The festival of Sun’s Height comes with tears and mourning and the painful experience of the beginnings of Imperial occupation. The palace of the hæras is converted into the dwelling of Erinéäs, second commander of the armies of the Empire in Telmérion, and from here he exercises his authority with an iron hand. The first thing he does is to forbid the evening service of dedication that concludes the festival, saying that Nirániel is a goddess solely of Telméric invention and nothing but a figment of the people’s imagination. He says that while the Vælírian Empire recognizes the Six, the fashioners of the cosmic order and guardians of life, they reject any others, whether an equal and companion to the Six, such as Nirániel, or one who supposedly stands behind or is greater than the Six.
Pained by this ban and yet grateful to be allowed at least to offer a funeral and memorial service for the many who were lost in the battle, Cirien speaks to the people of fidelity and resistance, of patience and hope. He knows that Erinéäs, whose diplomatic advisor attends the service, will not be pleased with his words, but he hopes, if not for clemency, at least for the animosity to be directed only toward his own person and not toward any of those who listen to him. For Cirien shall soon depart from the city himself, and he cannot refrain from encouraging the grieving hearts of those who have been entrusted to him and who now find themselves facing an interminable occupation and fear of forces of evil deeper than they could have guessed even in their darkest nightmares.
“Over four thousand innocent civilians have died in the last four days,” Cirien says at the end of his address, “and almost equal that amount of warriors have been slain in battle. How can we not grieve at this irreparable loss, at this violation of the dignity of life, of family, of city, and of clan? We have lost brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, sons and daughters, friends and neighbors. We have lost so many who are dear to us, and the wounds of this loss shall remain always as a reminder of our love, our love for them and their love for us—and of the love that has joined us together. And we have encountered terrifying darkness also, horrors unimaginable, and how can our hearts not be afflicted with fear? How indeed can our hearts not be angry and confused? But I urge and advise you: now is the time for peace and prayer, for patience and hope. The great battle that lies before you now is the one that occurs in the secret spaces of your own heart. It is here that you must ask yourself: ‘What do I believe? For what do I stand? What does the voice within me demand, the one that calls me higher, to nobility, justice, light, and good?’ Only when these questions are asked and to some degree answered, can you begin to discern the path of hope and desire unfolding before you.
“Do not despair. Yes, by all means weep, lament, and mourn. Ask the questions of anguish and pain that your heart wishes to ask. Cry out to the gods in your confusion and anger, if you must. But recall that the rebellion asked of you is not toward the guardians of your life, who have only ever cared for your well-being and watched over every moment of your existence, as is their place and their delight. You must rather rebel against despair, against the seduction of hopelessness born of grief. I repeat: the battle is within. Fight this battle with all your heart, relying not on your own strength but turning to that which is greater than you and which shall sustain you. Fight this battle, the battle of hope against hopelessness, of longing over despair, of light over the darkness that lives within every one of us and seeks to overcome us and make us slaves to itself. Fight this battle, and every other battle shall, in a way, already be won. Prove victorious in this contest, and every other path, as arduous as it may be, shall be held in that great victory that precedes all, and, in preceding, also carries all else within itself.”
After this his voice falls silent, and Cirien gestures for the service to continue. The crowds stand outside the city walls, looking to the southeast, upon an open field that is now filled with columns of the dead laid out upon burial pyres. Those who are not too horribly disfigured to be left uncovered face upward to the cloudy sky, through which the sun dimly shines as if veiling its light out of reverence for the dead. Others are covered in pale or white cloth from head to toe, and only the hint of their figure can be discerned, hands upon the breast and body arranged with dignity, awaiting the flames that will consume all as a burnt offering, turning the body to dust that shall be carried away upon the wind to faraway lands or shall sink into the soil to nourish the land of Telmérion.
The voice of a cleric from the temple of Meléngthar echoes throughout the plain, and the people hearken to his words as he offers the final prayers of departure for the deceased. And then many men of the city guard, with torches in their hands, go among the columns and ignite the burial pyres, one by one, until the whole plain is filled with the dancing of flames and torrents of smoke spiraling and twirling up into the sky, whence they mingle with the clouds and create a dense covering over Ristfánd and its surrounds. To Cirien’s eyes the dense clouds of smoke look almost like thunderclouds, low-hanging and full-to-bursting, not however a gift of the heavens nourishing and fructifying the earth, but a gift of the earth to the heavens, a sorrowful offering made with pain and lament, and yet with the spark of hope for the mystery that lies beyond death.
