A Song for Eldaru: Dawnbringer, #3

By Joshua Elzner

Bearing questions in their hearts, the five companions continue their journey with pain and sorrow behind them and hope ahead of them. But with every passing day the land of Telmerion continues to spiral into chaos and strife. They seek answers, answers ancient and forgotten, in the only place that they know to look, but will these answers be enough to confront the ever more tangible darkness and otherworldly violence that descends upon their people? Or shall the secrets that are revealed prove to be a greater burden even than the questions? Or rather shall they truly be a light in darkness, a hope in despair, that can carry and lead them even when they return anew to the conflict to which their hearts are inexorably being drawn, even unto the final confrontation in which the fate of their world shall be decided?

 

Set on the continent of Telmerion in the world of Ierendal, a cold nordic land that is also the cradle of culture and of human civilization, Dawnbringer presents a mythic story of epic proportions both in the scope of narrative and world-building and also the intimate details unfolding in the heart of each protagonist whom we accompany on this journey. In the tradition of the fantasy novels—often called faerie stories—by authors such as Tolkien, Lewis, and MacDonald, and yet marking out a unique path, the Dawnbringer series seeks to make a lasting contribution to the "enduring" stories that shape human hearts and culture, born of abiding conviction in the power of myth and the beauty of story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Elzner
• Release date: Jan 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224203642

Book preview

The Continent of Telmerion

In the Land of Ierendal

Phonetic Spelling of Central Names and Words

––––––––

Aeyden – AY-dihn

Alsenor – ahl-seh-NOHR

Anaion – ah-nay-ohn

Arechaion – ah-reh-KAY-ohn

Arunis – ah-ROO-nihs

Brug’hil – broog-hil

Bryma – brih-mah

Cirien Lorjies – sih-rih-in lor-ee-es

Criseä – krih-SAY-ah

Draion – dray-ohn

Dreya – dreh-yah

druadach – droo-ah-DAK (or DACH, guttural)

Eldarien Illomiel– el-DA-ree-in il-LO-mee-el

Eldaru – el-DAH-roo

Elendras – el-ehn-drahs

Elmariyë Siliari – el-MAH-ree-eh(ay) sih-lih-AH-ree

Elsedor – ehl-seh-DOHR

Eöten – eh-OH-tehn

Falstead – fahl-STEHD

Fendra – fehn-drah

Finistra – fih-NIH-strah

Galrid – gahl-rihd

Glendas Medora – glehn-DAHS meh-DOHR-ah

Hælia – HAY-lee-ah

Hæras – hay-rahs (plural haerasi, hay-rah-see)

Hiliana – hih-lee-AH-nah

Ierendal – yeh-ren-dahl

Ilionis – ill-ee-OH-nis

Illustra – Ill-OO-strah

Jatildë – yah-TIHL-deh

Lænin – LAY-nihn

Mære – mare

Malakrath – mah-lah-KRAHTH

Marindas – mah-RIHN-dahs

Martinia – mahr-TIHN-ee-ah

Melandia – meh-LAHND-dee-ah

Meldaris – mehl-DAHR-ihs

Melengthar – meh-lehng-thahr

Mornwyn – mohrn-wehn

Myrdalanæ – mihr-dah-LAH-nay

Myellion – mye-EHL-ee-ohn

Nerethion – neh-REH-thee-ohn

Niraniel – nih-RAH-nee-el

onas – oh-nahs

Relihim – reh-lih-HIM

Relmarindë – rehl-mah-RIHN-day

Rhovas – roh-vahs

Ricktë – rihk-teh(tay)

