Dawnbringer: An Epic Medieval High Fantasy Saga

Elmariyë rides into the city in the late afternoon and, after entrusting Fenarion to the stable master, walks to the temple. The streets are filled with anxiety, even fear, and she does not know why; but she also feels another emotion, which it takes her a large part of the walk to the center of the city to name: anger. Nothing appears amiss to her eyes, but her heart knows differently, and she is eager to speak with Cirien to hear the reason he called her home with such haste and to learn the nature of whatever has stirred the citizens of Ristfand into such a state—if indeed these two are not one and the same.

She ascends the steps of the temple compound with a tangible sense of homecoming and pushes open the doors to the arched corridor of stone. Before turning to the right and making her way to Cirien's rœdra, however, she steps into the vestibule of the temple and kneels on the floor for a moment. The long stone sanctuary is dark and cool, with light filtering in subtly from the high, clear windows along the nave and falling as a colored array from the large stained glass in the apse, bathing the altar in an intermingling of light, color, and shape.

When she comes to the grandmaster's reception chamber, she finds the door slightly ajar and hears a raised voice from within. It is not Cirien's voice, but one she recognizes yet cannot name. Taking a step away so as not to eavesdrop unintentionally, she rests her back against the wall and waits. But despite her efforts, the voice rises again for a moment, clearly in anger, and she hears the words: "You will be the downfall of us all, Cirien! Those of our members who sided with the rebellion need to be expelled from the temple. There is no place for lawlessness in our midst." Elmariyë does not hear Cirien's reply to this accusation, but the voice is heard no more, and before long a person emerges from the chamber, red-faced, and passes by her with hardly a glance. She recognizes his face but knows not his name, a man of late middle-age, a noble of the city.

After waiting for a few moments, she knocks on the door, still ajar, and it swings open a couple inches by itself, creaking on its hinges. Cirien looks up and smiles. "Ah, Elmariyë. Please, come in. I trust you had a safe journey." She steps into the room and takes a seat before Cirien at the welcoming gesture of his hand. The room is well-lit, not only with lanterns hanging from the walls and a reading lamp on the table behind which Cirien sits but with tall arched windows behind him, lightly curtained with white cloth, though still allowing the golden rays of the fading daylight to filter in. The walls are lined with bookshelves, appearing messy and unkempt but in fact orderly, and racks of ancient scrolls tied simply with cloth or leather or protected by tubes of metal. A small statue of the goddess stands in the corner, as if resting in the dancing light of sun and flame.

"I did have a safe journey," Elmariyë replies, "and pleasant. Fenarion is a good and docile horse."

"And how fares your family?"

"They are well, and we were all glad to see one another and to be together."

"But saddened at the shortness of your stay?" Cirien asks, perceptively.

"That is so, but underneath the sadness gladness remains."

"You appear to have something else on your mind, Elmariyë," Cirien says, looking at her with a glimmer in his eyes and running his hand through his long white beard. "What is it?"

"You have called me here for a reason," she replies. "Surely that is a more pressing matter."

"It is pressing indeed, but not so pressing that I cannot hear from you what is upon your heart. Recall what I told you when we last parted. Forget not yourself in the midst of your desire to care for others, for only from the fullness of your heart can you also give in abundance and with true tenderness and love." He chuckles softly. "Those were not my exact words, I expect, but the meaning was similar."

"But if we hold back from love, clinging to ourselves in possessiveness and refusing others the gift of our heart and act, then care for self becomes nothing but a lie, an act of selfishness which leads to isolation, not to the fellowship to which we are called," Elmariyë says.

"That is true," Cirien admits, "but that is not the danger which you face at present, my dear. You incline more to forgetting that you have burdens and cares of your own in your eagerness to carry the burdens of others."

"In a certain sense, aren't these cares, my own and those of others, so deeply united that they cannot be extricated from one another?" she asks.

"Yes, and no. The suffering of each man is his own, unlike that of any other. This is true. But what you say is even more true, more vitally true, without negating the first: the suffering of every man belongs to every other, and all we bear—indeed, all we bear both of pain and of joy—reverberates in the heart of every other. This you have learned well and will learn still more deeply. And I believe it shall be of great importance for yourself, and for many others, before the end." Cirien pauses and leans forward, a gentle smile on his face and the light behind him glowing softly in his hair. "But please, what is it that you carry with you as you return? Tell me if you wish, and then we can turn to the other matter."