Tilliána, standing near the front of the crowd, feels the heat of the flames upon her face, and it dries her tears even as they fall; and the smoke burns her eyes and her nose as she sobs. She turns her face away, not only from the heat and smoke but from the whole ritual, from the flames, which she has come to despise, and from the death and loss, which have not only touched her life but have filled it to bursting with grief beyond measure. Fire once meant the warmth of the hearth of home, around which family would gather, and the gentle light that danced on walls and floor and face, illumining the night. But now fire means the threat of death; it means loss and destruction; it means the voracious appetite of evil to consume the living until there is nothing remaining. Overwhelmed by this feeling, Tilliána turns to leave, attempting to weave her way through the dense crowd of mourners and back to the city, or anywhere, anywhere far away from this place of death. But as she does so, she finds herself walking straight into Eldárien. Seeing the deep and rugged scars on his cheek and the sober glistening in his eyes as he looks at her, she simply collapses, unsure of whether it is exhaustion, despair, or surrender. He catches her to prevent her from falling to the earth, and, to her surprise, without any need for words, he leads her away, through the crowd, in the opposite direction of the burial pyres.
Soon they are walking through the trees around the south side of Ristfánd, the walls to the northwest, with thousands of voices echoing melodies of lament behind them. Tilliána is in too much pain to speak, and she simply walks at Eldárien’s side, following wherever he leads. Their path winds through the woods, the trees gently stirring in the breeze, a welcome breath of air from the sea, though it mingles now with the pungent odor of smoke from the burning bodies of thousands of dead. Tilliána tries to turn her mind’s eye away from the faces of those she has lost and from the nagging thought of the sheer number of people that have been slain in the last week. But she cannot do so. Is this what war is like? Is this what the future holds for her and for the people of Telmérion? It seems no more than a losing battle against the might of an Empire whose only care appears to be power and domination, the expansion of its rule over other nations, and a battle against forces far worse, and far more dangerous and more despicable.
Eventually they come to the ocean and find themselves standing on a wide shelf of stone three or four yards above the surf, which swells against the rock with a rhythmic crashing, sending salty spray into the air with every new surge of water against land. Silently they look out across the ocean as the waves roll in their ceaseless cycle, the breath of the sea churning up from its depths as it exhales to the furthest periphery until it meets the land, still and unyielding, or its heartbeat sending forth the circulation from the hidden heart of the ocean to the surface of frothy sea-skin, where water and land kiss in the ceaseless rhythm of the two elements, ever set in opposition and ever set in complementarity. The sheer expanse of the ocean’s surface, ever moving and never still as far as the eye can see, somehow eases Tilliána’s sense of being trapped, of not having enough room to breathe. She finds herself exhaling deeply and then drawing in a breath of clean air from the sea breeze. Her tears have ceased to fall now, and her sobs have stopped racking her body, but she aches all over and feels almost too weak to stand.
Without words or even turning to look at Eldárien, she allows herself to sink to the ground and sit upon the shelf, letting her feet hang off its edge. He silently joins her, and she looks at him for a moment, enough to see him folding his hands across his lap and looking out over the ocean, the wind stirring his long hair and the sun glinting in his eyes. Then she turns away and closes her eyes, this time not to escape nor to hold back tears but simply to sink into the sound and feel of the ocean, whose ceaseless music reaches out to enfold and comfort her. A long while passes and she begins to sink into sleep, only to be stirred awake by Eldárien’s soft voice.