Ristfand – rist-FAND

rœdra – roh-drah

Rorlain Farâël – ROHR-layn far-AY-el

Rûmdil Fyrrum – RUHM-dihl FEE-ruhm

Sekanin – seh—KAH-nihn

Seikani – say-ee-KAH-nee

Selía – sehl-EE-ah

Seriyena—seh-rih-EH-nah

Silion – sihl-ee-ohn

Symbelyia – sim-BEH-lee-ah

Sera Galaptes – seh-rah gah-lahp-TES

Stïeka Mara – stih-AY-kah mah-rah

Teldyn - tehl-din

Telmerion – tehl-meh-ree-ohn

Telmoth – tehl-mohth

Telmothrana – tehl-mohth-RAH-nah

Tilliana Valesa – tih-lee-AH-nah vah-LEH-sa

Timus – tee-muhs

Tel-Velfana – tehl-vehl-FAH-nah

Thrymir – thrye-mihr

Toroas – tohr-OH-ahs

Valyria – vahl-EER-ee-ah

Velstadeä – vehl-stah-DAY-ah

Vindal—VIHN-dahl

Wygrec Stûnclad – wih-GREHK stoon-klahd

Ygrandsil – ee-GRAHND-sihl

Yjind – yihnd

Chapter One

Snow in the Mountains

A great city overlooks the sea, its massive stone walls built into the very cliffs that rise above the crashing waves, as if seeking to extend them still further in the conjoining of the glories of nature and the feats of man. The streets are paved with stone, a maze of lanes crisscrossing this way and that and all a-bustle with people going to or from market or home or work or any of the other hundred possibilities in a city of this size, dwelling for sixty-five thousand people. A young man stands taking it all in, as much as can be seen from his vantage point atop one of the watchtowers on the periphery, a tower built at the very precipice of a rocky outcropping, functioning both as a place of watchfulness and of warning and a beacon for approaching ships: a watchtower, a bell-tower, and a lighthouse. The young man wonders whose decision it was to join all three functions together in a single tower—for elsewhere in the city there are all three of these, yet separate, each with its own single function. But this is, as is colloquially called, the great watchtower, not that this explains its original construction. But it does stand high above all else in the city of Brug’hil, save for the citadel itself at the center of the city, and it is much nearer the sea, at the end of a long grassy slope climbing the side of a shelf that almost appears to be reaching out to forge its way among the waves like some vanguard in battle or vagabond in adventure.

The grassy slope, of course, is paved now, or at least some of it is, with slant and steps climbing up to the massive stone columns of which the edifice is built and the heavy wooden doors carved with intricate designs of ships upon a crashing sea with a moon shining brightly above them. The Mariner’s Mural, they call it, though it is not a mural, or, less frequently, it goes by the name of Hiliana’s Boon. For the moon represents Hiliana, goddess of the seas and thus of mariners, watching over their trials and travails as they navigate the treacherous waters. But what is most touching about the design is the helmsman—at least to the man who now stands atop the watchtower and only moments before had taken in the door’s intricate detail for as many minutes as the city guards would spare him. For the captain, if such he truly is, stands at the prow of the largest ship, the one taking the lead. Rather than cowering from the storm in fear, he stands firm, his feet planted upon the deck and his face raised to the wind and the sky, a sword in his hand lifted up as if to pierce the very air and to commune with the moon. A beam of light, etched in the wood, passes between the blade in the hand of the man and the moon that shines above him—barely noticeable among the rest of the etchings and yet clear to the perceptive eye. And many perceptive eyes there are, and in the decades, or rather centuries, since this door was carved, the mariner at the prow has come to be called the King. Why he is called king when he wears no crown and has no courtiers, it is unclear, but long has this figure—and indeed the entire mural-in-wood—been seen as a portrayal of the people of Telmerion and their journey through the tempests of history, led by the great king of their kin and protector of their people.

The young man thinks of all of this now as he stands looking out over the city of Brug’hil and the ocean that extends beyond it, the two in a ceaseless interplay, whether for good or ill, he cannot say: the ever churning tides of time and the striving of society for stability. But from whence does the threat to such stability arise—from the crashing waves that carry the boats forward even as endangering them, or from the heart of man himself and from his inclination to evil, his lust for power? Hence the moon, the moon is really the only thing—or rather the moon and the stars—which remains unmoving, unchanging, and thus totally secure, in the mural as in life. While young Eldarien thinks of all these things, his mind returns to his hometown, from which he was forced to flee, and to the barrow of the ancient king, Sera Galaptes. So many centuries have passed, and the very face of Telmerion has changed. But still in places and times so far from the origin, human hearts still long and dream for a kingship to unite them in a kingdom of peace made one, captained by the mariner of light who charts his course by the heavens rather than by the earth or the seas.

† † †

Eldarien awakes suddenly in the darkness and sits up, the dream that was more a memory than anything else swiftly fleeing away from his consciousness into the depths of his heart. He looks around and sees the form of his slumbering companions, their bodies no more than darker spots upon the darkened ground, and then the figure of Cirien, who sits upright, keeping watch, an old and wizened man silhouetted in the dim radiance of the moon and the stars that illumine even the darkness of night, cloudless and clear, but cold. The company has ascended now almost another week into the mountains without incident either from weather or from beast, though the temperature grows steadily colder with each passing day. He rubs his eyes to remove the last lingering sleep and turns his gaze upward to the sky, the stars brilliant and undimmed overhead. As he does so, the last fragment of the dream begins to fade away, but he does not cling to it but rather simply thinks how grateful he is that the nightmares have now stopped for all of them. Whatever happened in the castle of darkness and in the forge that resides in its depths, the Lord of Mæres hunts them no longer. Though this latter is not necessarily a comforting thought, since it is not likely that he has been either defeated or pacified. It is more likely, rather, that he simply bides his time and prepares a plan of greater ferocity and effectiveness and probably at the cost of a great loss of human life and much suffering.

