The Wrenogal Sonnets

ACT I

A broken brute, who healed, wrote history,

and all the great adventures of his time,

and how a humble man made misery

repentance that was worthy of a rhyme.

His name he never referenced for himself,

who knew that it would mar the tale he wrote,

but hung his shame high up upon a shelf

and nailed his name in reaches far remote.

Tho ‘twould appear in stories you will hear,

the author is not known to hear it now,

for many men are burdened by the fear

‘The Sword of Locrien’ could once endow.

So this balked, broken brute records the day

his heart was moved to walk another way:

When Wrenogal, who sails the sinking ship,

embarked upon that failing southern sea

there was that nemesis who would soon clip

not only his, but all four feathers, free.

“I say, sea-frenzy has our captain cowed,

and not fit for his captaincy,” said he.

“His agued mind will not now be allowed

to lead us in this perilous south sea.”

So Zlyr stole all but few of that good crew

and went back to Lewellen’s harbory,

while they, the rest, still southward, empty, flew,

by daring and by doom upon the sea.

Yet not for naught was this fleet made to fly

when on the isle of Raksh they were to spy.

iii

‘twas Wrenogal and good Naerendal, too,

and Taladen, and Beyrg, and Melody,

who were the few of that inspired crew

that set foot on that isle in that fay sea.

But wiles of that wild hemisphere were wont

to break a band of many more than they,

and soon but two were left with all the daunt

that death delivers to the souls who stay.

Naerendal, faithful to the last and least,

could only do what fate would let him do,

and finally, at last, fell to the Beast

that only Wrenogal would soon subdue.

For seraphim would notice presently

that hero that was lost upon the sea.

Thus so, alone, the promised to the throne,

lone Wrenogal sought shelter frantically,

and found a home within the crumbling stone

of some great castle that, great, used to be.

Within, an ancient people had retired

before some unknown, dire calamity.

And there were forges that had once been fired

to build bewitching arms and armory.

So, with said bounties of that wild isle,

young Wrenogal took sword and shield and spear,

and, raging, and in desperate denial,

called out that Beast, the dragon, to come near.

And with a crack of lightning, or of wing,

came, roaring, that fay dragon, answering.

The storm of Prydien in tandem poured

upon both dragon and young prince of none,

while crashed her lightning, and her thunder roared,

and blotted out the judgment of the sun.

But Wrenogal could no more match the hull

of that great Beast than water to a ship’s.

Its scales make dull his arms as like the full

coronal rays around a pale eclipse.

Shield cast from arm, sword sheathed into its chest,

spear pierced in side, leg broken in by its wrest,

then with one arc across a thund’rous sky,

the lightning bolt of Prydien swept by

and met the sword embedded in its heart

compelling it to die—and to re-start.

So roared the dragon, and removed its wounds,

and threw them strewn to wash beneath the rain,

and looked to he who’d cast his two harpoons,

and thought it saw rebirth in he who’d slain.

And formed a canopy above his head,

but leaving room for rain to wash wounds out.

and stayed for days to guard him from the dead

who would have surely taken him without.

A splint and dragon to recover with

will make a long but sure recovery,

and sets a strong foundation for the myth

that dragons still are found in the south sea.

For when, eventually, the Wren returned,

there would be many myths for him to earn.

vii

They flew! they two, and bore the ship behind

by rope, in the dragon’s tail intertwined,

and to Lewellen’s shores they forward went,

but knew not what dark deeds had been recent.

For years had gone since Zlyr had early fled

the sailors he predicted would be dead,

and took his chance to sit within the courts—

fell contracts wrote, and made-up seaborne torts.

His forethought fortunate for him indeed,

his sowing reaped the measure of his greed,

and Zlyr the mutinous held a high place

in Wrenogal’s own childhood palace.

But of all this the Wren had heard no word,

while gliding on the wind as like a bird.

viii

They slept on the Sea Prowler in the night

(this was the name of theirs, the the sinking ship)

and took their tow again when it was bright,

their tenuous and tenured return trip.

And anchored in the deep Aeonian sea

when blessèd shore appeared far off at last,

trusting the Lord of Anonymity

to keep their only treasure anchored fast.