"I do wish," Elmariyë answers. And she relates to Cirien the conversation that she shared with her parents on the morning of her departure from Telonis. She shows him the ring, and he inspects it with attention before handing it back to her. She slips it back onto her finger and finishes her account.

After she has concluded, he replies, "I am sorry that you did not know of this until so many years into your life. As for the riddle of your origin, of your family, perhaps light may be shed upon it yet. I wish I had known about it long before this, but then again, that would have set my intentions against those of your parents. So perhaps the way things unfolded was indeed best, though I wish they would have told you when you were younger."

"A part of me would wish for the same," Elmariyë says, "but after the first surprise and its pain, I am at peace. When I reflect upon it, I would not really have it any other way than it has been."

"I understand what you mean," says Cirien. "But as for the future, I would like to look into the designs upon that ring—which I have noted in my mind, though I may ask to see it again—to discover if we can trace its origin. That is, if such a course of action is your wish."

"It is," Elmariyë replies after a moment's thought.

"Very good," Cirien says, and then, pausing and sighing deeply, he shifts in his chair. "But now we must speak of something both grave and pressing: the reason for which I called you here."

"What is it?"

"Only days ago, there was an uprising in the ghetto, having long fermented in the silence and now finally bursting forth into word and act. Yes, it was not just vocal complaint or the call for justice; no, it was an uprising in arms aimed toward bloodshed. I do not understand exactly what they intended with this, but the attack, at least in hindsight, had little hope of success. For them, I think, it is meant to be but the beginning. However, I fear that they shall call down on their heads, and indeed upon all of us, the wrath of the Empire."

"So you have called me here to..." Elmariyë falters, as the images of death flood her mind's eye.

"I have called you here to treat those who are wounded and to comfort those who have lost the people dear to them," Cirien says. "But I warn you. It is a dangerous task, as the Empire has eyes that would gladly crush any who appear to side with the rebellion."

"But we are servants of the goddess and members of the temple!" Elmariyë exclaims. "Certainly they would only expect us to do as her teachings indicate?"

"I hope that you are right. And that is what I am counting on, though the danger remains. Are you willing?"

"More than willing."

"Of course."

"But tell me," Elmariyë begins, "what sparked this action? And how many people were involved? Was it only certain persons in the ghetto, or was it a wider movement?"

"So many questions at once!" Cirien responds, raising his hands. "But I understand your desire for answers and your pain. All shall become clear in time. Let this answer suffice for now: this was a plan long conceived by the underground resistance operating in Ristfand and a concerted effort of rich and poor alike, insofar as fraternal cooperation between them is feasible at all. It may have even been instigated from the leadership in Minstead; indeed, I believe that to be the case. That is the answer, but as I speak, another comes to mind, which I shall also give: the goal of this rebellion was to overthrow Imperial control in the city and to give sovereignty back to the people of Telmerion and the rulers of the Rhovas clan."

"The hæras is a part of this movement?" asks Elmariyë.

"At this point we do not know," Cirien replies. "We know not whether he was cooperating behind the scenes or whether the rebels intended to supplant him and to establish a new clan leader. As I said, I trust that all will become clear with time. But for now, all we can do is act to relieve the suffering of the victims of the conflict."

"You answered more than you said you would," Elmariyë says. "Thank you for that. I will try not to worry unduly. So what would you have me do now?"

Cirien rises from his chair and walks around the table to Elmariyë and takes her hands in his own, looking at her with deep kindness in his eyes. The light through the window is now growing dim as twilight deepens into night. "I would have you rest and be at peace," he says softly. "For tonight, try to settle into your new home again and sleep. Tomorrow I will go with you to the ghetto, and we will see what more may be done. I have been already, as have others, but it shall be your first time since the conflict, and I wish to be with you."