What time is it? Eldarien asks quietly, and Cirien stirs for a moment and turns to look at him, though there is little to see in the darkness.

I did not know that you were awake, replies Cirien. The night is far spent, and the day draws near. I suspect we have no more than an hour or two until the sky begins to brighten.

I can watch for what remains, if you wish to attempt some more sleep, Eldarien says.

I sleep less and less these days, even than the little that I did before departing from Ristfand, Cirien explains. But I notice that you also sleep little. Why is that?

I suppose it is just an acquired habit. The years I spent in the midst of the threat of battle and bloodshed, cautious of ambush or danger every night, have effected me permanently. And also just the scars...the scars of everything I did and witnessed during that time.

Does the shame still haunt you? Cirien asks with sensitivity in his voice.

Aye, but not as it did, answers Eldarien. I don’t know that I shall ever cease to regret what I have done nor to feel the bitter pain in my heart for it. But I would not wish for that, after all, for the failure to regret the past is not a benefit but a loss.

But a man can also be made new, says Cirien, and can cease to live as a slave to his past mistakes and prior infidelities.

Perhaps so, replies Eldarien, but I don’t know that anything can set right the ill that such actions have set in motion. Nor can anything restore what they have destroyed.

The latter may be true, in a fashion, but I question the former, Cirien says, and with this, he rises to his feet and, pulling the thick fur in which he has been wrapped, moves to a more sheltered location and lies down, pulling it tight around him. A few moments pass silently between them, and then he adds, As I think about it, perhaps even what has been destroyed can be restored, though we know not how.

Eldarien sits with these words for a while, his eyes looking out into the darkness. At last he replies, and all that he says is, It still seems like the darkness is so much stronger than the light, and the forces of darkness so much more numerous. It is simply hard to believe that such a degree of destruction and loss could ever be remedied.

Not by any power that we possess, is Cirien’s reply. And I suppose our part now is simply to stand against the darkness as best we can and to wield what light is given to us, what light we bear within us. No more can we do than this.

After these words, complete silence descends, and soon the heavy breathing of Cirien joins in with the chorus of the rest of the company, bringing Eldarien deep consolation in the serenity of their slumber, a vestige of repose on the verge of encroaching chaos.

† † †

Pale light begins to glow on the horizon in the east, silhouetting the mountains and outlining the forms of trees and stones and sleeping figures in the pass between them. Eldarien sits, alert to his surroundings but also deep in thought, his breath a mist before him with each exhale. A soft breeze whistles down from the peaks, gentle but cold, and he shivers even though wearing multiple layers of clothing and wrapped in thick fur. The three scars upon his left cheek—inflicted by the claws of the beast called Maggot—sting in the bitter air, but he ignores this, occupied rather with thinking and listening. He has also become accustomed to pain, as accustomed as anyone can be, for under his garments he wears many stripes, not from whips or blades—though war scars too he bears—but from the torturous pleasure in which Maggot indulged by cutting open his bare flesh with claws as sharp as those of any hunting animal. The wounds have closed now, and they no more than ache after a long day’s walking carrying the burdens of travel, but at first they made all movement and activity difficult. But the cold does something too: it makes Eldarien stiff, as if his whole body is covered in scabs or dried blood, or as if his skin has begun to turn to stone or stiff leather, and in order to move he must break the stiffness by an effort of the will.

But as he sits as sentinel over the camp, the day dawning after a bitterly cold night, he does not dwell on these things. Rather, he simply listens: listens not so much for any sound of danger as to the gentle song that is carried to him over the cold expanse. It is the song of a dove cooing in a distant tree, barely audible, and which would certainly be drowned out in any other location, but which, in the wide expanse between the mountains, echoes across a great distance. Suddenly his listening is interrupted—or rather, it welcomes another voice: the voice of Elmariyë, sounding suddenly and softly, barely audible but contrasting with the distance echo of the dove since it is so near, but a few feet away.

His name is all that she says—Eldarien—in a voice that indicates that she has long been awake and yet has said nothing.

He turns his head slightly toward her, though he cannot see any more than the outline of her figure in the darkness, and replies, What keeps you awake at night?

You know? she asks.

I think Cirien and I both know, says Eldarien. We sleep little, each for our own reasons. And, being awake much of the night, it is impossible to fail to notice that your ‘sleep’ sounds much different than that of the others. Were it only the three of us, I suppose we could walk through much of the night to progress our journey—ignoring, of course, the danger of walking in mountainous terrain in the dark of night.