Deep night it was when Wrenogal arrived

alone to find the king’s chamber went he,

when Zlyr he met, who’d this meeting connived,

who’d planned for this eventuality—

who’d kept a constant vigil, on his own,

for when the Wren would e’er again come home:

“Dear prince!” said he, “how, now, you come to us!

when, in the morning, is your father due

to tell of how so un-fortuitous

his line has been in waiting long for you!

But now his message shall be good indeed,

for you shall come before it will be said,

and not an ended line shall be decreed

but one blest by the Seraphim instead!

I say, enter upon the palace yard

a moment after dawn, and you shall be

applauded by the court and by the guard

when their lost and beloved son they see!

Forgive me, friend, for how I favored thee

upon an old and bitter southern sea.”

Zlyr now awaited a response to this,

his head hung in mock penitence before

the very lord he’d left for the abyss

of an unseen and unknown foreign shore.

The first man Wrenogal had seen thus far!

First since the good and fair Naerendal fell.

Such solitude can pry the heart ajar,

and bid men to bid fair-won ire farewell.

“Dear friend, prepare my father for the morn.

I long to meet him, but I trust your way.

Better to be by dawn’s light newly born.

I’ll go now, and I’ll see you in the day.”

His ploy now set, its cascade thus began,

now keen-eyed Zlyr employed his peerless plan:

My king, Zlyr mused, the Wren now on his way,

and in the quiet midnight’s guarantee,

what was it that you were so soon to say?

What was it that tomorrow you’d decree?

That ‘rule no more will be Lewellen’s way.

I lay my crown into the sea, that took

my son away; and there the crown shall stay,

where lone Aeonia alone can look.’

Zlyr slunk, now, silently, behind a door

that creaked not e’en a peep to disturb sleep,

and stole upon a carpeted room floor

to stand above his king, in dreams sunk deep.

Your crown is not the sea’s! His gambit made,

Zlyr sealed his cunning with his faithless blade.

xii

The morrow was as bright as they’d both prayed.

Both native starved and glutted rogue had wished

for something nearly picturesque as this

to seal the day they’d grasp what they’d assayed.

Fierce gleaming Tolno left no bit of shade,

save in the heart of he whose shadows wist

beside the heart he had deftly dismissed,

elsewhere besides, no cunning was purveyed.

So Wrenogal rode in upon the spoil

to which his voyage clung: the very steed

that rendered both reward and trick for toil,

that e’en Zlyr could not guess in all his greed.

The beat of dragon wings would halfway foil

the soil where the rogue had set a seed.

xiii

The courtyard swelled with courtiers and tells,

each listened to the news that morning held;

for Zlyr had rung the castle’s signal bells

before Tolno had, Twilight, fully felled:

“I saw, but hours ago, our king disposed

by one whose hands were already bloodstained.

He will be here again, vainly disposed

to take his place—in purest spirits feigned.

Fear not! I will not hearken to his lies!”

And now the dragon’s wing-beats rent the air,

as he of whom Zlyr spoke besmirched the skies

making the lie not lesser, but more fair.

So ushered in this age’s sundering:

“’tis Wrenogal! ’tis he that killed the king!”

xiv

The Wren descended on that sour scene

into the snake nest’s fangs: ablaze with ire,

into the home he’d loved, and had not seen

since when Zlyr was his friend, and not a liar.

And in a vision did his vision go,

and on the balcony above the yard

he saw four loved ones there, and not a foe:

Naerendal, Taladen, and Beyrg the bard,

and Melody before them spoke his name,

but in Zlyr’s voice his cousin’s outcry came:

“arm every bow and all the ballistae!

Do not allow this viper to go free!”

The vision melted, as did every sound,

as every soldier fired his every round.

At this time, I admit, I have forgot

to tell you of some characters you’ve seen.

Of Taladen’s fond friendship you know not,

and of the others by him, scarce a thing.

It could suffice to say that they were friends,

but that would leave you lacking many coats;

so, since I know how Wrenogal’s fate ends,

I can spare a few pages for some notes.

Do not forget: I am a brutish man,

and very much enjoy more brackish jokes.

So I will fill some gaps now, if I can;

reveal some collars, and remove some cloaks.