With that he bids her goodnight, and she turns to go, shutting the door to the rœdra quietly behind her. The corridors are silent, and her footsteps lightly echo against the stone as she walks to her bedchamber, untouched since she was last in Ristfand. It is a small room, eight by ten feet, with a paned window against one wall, looking out into a forested courtyard, though now veiled by a heavy curtain. There is a low bed, only a plank of wood on stilts with a straw mattress, and a side table next to it, on which are a washbowl and towel. On the wall opposite the bed is a table littered with books, with paper for writing, ink, and a quill, and a glass lantern with a long wick steeped in oil. Tucked under the table is a rickety old wooden chair that creaks when its sitter moves.

Elmariyë sits down on her bed and pulls her pack from her shoulders, dropping it softly to the floor. She then slides a wooden crate from underneath the bed and opens it: it functions as a dresser and wardrobe, and she arranges the clothing from her pack into it, before putting the pack itself in it as well and returning it to its place under the bed. Then she leans her elbows against her knees and rests her forehead against her hands. She closes her eyes and lets out a deep breath.

Is this the path that has been prepared for her? To care for the victims of warfare and violence? She allows this question to linger silently in her heart as she listens, listens for the voice that speaks deeper than words. She feels afraid, not only of her own inadequacy, her own inability to help these people as they need, but also of the proximity to such intense suffering and loss. She has felt the pain even at a distance, and she can only imagine what it shall be like to touch it, to embrace it, to step beyond every veil and to be as close as possible in body to the people to whom her heart has long been close in spirit. But she knows, too, that she, in fact, desires nothing more than this and has long desired precisely this movement. But as it comes to it, she is scared. She is scared, too, at the manner of the suffering and what it bodes for the future. Of all the forms of suffering that can be inflicted on a nation, war is perhaps the worst, the most all-pervading, and the most difficult to remedy.

She leans into prayer and lets these anxieties and fears fall away from her, or rather she lets herself fall, in all that she is and feels, into the warm embrace of the Love that holds her and carries her. And as she does so, her spirit finds rest, and her mind eases off of the thoughts born of anxious fear. Instead, she is carried back to the time she spent in Telonis, to the faces of her mother and father and siblings, to the wedding of her friends, to the stars glistening and dancing in the night sky. She recalls the conversation she had with her parents on the morning of her departure, both their tenderness and care as well as the pain she felt at realizing that the truth had been withheld from her for so many years. She is not angry with them, as she understands that they acted only out of concern for her and, once the secret was revealed, shared with her freely all that they could. The love in their eyes as they spoke to her, almost as if they would find out the truth of her past and give it to her were such a thing possible, moves her deeply now. With a surge of gratitude, she rests with the eyes of her heart upon their faces, absentmindedly touching the ring upon her finger.

Then the image of her parents' faces gives way to the face of Cirien, her father in spirit, and she sees a similar love and tenderness in his gaze, though more profound because more deeply rooted. She remembers his face and his words as he inspected the ring taken from the body of her mother. Hope rises within her, and desire, that it may indeed be possible to learn something of her origin, something of the woman from whose womb she was born and of the man from whom she was sired. But then again, even if she never learns, it is an acceptable and understandable loss. For she has a home already, two homes in fact, and even one is already more than many have and more than many more will have if the war indeed progresses, robbing numerous children of their parents and turning them into orphans. And thus her most intimate personal thoughts and desires lead her again, full circle, to concern and compassion for others, and in her mind and heart, it is as if the two blend together—what is most intimate to her and what is most intimate to others—while remaining distinct, like two lungs in a single body or like blood flowing in and out from differing limbs into a single heart, a heart that is her own but also more than her own, a heart that holds her most deeply just as, in her heart, she desires to hold others.

† † †

In midmorning, Cirien accompanies Elmariyë through the streets of Ristfand, already noisy with sellers at their market stalls trying to barter their wares and with children playing in alleyways or the grass in front of houses—at least the laughter and play of children are still to be heard—and the rumbling of carts or the clopping of horses' hooves against the cobbled stones as they make their way out of the city for the day's labor. The city goes about its business as usual, though Elmariyë knows that something has changed and that the normalcy of the daily routine conceals a fear and an expectation in the hearts of the people which were not present before. The slums are located on the northeast side of the city, in a section surrounded by a high wooden wall of rough hewn beams. There are two entrances, from the west and from the south, from the Beyja road and the Hrella road, respectively.