"I do sleep, Elmariyë answers, only..."

Something keeps you awake, he concludes for her.

I also feel no need for more, she explains, as if my body has fully recovered in but a few hours.

I feel the same, Eldarien says. But there is also something that draws you? he then asks, turning to face her even though he cannot see her more than with the eyes of the heart.

Yes, she answers in a whisper, in which he can detect something akin to embarrassment or bashfulness. I am too restless to sleep long when there is so much life to live...and when I am always longing for that which lies... Her voice fades out before she finishes the thought.

But Eldarien again provides an answer: Beyond?

Beyond, she agrees. But also so close. It is like my heart is a wound crying out for healing or a fragment of a great mosaic yearning to be fitted again into the whole. She sighs. But no: it is more like I am a betrothed maiden yearning for her wedding day.

Eldarien receives her words in silence but does not reply in spoken voice. He understands something of what she means to say. And she does not need him to speak in order to feel his response resounding in the silence. But at last, he does give voice to his thoughts and feelings: To be awakened by longing and hope rather than by shame and fear. That is a beautiful thing, and something that I never thought I would experience. But here I have been given a portion of what you bear within you, something so unexpected and so new.

But it is your own, Eldarien, Elmariyë replies, and not merely mine.

I...I suppose you are right, he says, though I fear to make it my own, to accept it as mine.

You eagerly and without hesitation bear what belongs to others, says Elmariyë, but you hesitate to embrace what is your own. Yet how can you carry the joys and pains of others unless you—you, Eldarien—are fully there, alive and vibrant, to carry them?

Until now it has come with hardly a thought, he says.

But if the burden increases? she asks.

I doubt not that it shall increase, he says.

Then you must root yourself more deeply, if you are not to be submerged by what you bear. Her words echo within him, and he bows his head for a moment, closing his eyes. When he opens them again. he realizes that Elmariyë now sits beside him, facing in the same direction as he, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, as if trying to keep in as much warmth as she can.

Shall we watch the sunrise together? she asks.

He looks at her, now visible in the gradually lightening air of the early morning, and he nods.

† † †

They depart within an hour after sunrise, a bitter wind beginning to sweep over the mountains, rustling in the trees and whistling among the hollows and crevices of stone. They continue on the path that they have been following now for close to a week; it is a trail long forgotten by human feet but kept still by many creatures of the wilderness, though from whence they come and whither they go is uncertain. There are the tracks of deer and elk, of wolves and bears, and even the tiny print-marks of hares and foxes. The trail is clearly a thoroughfare for the animals that call the mountains their home, as simple as it may be, hedged tightly left and right with brambles and bushes and overshadowed often and deeply by towering cedars and aspens. It is worn down, a narrow furrow of packed earth clearly visible against the grasses and fallen pine needles and various leaves that cover the earth like a blanket.

After the company had departed from the valley of the dark castle, climbing the steep slope that rose behind it, they had soon found themselves in the midst of rugged terrain, more steep and difficult of ascent and navigation than anything they had encountered yet on their journey. Were it not for the trails trod by the animals, their progress would have been slowed to a pace such as almost to negate any progress they hoped to make by passing through the mountains rather than by traveling around them. But, even if such trails as they now follow are not very amenable to human feet, the animals have tended to carve out the straightest ways, and thus the difficulty of their passage is balanced by its swiftness.

But the chill wind continues to bite at them throughout the morning, and the trees that surround them—and their own cloaks—are poor protection against its cold. The placid and clear sky of dawn gradually changes—through the wind blowing in from the west—to one overcast with low-hanging and fast-moving clouds of bluish-gray, whose lower portions threaten to release their moisture at any moment. When the companions have ceased their movement around midday, sitting together in a clearing a few yards off the trail and eating a light meal of what remains of their quickly dwindling rations, the clouds finally break. Yet they loose not rain but snow, thick and full like a sheet of white blowing heavily in the wind and almost entirely obscuring sight. By the time they have finished their meal, the earth has already begun to clothe itself in garments of white, though more like garb haphazardly donned than elegantly dressed coverage; for the driving winds continue to move the snow and scatter it about until it finds a resting place in which to cling—a hollow among the crook of branch, root, or trunk, or the clefts of rocks, or the tangle of grass, there to find repose.

Should we take refuge until the snow has passed? Cirien asks, pulling the hood of his cloak tight around his face and looking out at the boughs of the trees as they sway almost violently in the wind.