“I would wipe away your tears, Tilliána, were it within my power. I would wipe away the tears of all the people of Telmérion, and all those in all the ages of the world who have ever wept in loss and grief. But all I can offer is my meager consolation and my humble promise: I shall do everything that I can to bring an end to the darkness that assails us and to prevent more tragedies like this from occurring. But even then…even then, there is something more. If the pain of loss cannot be avoided, and if the scars of grief come regardless, then I hope that I can be a vessel of healing light, an instrument of consolation, for those in pain, that hope may be found even in darkness.” He pauses, and the silence between them is pregnant. “I depart soon, within a day or two, for the west. I pursue the truth of a promise or a hope of light that may yet have the capacity to dispel the darkness of our time. For reasons beyond my comprehending this light has been entrusted to me. It has…gripped me. And now my heart has become a meeting-place of light and darkness. I wish that I could stay, could bear the pain of these people, if such bearing could ease their burdens and bring them life. But I must depart, for only a light much greater than any of us now possess can dispel the shadows that descend upon us. It is perhaps indeed a path of folly…to leave the city now, to leave the war behind, and to walk paths untrod. But I must do this, and the voice of Hiliána draws me silently, who once spoke to me in a place of darkness and named me ‘Lightborn,’ entrusting me with her sacred fire with which to purge the creatures of darkness.”
Though she cannot explain it to herself, Tilliána finds comfort and consolation in Eldárien’s words, an encouragement deeper than she would have found in words spoken directly to her concerning her own loss and pain. It is as though at this moment she needs, beyond her own awareness, simply to be swept up in something greater than she is, to make contact again with the current of life flowing ever onward in its aspiration toward goodness and beauty beyond the destructive forces of evil and death. “Where are you going?” she asks, opening her eyes and turning to look at Eldárien.
“To an ancient forest, the only known place in which the title ‘lightborn’ has ever been used,” he replies. “It is called Velási. None of this did I know until Cirien revealed it to me. I was as ignorant and out of my depth as you are. But I trust Cirien’s words and his wisdom deeply, and I take solace in the knowledge that he shall be accompanying me on this journey. Elmáriyë shall as well.” He looks at her with compassion in his eyes and says, “I tell you this because I know that you too take great solace in the care of Cirien and Elmáriyë, and I feel sorrow and regret that they shall be leaving now with my own departure.”
Hiding her own feelings, all that she says in response is, “And your companion, Rórlain, does he go as well?”
“I know not yet what he shall decide, whether to accompany us or to stay and aid in the struggles that lie before the people of Ristfánd.”
“Why do you tell me all of this?” she asks.
“It is as I said: I regret leaving and taking with me those who have become, as it were, a new family for you in the loss of the family that you have long known.”
She is moved by his words, surprised that he speaks with such understanding of something that she has not even acknowledged to herself until this moment. But what he says is true: Elmáriyë and Cirien have become as her new family, and, in the hospital under the care of Elmáriyë and later in the temple of Nirániel, she has found a space of security and healing that has given her a sense of belonging that she feared she would never find again.
“I suppose…I just want to apologize,” Eldárien says, looking at her. “I rejoice that life has been given to you again, but I mourn that you must suffer yet another loss, this time at my hands or at least due to my presence. If I could, I would never harm you or cause you suffering in any way, but only bring you peace and comfort and newness of life, as I was granted once, where the flames of death gave way to hope beyond hope.”
A long moment of silence stretches between them now, the sound of the waves alone filling the air, before Tilliána speaks. She says, “But there is another way. Bring me from the fires again one more time and allow me to accompany my new family wherever they may go.”
Concern fills Eldárien’s eyes, and he replies, “The path is dangerous and uncertain. I know not what awaits us. I fear to bring you along.”
“Could it possibly be more dangerous than remaining here?” she asks.
“Easily so,” he answers without hesitation, but then his face softens. “But of course, if that is your wish, I am in no place to prevent you. I leave the decision to you, to be resolved within your own heart. But if you come, then I shall be your guardian. And I know that they, too, shall care for you, as they have done until now.”
“Then it is decided,” Tilliána says after a moment of thought. There is no doubt within her, and she feels a thread of clarity, thin but strong, emerging in her darkness once again. “I know exactly what path I must walk, even if we see not where that path leads.”
Eldárien simply looks at her and nods silently, as if accepting this resolve and giving in response the guardianship that he has promised.
† † †
“I would greatly appreciate if you stayed with us,” Hérsir says to Rórlain as they sit together in the former’s house, his wife and two children in an adjacent room. “I need all the aid I can find in resisting the Imperial occupation and doing so with subtlety and tact rather than open force—at least until open force again becomes feasible. You have shown yourself willing to fight for the cause of Telmérion and her freedom even in the face of greatest conflict. I would be glad to have you at my side.”
“That is why I have come to speak with you, commander,” Rórlain replies.