These are the four who chose to stay that day

when Zlyr, his loves and virtues, would betray.

xvi

Naerendal was appointed by the king

to watch his son and sister’s children o’er

their voyage, o’er their seaway wandering,

while wondering the heavy hearts they bore.

For a great war had ended recently,

and many ills had lingered since its close,

not least the bitter death they had to see

of their queen, and his love, by remnant foes.

Naerendal’s task it was to be their guide,

in waterways and ways more sage and wise.

He was good at it, too. The Wren would chide

me with the same words, echoed in reprise.

Figures he lasted longest. But a shame

he was not there when the reunion came.

xvii

The bard called Beyrg, the jester of the hall

where Wrenogal was born, whose yellow cap

assuaged the sorry states of each and all

the courtiers across the lordly map,

could cheer both angered and the most depressed.

His eyes knew grief, but were not so possessed.

And when so bright and colorfully dressed,

it was not difficult to be impressed.

I hear his death was maybe worst of all.

For even dismal odds die at the laugh

of one like him; and how he loved to call

a tragedy naught–cutting it in half.

The beasts that took him knew no laughter so.

And gone are all the jokes he used to know.

xviii

Zlyr had two cousins in Lewellen’s court:

the Wren of Lewellen, our story’s mark,

of whom we bear this tale’s epic report,

and Melody, whose words he used to hark.

Her eyes were soft and knowing, more than they

should have been, being young, able to be.

And just as kind and loving was her way

with words, to all those soft eyes e’er would see.

And boon she was to both her cousins hearts,

until her choices parted her from both.

Zlyr told her to return to better parts,

but Melody again refused his troth.

She would not rest her arm upon Zlyr’s right–

she would not see another palace night.

xix

Beloved Taladen, dear friends with both

the prince as well as Zlyr, his counselor,

chose fatefully the day he took the oath

to follow Wrenogal where’er he were.

For Zlyr loved Taladen as much as he

had ever cared for his dear Melody.

How terrible it was for him to see

that Taladen, too, would stay on that sea.

Perhaps that was the straw that broke the back

of the dear, noble champion he’d been–

the Red Hawk felt for the first time the lack

of those he’d thought his charm could always win.

But Taladen loved dear that traitor, too.

How much he longed their friendship to renew.

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.

Defend my son with yours, 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 rode.

Recall the storm that besmirched Tolno then,

and see that no storm now had been bestowed.

But Prydien did not alone attend

the figure we have closely stalked thus far.

Lydoria and flaming Locrien

were watching, too, each struggle and each spar.

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 I must send this truebolt through your throat!”

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 turned and used the fear, the 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!