I think it would be easier to stay warm were we to keep moving, replies Eldarien. Building a fire would be almost impossible in this weather, and yet if we stay still, I fear that the chill shall bite right into us.

I agree, adds Rorlain. I do not look forward to sitting here under the buffeting of wind and cold until I turn into a pile of snow or an ice sculpture. Best we keep on the path and let our efforts warm us.

Cirien nods and, looking at the others, asks, We are all agreed then?

They all nod in harmony, and, without another word, they gather together their belongings, steel themselves against the storm, and return to the trail.

The snow accompanies them for the rest of the day and continues even when the dull white light of day fades into the dark of night—a darkness that, due to the amount of snow that swirls about them and also cloaks the land, is more a grayish half-light than the full black of nighttime. The moon and stars, they know, shine somewhere above them, but all is shielded from sight, both above and around, and they can make out no more than a few feet before them. With the coming of night, however, despite the radiance provided by the whiteness of the snow, the last vestige of the path—gradually covered during the hours of the day—is now hidden from sight.

We cannot go any further without risking losing our way, Eldarien says, turning back from his position in the lead to look at his companions. Their faces—as much as they are visible beneath their cloaks and heavy scarves—are red with cold, and their eyes gleam even now, both with glossy moisture as they try to look out through the dark and the cold, as well as with exhaustion, perhaps even with fear and anxiety.

Would a torch perhaps help? Elmariyë asks. Granting that we could manage to light one...

I fear that we are nearing the point where only the full light of day—and the calming of this storm—will allow us to discern the contours of the path with certainty, Eldarien replies.

I am so exhausted I can hardly keep walking, Tilliana voices softly, and yet I fear stopping for the cold.

The wind has lessened a little, Rorlain says, so perhaps we could try building a campfire. I have done it before in weather not unlike this. And there is also enough snow now that we can enclose ourselves in it to block out the wind and even to keep in some of our native body heat.

I think it is worth the effort, says Eldarien. We have little choice.

Very well, Cirien sighs, turning about and looking around them, though little is visible beyond the blowing snow except a few nearby trees. I had hoped that we would avoid any snows, considering it is only the beginning of autumn. Yet the terrain is against us, for we are now so high in the mountains that snow could well fall even in the height of summer.

There is nothing we can do about it now, and there is no fruit in lamenting a decision long made, Rorlain says, turning to Cirien. I do not think that any of us blame you nor even think that your judgment was ill made. Who knows what we would have encountered on the alternate path?

Nods and affirmations ripple throughout the group, some more enthusiastic than others, but all honest and heartfelt.

And so they take a few minutes to search the area until they identify a small space, perhaps ten feet across, that is protected among trees and yet provides enough room for them to attempt a fire and to build a makeshift shelter. Working together, it takes another half hour for them to build up walls and outcroppings of snow deep enough to protect all of them from the worst of the wind and snowfall and also to get a fire to light, though it continues to sputter and dance in its struggle to stay aflame in the threatening weather. By the time they huddle together in their temporary abode, each of them is shivering with cold and trying all they can to bring some warmth into their limbs which sting and burn in the frigid air.

Stay close to one another, Rorlain says, and let your body heat keep one another warm. The temperature is going to drop, and I fear it shall soon be deadly. I shall tend the fire to keep it alight for as long as the fuel shall allow. And...sleep, if you can.

† † †

Around midnight, the storm breaks and the snow ceases to fall. Rorlain sits near the fire, sputtering in the cold but burning strong, as the clouds roll away to the east in the remaining breeze and reveal the firmament above. And as if a rainbow after a rainstorm, he sees the night-mist, the aurora, dancing in ribbons of green and purple light weaving about the mountain peaks. He leans his head back and ignores the cold that bites at his face as he watches the play of the celestial lights, so tender and so pure, and so different, in their immensity cradling the very earth, than the flickering of the tiny fire fighting to stay alive directly before him.

The darkness is naught but expectancy for the light, he thinks, or the light’s rejection. May I never flee from the first but always avoid the second.

He turns his gaze down for a moment, and, seeing that the fuel feeding the fire is gradually being consumed, he throws the last remaining log on it, to a shower of sparks. He watches as the flames lick up around the new log, flickering and waving as they dry it out and prepare it for burning, until it, too, shall be turned into living flame. Hopefully, that will be sufficient to provide adequate warmth until the coming of morning, for Rorlain does not wish to search for more wood while the night is still in her full blackness. But he knows that it will not be, and that within another couple hours, what burns bright now will be dwindling down to embers and ash.

With a sigh, he rises to his feet and, pulling his cloak tight around his body, steps away from the fire and from the companions’ shelter, hoping in its remaining light to find more