"It looks quite different on the inside than the last time you were here," Cirien warns as they come to the southern entrance. "Are you prepared?"

"Yes."

"Very well."

With this, they continue through the gateway, about ten feet wide, and follow the road into the ghetto. They are greeted immediately by stains of blood against wood and stone, wall and ground, and Elmariyë stifles a gasp.

"Many men stood in this place, as likewise at the western gate, and tried to hold back the Imperial soldiers who sought to enter the ghetto," Cirien says.

"What exactly were these men attempting?" asks Elmariyë. "And why did they begin in the slums?"

"As I said, their plans in full are more than I can know, but what they have achieved of their plan is clear: they have slain the local Imperial commander in cold blood and fought back the forces that were sent to punish them for their crime, though I expect that such was precisely their original intention."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the manner of their attack on the commander was intended," explains Cirien, "precisely to provoke battle with the forces of the Empire who occupy Ristfand. It was meant as an explicit declaration of war, a challenge to the Empire to bring warfare to the east. It seems that the rebel forces have grown tired of this stalemate and wish to exert more influence—with bloodshed—in order to bring this conflict to a conclusion."

"How did they attack the commander?" asks Elmariyë.

"They attacked him publicly as he walked the strees."

"And they hope to repel the Imperial wrath with the small amount of forces at their disposal?"

"I said that the Imperial response put an end to their rebellious activity, but that is only true on the surface. For I think there is more to it than that," Cirien says. "It may appear that the rebellion in the city was crushed, but it only retreated, like a snake with many heads that, losing one, shall simply emerge at an opportune time to strike again. But let us forget about these matters now. The course of the world is not ultimately determined by politics nor by war but by the humble and hidden fidelity of ordinary hearts and lives. So let us go to the people suffering under the former and encourage them in the latter."

The ghetto has always felt almost like a different city than the rest of Ristfand, with houses made of wood and scrap cramped together in muddy streets smelling of sewage with little grass, trees, or vegetation of any kind. Home to many who have "fallen through the cracks" of the commerce of Ristfand or who, for one reason or another, have lost the means to support themselves and have no one else to care for them, the population in the ghetto is more dense than anywhere else in the city. There are also many persons whose livelihood has been lost or who have found themselves in the ghetto, simply because of prolonged illness, whether physical or mental in nature. A large hospital stands almost precisely in the center of the ghetto, a long building with a low roof, the sole structure with stone walls in the entire sector. It was built almost a hundred years ago by members of the temple of Niraniel with the permission of the government of Ristfand and has been tended by them—among other volunteers—ever since. Cirien leads Elmariyë there now, and as they step in through the threshold, she immediately hears the cries of those with grave physical wounds and sees pallets lined close together against the walls on either side, with mostly men and a few women resting upon them.

"We shall do for these people what little we can," Cirien says. "The city itself refuses medical aid to those who participated in the rebellion, but the temple has secretly requested aid and supplies from the people, and we have received a vigorous enough response in medicine, bandages, and tools. Our presence and work here can make a great difference in these people's lives and can relieve much of their suffering. But be aware that there are some for whom this hospital is now not a place of recuperation but a hospice in which they prepare for their final departure in death."

They then go among the citizens, tending to their wounds, bringing them water and nourishment, or simply sitting with them for a while, speaking or listening or holding their hands in silence. Elmariyë feels the heavy air that permeates the hospital, and at first she struggles to breathe, feeling oppressed by the weight of human suffering, by the fear of death, by the anger and resentment and a host of other emotions that surge like currents of water, ripples cast from the many hearts in the building, like a lake dammed up within four walls and churning tumultuously. But as she goes among the persons, engaged in what simple activities that she can perform or listening and speaking in the little ways she can, Elmariyë begins to feel another reality underneath the oppressive suffocation. She feels a sense of hope, of courage, and of longing. It is not her own sense however; no, it belongs to the people, whose aspiration for freedom, so apparently crushed, nonetheless blossoms anew like a rose after winter and reaches out toward the sun of new life, whether it shall come in this life or only in the place that lies beyond death. These two realities—fear and longing—mingle together within the hospital and within Elmariyë's own heart, and she feels the conflict, the tension, between them.