END OF ACT I

~~~

ACT II

I spoke to one who’d watched that very scene,

when Wrenogal invoked dread, undeserved,

in every heart that saw him; and, unseen,

the flametouched seraph Locrien observed.

The Wren, again, knew not what had been done

to aid him on that victorious flight;

but I shall tell you--for the very one

I’ve mentioned told it to me that same night:

‘The dark one on the dragon raised his sword,

and shouted as if fire was his thrall,

for every inch of his blinding blade roared

with flames that answered his inciting call.’

But when I’ve asked the Wren of this detail,

No fact or fiction from it can prevail.

They flew back to the Prowler, which stayed fast

‘neath Aeonia’s absent, watchful eye;

and they thought quickly–for what was now past

would follow them if they stayed in the sky.

On the Northeastern shore, there is a cove

bestrangled by sharp mountains in its sea.

No ship had ever moored there–all who drove

nearby were dashed and, from their oars, ripped free.

But this one might be different, thought he

who’d towed his ship behind a dragon’s wake.

The fell teeth of that cove may disagree

with sailors, but, for dragons, jaws forsake.

Thus, tied again to the ship underneath,

the Wren made for the cruel Cove of Fell Teeth.

iii

At last when overcast the sky had drawn,

and threatened storm again at any time,

the confidence of Wrenogal was gone,

replaced by something sickly and sublime.

Sublime, for even living it can’t hide

the way such stakes as his were mythical;

and sickly, for, beneath a smock of pride,

he knew his state was deeply pitiful.

What could a safe cove do, even if there

he could retreat, reborn as a recluse?

How sour forever would taste the air–

how tight the light would wrap him like a noose.

But now the cove was on his horizon

and his next hurdle set to overcome.

Now Locrien looked on from on a crag

that towered over that northeastern sea,

that was the fell usurper, and the snag

of many ships that, great ships, used to be.

For Wrenogal, approaching, he would not

give leeway o’er his vicious, rocky brink.

It now was time to see if he who’d sought

escape had earned his aid, or if he’d sink.

Yet unseen was the seraph on his peak

by Wrenogal, who eyed the sea below,

who must not err, who must alone now seek

a path that no-one else as yet could know

through Locrien’s cove. Wren and dragon wend

through what was every other good ship’s end.

That mix: divine and mortal, scale and skin,

engaged the two again, and now the wings

of nature gained the virtues of a sin,

and godspring gained earth’s pure underpinnings.

The dragon pitched and whorled along the string

that held him to the helpless ship below,

and held the eldritch fluxed understanding

that only beasts controlled by man can know.

The Wren bore, too, the knowledge of the beast,

and leaned betimes into it, trusting more

the one who knew the currents more, not least,

who knew well how to reach a distant shore.

For this last mile was the longest yet,

both knew that which they must not now forget.

Between each pass, and through each needle’s eye,

the unit towed the hurtling ship by,

betwixt rocks, searching, scraping, screaming by,

about and turned about more than the eye

could follow fully, thus it soared along

far farther than good reason could have guessed;

but one wry move would prove the ship’s hope wrong,

and add her hull to Locrien’s ship nest.

One turn more, when the Wren reflexed his gaze

from task to shore for but a moment’s daze,

was when the rope guiding the Prowler grazed

the peak of Locrien, whose sharp rocks razed.

Untethered kite—the Wren and his mount flew,

while, for the ship, there was naught left to do.

vii

She had enough momentum thus to reach

the shore—though not without the weight of care

the Wren would learn upon that sorry beach:

one last stone by the shore laid her side bare.

And as she came to rest, the waves rest too

within her belly—cracked and caving in.

Her sails still waving, high, and full, and true,

her lower decks left to the ocean’s din.

Seaweeds already pushed into her space,

then mussels, and the mosses of the sea

would creep upon her seaspray-laden face,

until fully claimed as the sea’s debris.

So for some days the Wren would naught but stare

into the world that he had lost in there.

viii

And while he watched the monotonous waves

take, one by one, the Sea Prowler’s contents,

his heart-worn, ghasted eyes gave heartless graves

to buried pasts which knew no sacraments.

As if the seraph, watching from above,

commanded each to flow beside his gaze,

the crates and cargoes that were borne thereof

demanded of the Wren his hate or praise.

Each drew unto where Wrenogal was stood

within the churning waters of his fate,

as if to ask (as if the dread man could),

make good our voyage, and our value sate.

Surely the shipment of that yearslong crew

of false and dead held something live and true?

First drew unto that near dead-hearted one

the quill of Taladen. And parchment sogged

beside it lost its ink, already run

into the sea, now fully waterlogged.

The poetry those lines once held now ran

throughout the racing mind of he who saw.

What could he now remember? How began

the epics that had lent their humble awe?

But gone. A few words here and there he might

