Wrenogal: Act II, xv-xx
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xv
Away! I bring you to another place,
tho don’t forget what you have just now seen!
What you now know is the start of the race,
the truest that the Wren has ever been.
But now we go to Dustan, where no man
could ever guess what new veins would emerge.
For who’d invest in drab, dusty Dustan
with wealth like that of Acles on the verge?
Wyveria would. Latest of a line
of merchants—though her angle was quite wry—
her circles may have been both high and fine,
but her business was for the hard done by.
And though she knew it not, Dustan was ripe
for the hard done by of more than one type.
xvi
Wyveria had heard of Dustan’s plight:
it was too far away for trade, compared
with quarries that were in the line of sight
of capitals where those with money fared.
But where fare those with money fare fair homes
that never suit the laborer. And though
the goods will follow where the money roams,
its gatherers only in dread dreams go.
So Wyveria, with her razored eye,
sent Durn to mark the marketplace, and hear
what were the common rumors running by
the sellers and the tradesmen in that sphere.
And Durn employed to wealth his practiced smarm,
and for the rest, a canny, keen eyed charm.
xvii
Durn was a little man, no more than ten,
who was not taller than he’d been at eight.
And now I say it, I can’t recall when
he said his birthday was at any rate.
He always seemed a little kid to me,
and that suited his methods very well.
As long as no-one that he sued could see
that he was older, all things they would tell.
So gossip was his profit—both from snobs
that chuckled when he asked of laborers,
to those whose hands were full of scratchy knobs—
those tethered to taxes and treasurers.
From both liar and mean he learned the fact,
so Wyveria knew just how to act.
xviii
The most brutish of all men (save of me)
was wandering the mountains at this time.
He searched in every cave and crag to see
if any untapped veins were in that clime.
For Nolda was a miner, and the talk
of Dustan was that mines were set to move.
To mountains north of Dunwich they should flock,
for better ores and prospects they should prove.
But this brute was a man of little means
(far less resourceful than I would have been—
and wiser, too, than I). His frontier scenes
he trusted more than some big city’s ken.
He’d heard, if there was any metal here,
that Durn could buy—but—now what did he hear?
xix
A voice rang through the empty mountains, near
where that secluded cove hid in the peaks,
where none were ever wont to go, for fear
of Locrien, who, vulnerable souls seeks.
The miner pressed his back behind a stone,
to peer down to the sound that was untouched,
and saw a solitary figure prone—
beside his belly lay a lute he clutched.
And dark became the eyes of Nolda then,
for many days ere he went on his search,
he’d seen the gravely posted bulletin
on every meetinghouse, and every church:
“The regicidal Wrenogal is loose!
Be watchful, and report him to the noose!”
xx:
The First Song of Wrenogal
"You once could fool me with visions of thee
riding the wings of the Seraph, free…
Now I see neither the missionary,
nor his companion who hideth me…”
Now Nolda listened to the song he heard,
confused that such a knave would take the time
to make or memorize a lute-song’s word,
or bother to recall a mourning rhyme…
“I saw you on a distant shore
bear faith I never truly bore,
I hear the hymn you sang before:
‘the Silent One’s song shall forever soar…’”
And as the mining man made as to leave,
the pathos paused his feet, and forced a frown.
Just one more moment waiting on the eave,
he’d hear one more strain, glaring at the ground…
“Spear I shall hoist for your memory,
words I shall write for your sons to see.
They will not take them nor hear from me…
still, I’ll ensure that they know of thee…”
At these now tearful words, Nolda, too, wept.
This very venture of his own he’d made
so that his own dear daughters might be kept
from anguish like the one Wrenogal played.
“You mustn’t play so loud,” the brave man called.
“Now, tell me, why are you so sadly sprawled?”