“Then you shall be staying?”
“I came rather to ask for your advice and perspective, as my decision is not yet made.”
“I see,” says Hérsir, leaning back in his chair. “You still wish to follow the man Eldárien?”
“My journey was never ordained to stop here. I came to Ristfánd only out of necessity, in the hopes of lessening the blow that the Empire intended to inflict upon the people of the city and to save human life, were it possible. That goal has only in very small measure been accomplished. But despite that, other things bind me more than my desire to aid in the resistance that is now so clearly needed, given the Imperial occupation and the heavy clouds of danger and suffering that, with this, fall upon all of us who remain in the city or even in the land of Rhóvas in its entirety.” Rórlain pauses and sighs, as if reaching deeply within himself in order to draw out the adequate words to express what he wishes to say. “You see,” he continues, “the threat that falls upon us now endangers not only the clan of Rhóvas but the whole of Telmérion, and indeed perhaps the entire world.”
“But how else can you better fight than here, where the Empire’s arm reaches out to claim more control, more territory, and more power?” Hérsir asks. “I understand that you could wish to travel west, across the mountains, in search of this ‘light.’ But is not the conflict here just as important, and perhaps even more dire, considering the crushing defeat that we have just suffered?”
“They are both important, only in different ways. But my destiny has been bound up with Eldárien Illómiel,” Rórlain says quietly, “who saved my life in a place where it was all but lost. There is now a life-bond between us, which I have until now had every intention of repaying until the end of my days, whether that end be peaceful or violent, prematurely cut short or at the end of long decades of peace. But it is not only the bond of life that ties me to this man, but also the awareness that he too fights for the people of Telmérion and that he does so with a gift that may prove to be the last remaining hope of all of us.”
“Is it really true that he slew the commander of the vrû’ádach, their inhuman leader, and prevented them from returning to besiege the city a second night?” asks Hérsir.
“It was not he but another, though he spent an entire night in conflict with this creature of darkness,” says Rórlain.
“What then happened?”
“It was a young woman who slew the commander, or rather sent him away, for if we understand aright he was not slain, but only dismissed,” says Rórlain. “But she did so using the sword that belongs by right to Eldárien and that was entrusted to him. Concerning this, he has already spoken to you.”
“The sword of light?” Hérsir sighs. “It pains me that if such an artifact truly exists—and I understand that I have no reason to doubt it—it did not come to our aid when we needed it the most.”
“But it did come to the aid of all the people, even if its light did not flash in the streets themselves. It felled the very leader of the beasts. What man is foolish who strikes for the head in order to stop the body?”
“But you said that Eldárien himself did not slay the creature?”
“No, he did not. But until this other person also harnessed the power of the light, I thought that he alone could do so,” explains Rórlain. “In fact, I myself tried, and I was unable.”
“You said a woman wielded the power of the sword?”
“Yes, one of the servants of the temple of Nirániel, a person by the name of Elmáriyë.”
“I have never heard of her.”
“She is little known, and to the eyes of most a person of little account or importance,” says Rórlain. “But it seems…that there is some kind of bond between the two of them which allows them to draw on the same power. It is not the first time that such a thing has happened.”
“And so now they depart together to seek the source of this light, in the hopes of carrying it back as a weapon for our aid,” concludes Hérsir, as though summarizing the import of the conversation.
“That is basically true,” replies Rórlain, “but their goal is not just to give victory to the rebels or the people against the Empire. They wish above all to purge the evil with which the Empire has joined itself and perhaps even, if it is possible, to purify the corruption that lies at the heart of the Empire as well.”
“They do not wish for the freedom and independence of the people of Telmérion?” asks Hérsir.
“I believe that they do, but it is not the purpose that lies ahead of them, at least not at present. They walk with their eyes fixed on a different hope than we in the city rely upon, a different hope, placed in a different source than might of arms or strategic resistance. And their goals, though different, align with all that you would wish.”
“And so you are divided between these two paths, am I correct?” Hérsir asks. “You shall either accompany Eldárien on this quest to find a weapon against our enemies, or you shall stay here and aid in the conflict that is already unfolding?”
“That is correct.”
“In which direction do your mind and heart incline?”
