Both C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien considered E. R. Eddison, author of The Zimiamvian Trilogy, to be a great writer. At Lewis’s invitation, Eddison attended some of their Inklings gatherings. His novels of epic intensity are saturated with magnificent, passionate, exotic characters, who reside among luxuriant, Romantic settings perfectly realised through the uniquely elevated prose which Eddison forged. Lewis described these ‘irreplaceable’ works of ‘art’ as ‘a new literary species, a new rhetoric, a new climate of the imagination . . . ‘
My own homages to Eddison centre in the mist-shrouded realm of Ambreanthe, where Starwing, Guardian of the Dreaming and ‘fairest for all beings’ resides . . .
In a central hall of her Castle, Starwing wandered restlessly beneath drooping fingers of lilac, through the subtle scent of cyclamens and past amber nocturnal orchids which, like the largest of the moons circling that world, bore her name. In exchange for her riding attire she was gowned now in fine gold sarcenet, and a small flower-delice of rose sapphires held a translucent veil of lace to the loosened splendour of her hair.
Light reflecting from the Castle pools rippled across the ceiling in arcs and waves of concentric fading. At the edge of one pool knelt a statue of a mermaid fashioned from greenish blue chrysoprase, and holding forth a copper dish from which water trickled. On the far side of the hall a snow-white leopard paced, the green fire of his eyes reflecting moonlight, the tip of his tail twitching. The hall was circumjacent with flowing cascades of curtain which housed at interludes between the drapes, alcoves holding pedestaled statues of creatures in curious poses of striking, sleep, or alert crouching.
Starwing drew apart the limpid drapes of the glass doors that opened to a still, courtyard garden. Outside across the background wink and stare of stars, fireflies traced fluent spirals. Like counterparts of those stellar and insect beacons, a fall of meteors showered to the horizon. They streamed, leaving shreds and streaks like broken tails as Starwing turned back toward the pools. And as the night burned and soaked the hall with the splendour of the Heavens, she seemed the focus of its mute intensity, the zenith of its dark perfection, the fixed point about which its bright symmetry hovered.
Sir Jaide came into the hall and as he drew near her she turned to him, her eyes deeper and more reaching than the night before the stars were born. She spoke his name in a near whisper as though she only half saw him, and the look in her gaze filled him with fear for her, rekindling at the same time his wrath against the Greyness. Coming to her, he held her in silence, his heart filled with tenderness and fire as the leopard paced beyond the curtains and out into the night.
‘Sanphire,’ she said with calm distress, ‘I fear the Greyness will soon try to wrest from me the realm of Dreaming. As I drew new strength from the vaults and chasms of that realm, meaningless shouts of cutting words, a choking sensation like weightless dust, and scenes of bleak horror forced their way into the landscapes that harbour the timeless Forms of Nature.’ She paused as though reliving these crass intrusions. ‘Would that I were plied through the heart by lightning rather than surrounded with this base and cumbersome threat,’ she added.
Quoted text © Maureen B. Roberts, An Era in Anddemar [Vandrassian Press, Australia, 2026]