What can overcome this duality, this conflict between fear and desire, between the reaching out for definitive life and the ultimate futility of such an aspiration? For the desire for life is thwarted by death. And what lies beyond death? More death? A shadow of one's previous life? Or something more? But how—how can a dying heart take solace in what awaits when it remains unknown, undisclosed, and could be even worse than the sufferings preceding it? No...Elmariyë feels her heart protest. She knows in her heart of hearts that there is a hope deeper than the fear and a knowledge deeper than the uncertainty, a light deeper than the deepest darkness. And in this, this alone, she takes comfort and solace and finds strength to hope for these suffering hearts just as she does for her own. For there is, as she has been taught and as she believes, a dawn that will come to end every night.

† † †

A month and a half passes and Elmariyë finds herself settling into a routine. In the early morning, she spends a few hours in the temple, drinking in the silence of ancient stone as the day turns from darkness to light and the rising sun shines in through the stained glass window, bringing color to the colorless shadows. She joins in the temple services, of course, and they are precious to her—morning, midday, evening, and night—but the times that are nearest to her heart are the times in silence, in solitude, when no one else is in the temple but her. During these times, the air itself vibrates with the sound of silence, the light itself shines with rays invisible, and the solidity of earth, stone and wood feels as if unmovable even by a thousand ages of the world and yet feels as if passing in a single instant, only to give way to that life which is enduring.

During the daytime hours, Elmariyë is in the ghetto, usually in the hospital tending to the ill and wounded, though during her time here she witnesses many persons die and many recover. Because of this, the densely crowded room eventually empties again except for about a dozen persons. Toward one woman in particular, Elmariyë feels a special bond, a particular affection, and also a deeper pain. Tilliana is only a few years older than Elmariyë herself, a wife and mother of two children, though both her husband and her children have died as a result of the conflict. Her husband, Alsenor, was slain at the western gate and died almost instantly, with a lance through his heart. But he was known to the captain of the Imperial guard, and by the same deeply disliked, having had dealings with him in the past; thus as the conflict began to settle and the fires of battle died down, he sent two men to the house of Tilliana's husband and arrested both her and her two children. What they feared of a widow and her two small children, Elmariyë does not know; but perhaps it was not fear that drove her captors, but desire, the desire for vengeance against one who was already dead and yet whose crime they wished to see punished to the fullest extent of their power.

And this happened even beyond their own control, as both of Tilliana's children, a boy of six and a girl of three, became sick themselves during the time of their imprisonment. This was due to the conditions in the overcrowded prison, filled with the stench and infection of numerous wounded persons left untreated. And despite the care that Tilliana gave them, they died in the prison cell, in the arms of their mother. She herself became sick shortly afterwards, and one of the guards—who had previously arrested her—was moved with pity and petitioned for her to be released. And so she was, but the illness had already taken hold upon her. She thus moved from incarceration in a prison that felt like a hospital for the dying to a hospital for the dying that felt like a prison. Perhaps she was already beyond treatment, and regardless of whether there were bars or not, she could not leave. But there was a difference. In the prison there were bars and harshness and apathy, while in the hospital there was love and care and compassion.

This is where Elmariyë found her, with a broken spirit and a grieving heart, dying of an illness that was more of the spirit than it was of the flesh. She gave Tilliana what treatment she could, draughts of herbs to reduce her fever and to quell any infection she may have, food and water that she could digest, and a friend at her side as often as she could spare. She bathed her too and cleaned her when she soiled herself, since she could not even rise from her pallet on her own, so weak was she. At first, Tilliana was embarrassed by all of this—by her bodily vulnerability but also simply by her complete incapacity—and apologized frequently in her frail voice. But Elmariyë would simply run her hands through Tilliana's long blonde hair, now matted with sweat and tears, and assure her again and again that she was glad to offer this service and any other that she could provide.

