertile lands terraced along the plateau which lay between the Chanun Mountains and the sea. Before reaching the camp’s entrance, they had to cross a boggy section of beach, half conquered by the sea, where numerous little pools and streams hindered their progress.
Daylight spread across the sky as they approached the camp’s walls. They all looked up at a great bird that seemed to be drawing near. A shaft of light pierced the morning clouds, and the tips of the guards’ lances shone as they waited at the gate. A horn was blown; its clear noted echoed long. The four Elves headed towards the drawbridge. The wooden doors of the gate were opened before them.
Several fighters gathered feverishly around them, eager to see Curwë, the Elf with green eyes who had killed the knights of the Golden Hand’s commander. The domineering voice of Curubor sounded out above them.
“Move away! Do you not recognize the standard of the Golden Arch when you see it?”
And, the disappointed fighters had to fall back to let them pass. Through the confusion of their welcome, the four Elves attempted find their way to the command post, where the highest-ranking chiefs of Llymar army were expecting them. Curwë had to push his way through the crowd who came swarming around him as soon as he was recognized. He smiled politely, but nevertheless remained stolid. Though he was pleased that the troops appreciated his efforts, his mind was focused on what would be discussed in the command tent. He knew that it was Gal dyl Avrony, Protector of the Forest, who had summoned them. Beneath his cloak, Curwë was clutching the precious reliquary containing the testament of Rowë. He was keen to deliver it without delay.
The four Elves finally saw the command tent’s entrance. They walked past the tent of House Dol Etrond, which had been built nearby. Equidistant from the command centre was the clan Ernaly’s headquarters and another well-furnished tent adorned with the white swan of clan Llyvary.
Before them stood the six guards of the Protector, the most trusted of his fighters. As news of their arrival had reached the tent before they did, the four Elves were admitted at once into an anteroom. Daylight seeped in through its walls of painted ships’ sails. The canvas separating them from the main room was thin and, judging by the loud murmur they could hear, they immediately understood that a large assembly awaited them. Soon, more clan Avrony guards, wearing splendid ceremonial cloaks in the mahogany and beige of their clan, admitted them inside the temporary, but still imposing, edifice.
“All have been convened!” one of the sentries announced, with the official opening cry of the council of the forest.
It was Curubor who stepped first into the great hall of painted sails. The three Elves of Mentollà followed. Aewöl entered last. The one-eyed Elf had to blink several times before his vision adjusted to the intense light that flooded the hall. As he looked up to the white part of the sails, Aewöl realized several mirrors had been placed in the wide aisles at either side of the assembly, reflecting the sun and filling the hall with the brightness he had found so dazzling. The fleet’s highest masts stood in a circle to hold up the sails, like tall wooden pillars upholding a majestic white roof. Many Elves were gathered.
At the northernmost side of the hall was a stage, draped in a large white sail. The many commanders and captains of the Green Elves, at least two dozen in number, were standing there. Priests of the different Islands’ cults comingled in their ranks. They were easily recognizable by the colour of their robes; the emerald of the forest for Eïwal Vars’ clerics, the azure of the sky for Eïwal Ffeyn’s priests, and the gold of sunlight for Eïwal Lon’s disciples. Runes carved into precious wood adorned their silver necklaces.
Priestesses of the Mother of the Islands were also present. Their robes were the colour of the woods, and were adorned with magnolia flowers, the symbol of their Deity, Eïwele Llya. The redbreasts flying around them brought cheer to the formal scene.
The priestesses of Eïwele Llyo remained apart, at the far end of the tent, amid the orchids that had been planted there. Wrapped in grey ceremonial robes, some were tending to the many ravens that the great tent housed. Others were absorbed in prayer.
Only the white priestesses of the temple of Eïwele Llyi were missing. A herald invited the attendants.
“The council should start!”
From the stage where they were stood, this assembled multitude could scan the newcomers from head to toe as they came in. In his dirty traveller’s clothes, Aewöl felt filthy, out of place among such a noble assembly.
