THE GIFT:
A Tale of the Li'aerion Artisans
by Seashimmer Cowrie
~1~
This is a tale of the Li'aerion Artisans, slaves to Eorgina for generation upon generation. I do not claim it to be more than a tale, for how could knowledge escape that stronghold? But it is my tale, and I will tell it, and you will decide for yourselves if you wish to believe it true.
There was once a young elf named Naenlyr, who lived in the tunnels beneath Li'aerion. He was born in the faint light of the lichen there and grew to age entrapped in tightly winding passages of ash grey stone.
There were no beautiful crystals there, as one might see in natural caves, nor spiraling pillars, nor glittering ore. All such objects that might warm the soul with their beauty had been removed long ago to adorn the palace above, though they had done nothing to soften the soul that dwelled there.
~2~
He had no tools of metal, for such might have been used as weapons, but with bits of hard rock, he chipped into the limestone of the caverns the faces of those he knew, for their delicate elven features were all the beauty he ever saw.
Some of the carvings wept tears of slowly dripping water from the ceiling of the cavern, and others had mouths open in screams that were given voice by the echoing drafts. In each, the carefully captured sorrow of the subject made it only more exquisite to gaze upon.
Word of the carvings spread upward through the ranks of the elves, to the supervisors and those who worked in the house, and finally there reached the ears of the Lady of Li'aerion a whisper that there was one whose talents might be worthy to decorate the innermost chambers of her dwelling. And she was pleased.
~3~
In recent years (and recent years for her was centuries or millennia to you and me), you see, she had found, to her frustration, that the talents of the elves, which had once produced objects acceptable to her eyes, had dwindled.
Oh, it was not their skill that had vanished, for they could still shape the marble of her palace as smoothly as ever and twist gold and gem-studded threads into glittering tapestries. But there was something missing in their work, some spark of mortal fire that had made it worthwhile that was now gone.
So word passed down from her through the ranks of elves to Naenlyr that he was to come to the palace from the lower world and would be given the materials he needed, and if his work pleased her, he would be allowed to live.
~4~
When he emerged into the upper world, near his thirtieth year, his first thought was -- Light. Even in Eorgina's palace, wreathed in smoke and darkness, there was more light than in the tunnels far below. His eyes slowly adjusted as he began his craft.
Working with chisel and hammer for the first time, he shaped fine elven features into the stone. The hardened black marble became as soft as a baby's skin beneath his fingers, and the crimson veins twisted and turned to bloody tears that trailed down the face.
~5~
He was nervous when he was done but also satisfied that he had crafted as best he could. He waited to hear the Lady's words.
The sculpture seemed almost to live and breathe, and she was pleased by its artistry, and by the pain that twisted its expression into the only proper shape for those of merely mortal blood over whom she ruled.
But she wanted something more, something that spoke of more than the simple mortal lives within her dwelling. So she sent word for him again, and once again he emerged from the tunnels.
~6~
He paced the palace this time, drawing long-forgotten memories from its tapestries and carvings, and began at last to work in a distant corner, fashioning a window in chips of glass.
He was determined to please the Goddess and spare his life. When the glass was not red enough, he cut his hand on it and bound his blood to it. When it was dirty, he cleaned it with his tears, and when it was too clear, he misted it with his breath.
Within the window he wrought a drake, its black scales and claws a void, which the light shining through the crystal surrounding it could not penetrate, the blood running down the slashes in its hide as crimson as fire.
~7~
When she stared at it, she held her shock from her face only by force of will. He had crafted the very image of Beh'Amant, though he had never seen the great drake.
Again, the art was beautiful, but she did not wish to see her memories so invoked by mere mortals. Still, his talent far surpassed the other artisans, and she sent word to him that he might try one last time. And he sent word back, that he must speak with her.
~8~
She was incensed at such a demand and summoned him this time to the walls from which his compatriots had so often fallen. Quietly, head bowed, he spoke, facing his death.
"Lady," he said, "I have worked from my memories and from yours. If you desire art of the wider world, you must allow me to see it, for I cannot craft what I do not know."
Her expression was cold, and without a word, he was flung from the peak.
But something happened as he fell. The air cushioned his fall, and he reached the ground bruised but unharmed. As he brushed himself off, he heard her chill whisper from a distance. "A year and a day you have to return, artist," she said, "no more."
~9~
Shivering, he still gazed about in wonder. There was light everywhere, and trees greener than the emeralds of Li'aerion, and streams that shone like diamonds.