"My husband was so concerned for us," she said one day as Elmariyë fed her small spoonfuls of broth. "He knew that standing against the Empire would endanger us, and he said that he had compromised with them for so long precisely because he wanted to protect us. You see...he was a government officer in the past. We were of a noble family, as noble as one can be in Telmerion, where we have no formal class distinctions between noble and commoner. For generations, the men in my father's line were counselors to the hærasi, and their guards as well. This brought many favors and protections, but it also involved them deeply with the Imperial counselor whose role mirrored their own but, sadly, was given priority simply through the treaty that granted the hærasi to remain in power as long as they acted always in cooperation with the counselor appointed to them by the Empire."

"So he was, in a sense, supplanted from his role?" Elmariyë asks.

"You could say that, I suppose, though it was more his ancestors who experiences this supplanting. The role he inherited was already diminished, even though the hærasi continued to value it and keep it in existence. And it is not as if he had no influence," says Tilliana. "He was just forced to continually butt heads with the counselor who was his rival. And eventually, Alsenor decided that he had enough of it and chose to retire from his position." She falls silent, exhausted from the effort of speech, and all is quiet for a long while as she slowly eats what Elmariyë gives to her. Eventually she speaks again, and there is earnestness in her voice, "But he had no choice but to stand up, you see? He could not just stand idly by when he saw the blatant betrayal of truth and goodness unfolding before his very eyes. He tried to work against this betrayal from within, but at last…" And with this, she falls again into silence.

Sensing that she is not going to say more at the moment, Elmariyë assures her, "I understand, as much as I can, why he did what he did."

"I do not regret it," Tilliana sighs. "I just wish that..." her voice fades, and tears form in her eyes and escape to roll silently down her feverish cheeks.

"You wish that your children had been spared," Elmariyë concludes for her.

"Yes..."

"Beïta and Annar..." Tilliana breathes, invoking her children's names with a grief, love, and reverence that breaks Elmariyë's heart. Then she looks up into Elmariyë's face and says, "I only wish to join now those whom I have lost."

"I..." Elmariyë begins, but her voice catches in her throat.

"You are going to say that you want me to live, right?" Tilliana asks. "But why? For myself? To fight the injustice that robbed me of my family? No...I am not interested in that."

"You are my friend, Tilliana," Elmariyë says, finding her voice again. "Even so, whether you live or die matters little to me, though of course my heart will grieve at your loss. What I care about is that you walk the path intended for you, whatever that may be."

Tilliana stares at Elmariyë, surprised by her words, and their eyes interlock for a long moment. At last, she says, "Your words are not what I expected."

"What else am I supposed to say?" asks Elmariyë. "That I wish you to live for my sake?"

"To be honest..." Tilliana begins, "I think that, if you asked, I would be able to do that."

"I cannot ask that of you," says Elmariyë. "You must look deep within yourself to discover if you still carry the spark of life. For if you do, this spark can again become a flame. If not, were you to choose to live simply because I have asked it of you, there would be no spark to sustain you, and such life would not last."

"What do you mean?"

"Your grief is making you sick even unto death, and while death is not the worst thing in this world, a person must not seek death as if he has control over it and can choose by preference the time and manner of his death. It is a gift and a burden, a mystery beyond our control and comprehension, and while we cannot seek it, we also should not flee from it. We must approach it as the mystery that it is, in surrender and acceptance. And yet life, too, is a mystery, a mystery that must be given from outside of ourselves, and in such a manner received, so that it may truly become our own. Therefore, you must find deep within yourself the desire to live, or rather the openness to receive that desire anew where it has been lost. And perhaps this desire is beyond you, I do not know. But you may still find a calling—a voice echoing within you inviting you to rediscover the courage to live. Without this desire and this voice, what good would my voice do for you?"

"Perhaps your voice, Elmariyë...precisely your voice, is what I needed," Tilliana says. "You have given me permission, both to grieve, even unto death, as well as to heal, to accept the pain, and to walk back unto life."

"I wish only that you find the freedom to walk unto life, my friend," says Elmariyë, taking Tilliana's hands within her own, "wherever that may lead. Let hope alone be your guide and not despair. For hope is the only road along which a person may walk and not come to grief, even if grief marks the journey."