In front of the newcomers, a number of illustrious chairs, decorated with figures from the Islands’ mythology, had been arranged to face the stage. The clans’ dyl were sitting on these seats. Aewöl counted them: sixteen noble Elves in total. They were wearing their ceremonial garments, which comprised long robes of various green hues. Aewöl thought that this gathering seemed just as official as any of the major ceremonies and clan councils he had attended in Llafal. In front of this impressive audience, the stage dominated the rest of the hall. Four throne-like wooden chairs, adorned with feathers, were set down in an arc. They were the symbol of the warlords’ power.
Tyar dyl Llyvary sat nearest the centre, representing Llafal; Leyen dyl Llyvary, captain of the fleet of Penlla, was on his right; Mynar dyl Ernaly, the fair warlord of Tios Halabron, was on his left. Aewöl also identified Voryn dyl the Ugly, standing below the green banner depicting the clan Ernaly’s hawk, next to his elder brother.
In the middle of the great tent, at the foot of the stage upon its lowest step, there was one more imposing wooden chair, and on it sat a noble Elf with an abundance of blonde hair, which looked almost like a mane. He had a handsome, slightly tanned face and shining eyes. In his hand was a long lance: the fabled Spear of Aonyn. This was Gal dyl Avrony, last scion of the sixth and lowest clan in Llewenti hierarchy. He nevertheless held the most prominent position in Llymar. Gal dyl, Protector of the Forest, was seated on his oaken throne, its back like a colourful peacock with its wings spread. He was surrounded by the other dignitaries of Llymar’s army. It was a striking tableau to behold.
Aewöl then looked to Camatael Dol Lewin, former prisoner of the knights of the Golden Hand, who they had rescued after the battle of Lepsy Gorge. The high priest of Eïwal Lon wore purple robes held by a rare buckle in the form of a white racing unicorn. Camatael rose to offer his chair, as Curubor entered the hall.
“My Lord Dol Etrond, it is your honour to occupy the warlord of Tios Lluin’s seat,” he proposed.
But the Blue Mage politely declined. He preferred to stand by the Protector’s side, marking his higher power and influence.
The great hall of sails was crowded and hot. All eyes turned to the three Elves from Mentollà; they soon became the source of many excited conversations. For a moment, they were somewhat overwhelmed by the amount of attention they were receiving.
Aewöl, in particular, felt uncomfortable. He noticed that Curubor took advantage of the momentary confusion to whisper discreetly in Gal dyl’s ear. The Protector of the Forest then stood to greet the newcomers with a show of enthusiasm.
“Welcome! Welcome to the true heroes of the campaign!” Gal dyl exclaimed.
All could now see the reliquary of Rowë’s will hanging from Curwë’s belt. He seemed taller, more handsome than usual, as though he had grown in stature and beauty as a result of his feat. His light clothes hugged his athletic body, toned by its skill and experience in combat. Curwë glanced towards the back of the hall, behind the warlords’ seats, where he saw Roquendagor standing proudly among the other noble dyn and captains of Llymar’s army. Curubor noticed Curwë’s gaze and immediately instructed one of the guards to fetch the tall knight. The Blue Mage raised his voice, so that all under the great tent could hear.
“May Roquendagor the
Tireless, who brought countless ills to the Westerners, join his companions from Mentollà. Many Men’s souls did he send hurrying down to their doom, leaving their corpses to the circling vultures.”
The four Elves of Mentollà were reunited, but this was not the time for effusive greetings. The ceremony was beginning.
“Welcome, Curwë! It is an honour to have you among us,” Gal dyl exclaimed rather quickly, as if eager to have the formalities over with. “Your bravery proved most useful. Incredible! You have quite the future ahead of you, I am sure. Really, though, I am deeply proud to call you our new hero.”