A thousand thoughts and ideas filtered through his head. He wanted at once to begin to create, but he knew he had only a year and a day to explore, and so he began to walk, knowing not where he went.
In his wanderings he found many things, each more beautiful than the last. In the fourth month, he reached a small village hidden in the forest.
The elves there stared at him in sympathy and horror. Time in the caverns had changed his people, and their once-fair skin had faded in the darkness to a near translucence. Their eyes had widened, their features shifted, all to allow them to survive.
~10~
He did not tell them from where he came, for he thought none would believe him. He worked with them at their tasks of gathering and building, and knew a joy in their happiness that even his first moment of wonder at the outer world had not matched.
When the eighth month came, however, he knew he had to leave, for he feared that if he did not return, Eorgina's vengeance would fall not only on him but on the entire village.
More than that, he had the longing to create, and not merely for these simple people, but for one who would appreciate his work more than any and one who would keep it for all ages.
The journey back to Li'aerion was long, and the climb up the cliffs was nearly impossible. He tore the flesh from his fingers, struggling up the rock, but, bruised and bloodied, he reached the gates on the appointed day.
~11~
They swung open silently at his arrival, and he entered. He chewed healing herbs quickly, knowing he had little time. He never saw the Goddess, but tools were laid out for him, and he began his work.
It was an arch he worked this time, near the heart of the palace. Into its wood he carved the trees he had seen, their limbs filled with creatures both ordinary and magical, and the twisting rivers and tall peaks.
He shaped the world as he had seen it, in detail so fine that one might have stared at it for a year and still missed a flower peeking through the blades of grass or a soaring beast hidden behind a cloud. At last, when he was finished, the Goddess came to see.
~12~
She studied it for a time, pleased with all she saw. This was what had been missing from her palace, what the elves, lost in darkness, could no longer shape. This was the gift that sprang from freedom and love and light, a gift that she dare not allow her slaves to have.
She motioned him to follow her and turned from the room. They walked through the palace and outward to the edge of the walls, where they had been once before.
"It is beautiful," she told him, a mere mortal. And she summoned the power of the winds, and he fell from the ledge. Drakes had dived there once, for sport and thrill, and spread their wings as they reached the ground to soar upward once again. He had no wings, and nothing, this time, cushioned his fall.
~13~
A Tale of the Li'aerion Artisans
by Seashimmer Cowrie
~1~
This is a tale of the Li'aerion Artisans, slaves to Eorgina for generation upon generation. I do not claim it to be more than a tale, for how could knowledge escape that stronghold? But it is my tale, and I will tell it, and you will decide for yourselves if you wish to believe it true.
There was once a young elf named Naenlyr, who lived in the tunnels beneath Li'aerion. He was born in the faint light of the lichen there and grew to age entrapped in tightly winding passages of ash grey stone.
There were no beautiful crystals there, as one might see in natural caves, nor spiraling pillars, nor glittering ore. All such objects that might warm the soul with their beauty had been removed long ago to adorn the palace above, though they had done nothing to soften the soul that dwelled there.
~2~
He had no tools of metal, for such might have been used as weapons, but with bits of hard rock, he chipped into the limestone of the caverns the faces of those he knew, for their delicate elven features were all the beauty he ever saw.
Some of the carvings wept tears of slowly dripping water from the ceiling of the cavern, and others had mouths open in screams that were given voice by the echoing drafts. In each, the carefully captured sorrow of the subject made it only more exquisite to gaze upon.
Word of the carvings spread upward through the ranks of the elves, to the supervisors and those who worked in the house, and finally there reached the ears of the Lady of Li'aerion a whisper that there was one whose talents might be worthy to decorate the innermost chambers of her dwelling. And she was pleased.
~3~
In recent years (and recent years for her was centuries or millennia to you and me), you see, she had found, to her frustration, that the talents of the elves, which had once produced objects acceptable to her eyes, had dwindled.
Oh, it was not their skill that had vanished, for they could still shape the marble of her palace as smoothly as ever and twist gold and gem-studded threads into glittering tapestries. But there was something missing in their work, some spark of mortal fire that had made it worthwhile that was now gone.
So word passed down from her through the ranks of elves to Naenlyr that he was to come to the palace from the lower world and would be given the materials he needed, and if his work pleased her, he would be allowed to live.
~4~
When he emerged into the upper world, near his thirtieth year, his first thought was -- Light. Even in Eorgina's palace, wreathed in smoke and darkness, there was more light than in the tunnels far below. His eyes slowly adjusted as he began his craft.
