554-557 (Ralquez: the escape; end of Act One)
xx
Ere I return to all the woes that be,
I must impart one more loaded detail:
before the Prowler set off for the sea,
the king gave gifts to two who would soon sail.
You know the two. The captain and first mate—
the two whose enmity from now on grew—
tho now their brotherhood could quick abate
the hostile feelings that their futures knew.
“I have here two weapons to introduce,
two tools with which you must be very wise:
they are the truebolts—bolts you mustn’t loose
unless at need—for their mark always dies.
Go now. Defend my son, dear Zlyr,” said he.
“Defend him from the southern sea for me.”
xxi
Recall that Prydien had saved the Wren
when broken ‘neath the dragon he now flies.
Recall the storm that besmirched Tolno then,
and see that no storm now sullies the skies.
But Prydien did not alone attend
the figure we have closely stalked thus far.
Lydoria and flaming Locrien
were watching, too, each struggle near and far.
And now the Queen of Song could fitly spare
a feather for the one whose song had not
yet had its chance to pierce her day-dawn air,
but of whom, she knew, epics would be wrought.
So, with a wing, unseen by any eye,
she swept both dream and deadly volley by.
xxii
It was the only chance the Wren would get.
Reptile instinct was quicker than his own—
the dragon knew a hostile action yet,
and wild reactive flight was still well known.
Zlyr cursed the Wind (and knew not what it meant)
and pulled his crossbow from beneath his coat,
and said, beneath his breath, “I’ll have you rent
if, by my truebolt, you must be so smote!”
But Locrien, who stood on, whispered, “wait:
you do not want to waste that bolt of yours.
Perhaps you hit the dragon, and its fate
usurps the one for whom your anger pours.”
A moment’s hesitation was enough
to save the Wren–though, this, Zlyr would soon slough.
xxiii
The feather that Lydoria had loosed,
in concert with her celestial gale,
now struck the Wren’s own heart, and introduced
the same change as had the dragon’s own tale.
So, hapless, pitiful Wrenogal died,
replaced by one by gods and instinct born;
and, flint-browed, gripped his reins, to skyward ride
not on his past, but on a new wind borne.
A shout of fire, a sword raised overhead,
the moments bought by angels he employed,
and wrought paralysis from flow’ring dread
that Zlyr had carved and craftily enjoyed.
Away! To all and nowhere he was set!
To gain and lose more than he had as yet!