Gal dyl was no high-born prince, and he did not possess the natural majesty of a ruler. He felt uncomfortable taking on the role at the centre of that noble assembly. By trying to rush through the formal celebration, his speech became awkward and his behaviour inappropriate. With an impatient flap of his hand, Gal dyl beckoned to one of his guards, who approached holding out a necklace of Eïwaloni leaves, which had apparently been prepared for the ceremony. The guard gave the verdant ornament, a symbol of victory among the clans, to Gal dyl. Before the guard had even returned to his position beside his five other brothers in arms next to the throne, Gal dyl was placing the precious award around Curwë’s neck. With no further ceremony, the Protector of the Forest declared.
“Curwë, you have emerged victorious after these recent trials. Before now, when you walked the streets of Llafal towards the House of Essawylor, your great hall of music, crowds were already saluting you with respect. Tomorrow, when the world learns of your heroic feats in Nyn Ernaly, you will become famous throughout the forest. All will be grateful beyond measure, for you have kept the testament of Rowë from falling into the wrong hands.”
In response, Curwë gestured towards his companions behind him and declared solemnly.
“I am grateful, Protector of the Forest. You honour me greatly. Allow me to share this praise with my companions from Mentollà. They deserve this recognition too.”
The bard moved graciously, as if performing on a stage. His poised tone and controlled manners contrasted with the clumsiness of the Elvin army commander. With theatrical flair, he snatched the precious reliquary from his belt, and offered it to Gal dyl with a deep bow.
“I hand you the sacred box of Rowë, Protector of the Forest,” Curwë announced, “so that it may return to the wisest among the Elves of the Lost Islands. May you receive it as a pledge of loyalty from the community of Mentollà.”
Gal dyl took the sacred box and raised it with both hands. The moment the reliquary was presented for all to see; the assembly’s reaction was ecstatic. The Green Elves broke out into loud, enthusiastic cheers, invoking their Deities and shouting out prayers of thanks. This artefact was of great importance to them, for it symbolised a holy message passed down to them through the will of Rowë Dol Nargrond.
The precious reliquary was now in the Protector of the Forest’s hand, safe from harm. All felt confident that it would now remain unspoiled until the time came to open it and read its message from centuries ago. All rejoiced. Aewöl began to find heart. With a tap of his finger, Gal dyl motioned for his servants to bring wine, fruits and bread, so that everybody could celebrate. The many mirrors illuminated the scene with golden streaks of refracted light. In the descending twilight, against the walls of quivering sails, each of the party's guests looked revived and cheerful, their eyes sparkling with renewed hope.
This joyous celebration was suddenly interrupted by the echo of a bird’s cry coming from the back of the hall of sails, accompanied by an unnatural wind that felt like the very breath of nature. The plants inside the great tent began to quiver with the force of the gust, and then shook violently. The entire wooden structure of the edifice trembled, as if the masts had begun gasping for life, stirred by the sudden force.
A creature stepped inside the hall, a creature that was both Elf and animal. Its thin body was shrouded in a long robe, made entirely of green feathers and foliage. Upon its head were antlers, proudly displayed. Its unnatural eyes were an intense, burning emerald. The arrival of this mighty creature was greeted with silent awe.
All the Green Elves kneeled slowly, in a display of utmost respect. The few High Elves present hesitated for a moment before adopting the same cautious pose. Mynar dyl was the first to catch his breath. The warlord of clan Ernaly recited the verses of Eïwele Llya’s liturgy.
“We worship you, O Daughter of the Islands, Envoy of Eïwele Llya Herself. Your power is drawn from the earth, and upon this earth we kneel. We bow before you: we, faithful servants to the Mother of the Islands.”
“Rise!” the legendary matriarch spat back aggressively; her emerald eyes ablaze. She thrust her antlers into the air like a majestic stag.
The Daughter of the Islands approached the clan Ernaly warlord and murmured into his ear.
“The Mother of the Islands holds our destiny in her hands,” acknowledged Mynar dyl.
The fair warlord moved towards Gal dyl and asked him for the sacred box. The Protector of the Forest granted the request with absolute obedience. Mynar dyl then spoke out for all to hear. His voice was charged with devotion, his speech emphatic and haughty.