Working with chisel and hammer for the first time, he shaped fine elven features into the stone. The hardened black marble became as soft as a baby's skin beneath his fingers, and the crimson veins twisted and turned to bloody tears that trailed down the face.
~5~
He was nervous when he was done but also satisfied that he had crafted as best he could. He waited to hear the Lady's words.
The sculpture seemed almost to live and breathe, and she was pleased by its artistry, and by the pain that twisted its expression into the only proper shape for those of merely mortal blood over whom she ruled.
But she wanted something more, something that spoke of more than the simple mortal lives within her dwelling. So she sent word for him again, and once again he emerged from the tunnels.
~6~
He paced the palace this time, drawing long-forgotten memories from its tapestries and carvings, and began at last to work in a distant corner, fashioning a window in chips of glass.
He was determined to please the Goddess and spare his life. When the glass was not red enough, he cut his hand on it and bound his blood to it. When it was dirty, he cleaned it with his tears, and when it was too clear, he misted it with his breath.
Within the window he wrought a drake, its black scales and claws a void, which the light shining through the crystal surrounding it could not penetrate, the blood running down the slashes in its hide as crimson as fire.
~7~
When she stared at it, she held her shock from her face only by force of will. He had crafted the very image of Beh'Amant, though he had never seen the great drake.
Again, the art was beautiful, but she did not wish to see her memories so invoked by mere mortals. Still, his talent far surpassed the other artisans, and she sent word to him that he might try one last time. And he sent word back, that he must speak with her.
~8~
She was incensed at such a demand and summoned him this time to the walls from which his compatriots had so often fallen. Quietly, head bowed, he spoke, facing his death.
"Lady," he said, "I have worked from my memories and from yours. If you desire art of the wider world, you must allow me to see it, for I cannot craft what I do not know."
Her expression was cold, and without a word, he was flung from the peak.
But something happened as he fell. The air cushioned his fall, and he reached the ground bruised but unharmed. As he brushed himself off, he heard her chill whisper from a distance. "A year and a day you have to return, artist," she said, "no more."
~9~
Shivering, he still gazed about in wonder. There was light everywhere, and trees greener than the emeralds of Li'aerion, and streams that shone like diamonds.
A thousand thoughts and ideas filtered through his head. He wanted at once to begin to create, but he knew he had only a year and a day to explore, and so he began to walk, knowing not where he went.
In his wanderings he found many things, each more beautiful than the last. In the fourth month, he reached a small village hidden in the forest.
The elves there stared at him in sympathy and horror. Time in the caverns had changed his people, and their once-fair skin had faded in the darkness to a near translucence. Their eyes had widened, their features shifted, all to allow them to survive.
~10~
He did not tell them from where he came, for he thought none would believe him. He worked with them at their tasks of gathering and building, and knew a joy in their happiness that even his first moment of wonder at the outer world had not matched.
When the eighth month came, however, he knew he had to leave, for he feared that if he did not return, Eorgina's vengeance would fall not only on him but on the entire village.
More than that, he had the longing to create, and not merely for these simple people, but for one who would appreciate his work more than any and one who would keep it for all ages.
The journey back to Li'aerion was long, and the climb up the cliffs was nearly impossible. He tore the flesh from his fingers, struggling up the rock, but, bruised and bloodied, he reached the gates on the appointed day.
~11~
They swung open silently at his arrival, and he entered. He chewed healing herbs quickly, knowing he had little time. He never saw the Goddess, but tools were laid out for him, and he began his work.
It was an arch he worked this time, near the heart of the palace. Into its wood he carved the trees he had seen, their limbs filled with creatures both ordinary and magical, and the twisting rivers and tall peaks.
He shaped the world as he had seen it, in detail so fine that one might have stared at it for a year and still missed a flower peeking through the blades of grass or a soaring beast hidden behind a cloud. At last, when he was finished, the Goddess came to see.
~12~
She studied it for a time, pleased with all she saw. This was what had been missing from her palace, what the elves, lost in darkness, could no longer shape. This was the gift that sprang from freedom and love and light, a gift that she dare not allow her slaves to have.
She motioned him to follow her and turned from the room. They walked through the palace and outward to the edge of the walls, where they had been once before.
"It is beautiful," she told him, a mere mortal. And she summoned the power of the winds, and he fell from the ledge. Drakes had dived there once, for sport and thrill, and spread their wings as they reached the ground to soar upward once again. He had no wings, and nothing, this time, cushioned his fall.
~13~