“The trouble is that they seem to go in different directions,” replies Rórlain. “Or perhaps better…they each seem to incline in both directions, though for different reasons. On the one hand, my heart wants to remain here and aid in whatever way I may, and yet my mind says that I owe it to Eldárien to follow through on my oath and to accompany him to the end. On the other hand, my heart yearns to remain with my friend and to not forsake him on his path, particularly in its danger and vulnerability, and yet my mind says that my services would be more useful here. So, as you see, I am conflicted.”
“Then it seems clear to me,” concludes Hérsir.
“What do you mean?”
“I myself wish that you would remain here and aid us in our resistance. But I must speak otherwise: I believe that you should remain faithful to your oath and to the promise that you have made. Nothing binds you here but the desire of your heart and your wish to aid the people. And yet you shall be doing that also with Eldárien. An oath should not be lightly broken and particularly one that is so upright and true. Rather, see it as a guiding light on your path, a thread that holds you to the true way. It is clear that you must walk that path and hold to that thread with creativity of heart and flexibility of spirit; but it nonetheless remains strong and unbroken, carrying you forward.”
Rórlain receives these words and holds them in silence for a long moment before nodding and saying, “Your words carry wisdom. That, then, is what I shall do.”
† † †
I stand atop a high cliff, windswept and barren but for tufts of grass and the gnarled, hardened trunks of a few trees, looking out over the ocean which lies a hundred yards below me. But even at this distance I hear the waves crash against the dark stone that juts straight out of the surf, a face so smooth and so steep that it would be impossible to climb. Yet behind me the cliff descends gradually as a rugged slope dotted with vegetation and stone, difficult but not at all impossible to scale. I do not remember why I have come here or if there was even a conscious reason in my mind or heart. But here I stand, my gaze directed outward over the glistening waters of the immense sea, as they roil and swell in a strong wind, causing white cap after white cap to dance upon the crests of the waves until they are swept under the next wave as they roll in, ceaselessly moving from the heart of the sea to the ever-still face of the land.
My face too is set, unmoving in determination and resolve, and yet my heart is more like the sea, churning and swelling both with anxiety and with desire, looking for a rock of repose strong and sturdy enough to receive my crashing and yet to give me a place where I, too, may become still. For only in stillness can the heart learn to listen truly and to receive, hearing the voice that speaks so quietly that the crashing of waves and the whistling of wind drown it out. But this voice always speaks, does it not, whether I can hear or not? How then can I turn to the stillness in order to hear if I have not a rock on which to repose? How then can I find a rock of repose if I am bereft of stillness in the churning of my heart’s thoughts, fears, and aspirations? To listen to the voice of rest, I must know rest, but if I do not know rest, how shall I ever hear such a voice?
These thoughts occupy me as I look out over the churning waves of the tumultuous ocean, and I reach out—with the arms of both my body and my spirit—as if to a figure that comes to me over the waves, still and serene even over the chaos of a stormy sea. But I see no figure, not with the eyes of my body nor with the eyes of my heart. But I feel it, as if impressed upon my soul like a seal upon wax. And then I realize that the rock upon which I stand, rugged and inhospitable at first glance, is in truth the rock of repose that I have sought, and that all this time that my heart reached out toward the sea, it has upheld me in its stillness and its rest. And because of this, I can begin to hear. And in learning to hear, I can learn to repose and to rejoice.
At this moment, Elmáriyë stirs awake and sits up, her forehead sore from resting against her hands and her back aching. As the sense of space returns to her, she remembers that she has been kneeling prostrate on the floor of the temple, and she notices that the evening light that enveloped her before has now descended into almost complete darkness. The dream nonetheless lingers with her for a few more moments, and she tries to lay a hold of its threads in order to halt its escape. But it gradually slips away, like sand through a sieve or water through cloth. One awareness does remain with her, however, even as the vivid images and feelings of the dream fade away, taking up their hiding place somewhere deep in the recesses of her heart. She is aware of the fear that she feels on the eve of her departure from the city of Ristfánd, fear that reveals the disquiet within her, like the restless waves of the sea, deep and beautiful and yet treacherous. And she prays for fidelity and constancy in the face of whatever awaits her, even if it stirs up the waves of her heart to a storm of ferocious intensity and if it crashes against the still rock nearly to the point of splitting it asunder and dragging it into the depths of the ocean.