recall, but never half the voice of he

who rarely ventured into broad daylight

unless the Wren or Zlyr he wished to see.

The quill will see the sea. And nevermore

will friends, its poems, pardon or ignore.

But Beyrg had loved his writing. He had kept

Taladen’s verses always on his lips.

Dear Taladen had often softly wept

alone when Beyrg had used his lines in scripts.

He knew well how to love. No man was not

within the reach of Beyrg’s beloved heart.

And love was not a prayer or passing thought,

but had, in all his plays, a hero’s part.

His yellow jester’s cap drifted beside

the fingertips the seaswell softly kissed.

That cap, so well to happier times tied,

would have to be forsaken, and be missed.

For Wrenogal could not now laugh with it.

And ‘trying to’ he’d not, himself, permit.

A satchel now approached, which slowly spun

around, giving its contents every way,

dispersing little bundles, “made for none

and everyone”, as Melody would say.

A biscuit and an ornament they held,

an offering for any who would take,

for those who ever had been sore repelled,

and those who were the ones who could forsake.

Melody made the gifts, and gave them out

to outskirt villages, beyond the sight

of palaces, beyond the chasing shout

of fearful courtier and noble knight.

She did not fear. She gave. And now the sea

ate what the Wren’s tear-blurred eyes could not see.

xii

Naerendal owned a book he often shared

with Wrenogal, about Aeonia,

of how the Silent Seraph truly cared,

more, even, than that fae Lydoria.

Back then, the Wren had listened with an ear

that trusted much, which had no reason not

to trust the thought that angels might be near,

and had all living things witnessed, and wrought.

But now, seeing its spine bob closer, flew

across the churning shallows, scrabbling

their surface—in that book, Wrenogal knew

his plight would be there, and gods answering!

And, tense hands turning open its wet face,

he saw the sea had taken the ink’s trace.

xiii

One version of the Wren now threw the book

into the sea, that had, now, all things seized

away from heart and hand, and now partook

within its hungry depths all that once pleased.

Another version screamed into the air,

at all the light he ever had seen there,

and begged for Darkness to remove him hence,

and—better yet—his heart from all its sense.

But this one stared into the once loved book,

whose words the Seraph of the Sea now seized,

and perilously on his thoughts partook—

of memories that bleed—that once had eased.

And would have done until the Dark encroached,

when something he’d forgotten now approached.

xiv

Bumped right into his leg, Wrenogal’s lute

entreated him. A pet that wants to play.

But oceans of despair now numbly root

the paralyzed to where his bare life lay.

Almost naive. Almost—except—the bard

had taught him how to play. And Taladen

had hoped one day to have his verses barred

in music’s measures. And—had not the Wren

once heard that Melody had wished that, in

her offerings, she might, too, cheer the ear

with song? And what was it—that ancient hymn

Naerendal sang to conquer every fear?

His voice—barely his own: “then I will learn

the songs they might have sung. And then adjourn.”

“and I will sing the songs they taught to me,

and tell them to the sea. The Southern Sea.”

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.5

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.

xvii

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 me). 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?

xviii

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!”

xix:

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?”

Jumped to his feet, and pulling on his bow,

but with no arrow, Wrenogal let loose

a string of nothing at his could-be foe,

then raised his hands in gesture of a truce.

“You’ve caught me,” said the Wren, “behind my cloak.

I’ve been sorely distracted as of late.

Surely you know to whom you have just spoke?

Surely you know mine is a wicked fate?”

He eyed his quiver, many arms away.

“You ask this stranger why he lay so sprawled,

and ask not why, in all the world, he lay

where ‘Fell’ is in the very name it’s called.”

His lip twitched in a mad-ish grin. “I too

am ‘fell’. Though not to one as calm as you.”

“I have heard this, and must be fool to ask

your story face to face and not from inns.

I came not here upon your bounty’s task,

and go not to see what my story wins.

You mentioned someone’s sons–I do not think

that one becomes concerned with others’ heirs

if his hands with bad blood so sullied stink

of murder as your name in public bears.

And you can sing.” The miner looked away.

“I must be soft-eyed to believe it. Yet,

I do not think a song could ever play

so sweet on wicked lips as yours beget.”

With heavy footsteps, Nolda plodded down

to stand with Wrenogal on even ground.

The sprigs of Wrenogal’s allies now grow,

and we shall see what more they have to say,

but you must know of what other seeds sow,

so I must yet again take you away.

In Thalynvriy, whose armies blind by day,

they armed their catapults with binding cords,

so that, if Wrenogal flew near that way,

their armies would reap his capture’s rewards.

Each dock town warned each nearby private bay

to watch for the Sea Prowler, and to house