“And so, the testament of Rowë is entrusted to Lore, Daughter of the Islands, and Envoy of the Secret Vale. May the precious will be returned to the Arkys and may they protect it until the time of great peril comes.”
Mynar dyl then bowed respectfully. His gaze was fixed upon the sacred box. For some moments, he remained still, almost breathless. He seemed to be concentrating particularly hard upon the precious reliquary. Mynar dyl held it up. It showed no sign of breakage or wear. Markings could be seen on its sides, but they were no longer glittering like magic runes. Suddenly and to the surprise of all, Mynar dyl turned towards Curwë, an accusatory anger in his eyes.
“The warding glyphs of the sacred box are no longer protecting the testament. Someone has dispelled their power. Someone has attempted to violate the secrecy of Rowë’s will,” Mynar dyl declared.
Curwë almost fainted at the denunciation, as though he had been hit by a violent blow. Beside him, Aewöl’s face turned ashen, as pale as the Goddess of Doom. Behind them, Roquendagor and Gelros looked astonished. The Daughter of the Islands moved towards Mynar dyl and seized the sacred box from his hands. For a moment, she stood looking at the precious reliquary. Then, the Daughter of the Islands slowly removed its lid and withdrew its contents, taking care not to reveal anything to the assembly. She examined it at length, muttering unknown words of some mysterious incantation. Finally, her face showed relief, even satisfaction.
“The testament is unspoiled,” she declared, her deep voice flooding the hall like a torrent cascading down a mountain, “and nor has it been altered. It now comes with me, to the Secret Vale, where it will be kept by the Arkys, until the time comes to reveal its secrets to the true Elves of the Islands, the Seeds of Llyoriane.”
The Daughter of the Islands began to withdraw to the back of the great tent from whence she had come. The assembly seemed to shiver with deep emotion. Mynar dyl called to her, his voice calm and measured.
“What is to become of the offender? What must we do with him?”
The Daughter of the Islands did not even turn to answer him but, before disappearing amidst the white sails, she called back.
“The one you call the ‘offender’ is also he who saved the testament from the Islands’ enemies. Elvin kind's thirst for justice can be satisfied by Elves alone; you freely choose your own fair judges. The Secret Vale will take no part in sentences passed by the Elves of Llymar.”
Aewöl had a wild look in his eye. He was paralyzed with panic. He stared blankly and appeared not to notice what was going on around him. Suddenly, he spotted Curubor. The Blue Mage was looking at him directly. Aewöl was unable to hold his azure gaze, such was its intensity. It seemed that Curubor was trying to communicate with him mentally, over the few yards that separated them, using an innate telepathic ability
.
‘Confess! Confess now, and I will protect you! I will save your life!’ Aewöl understood.
The Daughter of the Islands disappeared behind the rear facade of the great tent, made of lofty white drapes hanging from above. The air was hot and still inside, as though Eïwal Ffeyn was denying entry to any marine breeze that might purify the stagnant Elvin assembly. Mynar dyl had not forgotten the offence committed by the bearer of the testament. He turned to Gal dyl.
“Protector of the Forest, I suggest you command your guards to seize the offender and send word to the matriarchs in Llymar. They will decide if the prisoner should be sentenced.”
Gal dyl, shocked by this suggestion, which had sounded more like an order, spat back a sharp reply.
“Curwë is under my protection whether you like it or not, Mynar dyl. I alone will consider this matter and act as I wish.”
Gal dyl’s personal guards approached, standing reverently and silently before him. They did not speak a word. The six clan Avrony fighters waited. No order was given, and neither were they dismissed. Before them, Gal dyl sat on his great oaken chair. The seat, backed like a colourful peacock with its wings spread, suddenly appeared much too large for the Protector’s stature.
Tyar dyl of clan Llyvary, warlord of Llafal and the eldest of all commanders present rose from his seat.