Wrenogal Act II: xxxiii-xxxvi
“A steal—a vein more valuable than steel
has Nolda,” said Durn in his mother’s ear.
He’d been spying the streets, when, off his heel,
hands piloted him where no-one would hear.
“He told me he’s found something in these hills
worth staying for. But he demands it stays
between him and his buyer—or he kills
who, their shared vow of silence, disobeys.”
Wyveria peered out her window, to
the miner shifting idly in the street.
“Is this not he who has two daughters, who
forgets his stature when he and they meet?
He wouldn’t threaten murder without cause,
however lucrative his secret was.”
~
“Your bribe is wrong,” she said. “You can’t mine steel
in any vein. Which tells me—you have found
not metal, but a treasure you must seal
away with codes to cart the word around.”
Inside her peddle parlor they were sat.
Durn took watch at the window, Nolda squeezed
into a tight armchair, where’d been a cat
who mewed in essays, being so displeased,
while Wyveria questioned he who’d said
he’d kill whoever double-crossed his word.
“I won’t betray your quarry, but you’ll dread
forgoing the occasion I afford.
Your current buyers leave you. I will not,
especially if you tell what you’ve got.”
~
“So what is it you’ve really found?” The cat
jumped quietly onto the windowsill.
The man who stole her chair looked past her, at
the nearest mountain, past the nearest hill.
And then the curtains settled, and the room
regained its darkness, by mere candles lit.
He turned back to Wyveria, of whom
some said woe followed as keen as her wit.
And wit she had. But, so far, scarcely friends
with any of the other known richlings.
Such humble means might prove her. “That depends
on how loyal you are to courts and kings.”
Wyveria now grinned. “Only to those
who have a bit of dirt stained on their nose.”
~
The Second Song of Wrenogal
They’d walked for many miles, off the trails
that usually were where good shoes were wont,
and though she worried not to break her nails,
the trip was dismal for the maid savant.
Durn once again took watch—behind, this time,
as Nolda had instructed he should do.
If anyone their journey now should mime,
the deal would die, and discord would ensue.
“I do not know what you will make of this,”
said Nolda. “But I hope you’ll craft a scheme
that fits both our needs nicely.” Then the hiss
of wind through branches grew, while loose leaves teemed.
From overhead, the beat of dragon wings
was measure for the secret Wren who sings:
Tell me how you wished to travel
to the isles of the sea,
bringing gifts you could unravel
for the strangers you would see!
Tell me how to make them,
tell me how to craft what you could share!
Tell me how to find them,
tell me how to be their everywhere!
I will see the isles you sought for,
I will bring the love you bore,
I will be your bold endeavor—
make your giving give some more!