its captain safely, secretly, and stay

its flight until its own guards they could rouse.

The capitols bribed sellswords with the pay

of class and title—work would be their past.

And so spread those with morals dim and gray

through town and city, and each country vast.

But nowhere was this hunt more of a mess

than precisely where you would place your guess.

Back home in Lewellen there was a man

who sold his sword for gold and grueling toil,

whose own gold knew not where it once began—

for violence and black deeds was its true soil.

Hate this man more than any other. Fear

his name more, even, than you now fear Zlyr’s.

This mercenary will on your loves leer,

who least loves noble men, and most trusts curs.

Remember this name: Erison–and loathe

the one who bears it. Envy not his strength,

for when the Wren was outcast, this one oathed

to claim his bountied blood at any length.

Erison knew no other life than this.

One more dead man he would not know to miss.

“You’re well known for your violence,” said Zlyr.

They stood in a high court, attendants nigh:

Aerandel and her faithful retainer

Nevgondian looked on as they stood by.

“I know no other life, your lordship. When

my home was wrecked by bandits, I endured.

As mercenary I might find them. Then

they’ll know what pain their cruelty incurred.”

Aerandel whispered into Zlyr’s sharp ear,

“I wouldn’t trust this one. He is too fazed

to heed us. And his hot heart I do fear

would risk being by Wrenogal appraised.”

But Zlyr thought otherwise. “Cunning you’ll be

if you have any mind to work for me.”

Upon Erison’s shoulder rested, soft,

a Shroud, darker than any dark you’ve seen,

which whispered earward, never being doffed,

secrets on which its wearer should be keen.

An artifact of a more mythic age

when had the Shadow far more power, ere

the Wight enticed bright Tolno to his rage,

and forced him into darkness everywhere.

But this Shroud housed his thought and every snare

inside its shadowed swathe; and to a knave

like Erison, its secrets it would share—

to lead to both the garish and the grave.

You’ll like the ways this way goes. I am sly

enough for this false king to get us by.

So, smiling at the king’s and Shroud’s remarks,

the hired sword bowed down his head. “I will

follow wherever your mad Wren now larks,

discreetly, ‘til his capture I fulfil.”

“You’ll not make yourself known until his neck

is open to your blade. And then you’ll end

the chase, and have him in your quiet check,

and not a moment more with him you’ll spend.

I’ve others to accomplish with brute force

what you are wont to do. I may assist

you in your own search—your personal course—

if you, your coarse instincts, you will dismiss.”

Erison’s interest piqued, “you’ll find my mark

if I find yours? How soon can I embark?”

Nevgondian was watchful. He could see

that here was more than there appeared to be.

He looked from Zlyr, who he knew quite shrewdly,

to this brash, bold, yet bright mercenary.

His eyes he narrowed, and his lips he pursed—

Their guest had shoulders that seemed prone to shrug

when other, guileless mortals would have cursed

to hear what he’d heard; but this man was smug.

The knight looked over to his Aerandel,

who eyed him back—her own gaze just as keen.

They two would have a few shrewd words to tell

of what had been said, and what had not been.

But now he silently allowed his king

to sign this sellsword’s fresh indenturing.

To many places Erison then went,

informed by whispers from the Shroud he wore.

To hiding places he himself had spent,

to shady taverns and shadier shores.

His tactics were somewhat like little Durn’s,

though with the leer of one whose aims were worse.

Secrets drawn from life’s seediest cisterns

were chief among the tricks hid in his purse.

To Kothe first sent the hunter seeking trail,

it would have been the quickest place to fly

for one who, from Lewellen, had turned tail—

it would have been where he would first have tried.

But Kothe brought nothing. As the Shroud had said:

“your quarry would have tried a place of dread.”

To Thalynvriy, then, Erison pressed on,

to where there could, no manmade force, break through,

to where there were a thousand eyes upon

the walls of fortresses no man could hew.

His papers, as a vassal of a king,

he bore before his face, avoiding those

who knew his garments were as mismatching

his vassalage as dove’s feathers to crow’s.

“This place is dread enough,” he said to none

but that which rested on his shoulder. “Still,

you know there is a dreader place. The one

where feral things do more than claw and kill.”

He knew the place the Shroud spoke of. And dread

indeed embodied the Hills of the Dead.

The bones of men were not to be here found,

but this precisely was what caught the heart

into its own ominous beating sound,

and echoes of the stories that took part

in these Dead Hills, where only those returned

who gods rejected and who devils spurned,

who drank and spake naught but what they had seen

that none should see, that should not e’en have been.

Now Erison approached, his failing frame

nigh tripping over dusty, scattered stones,

and at the howl of one or two, who’d blame

his fleeing, seeing half man-half beast bones.

“Mountains, at least, you ought to try for next,

if you are, by a few cute creatures, vexed.”

Of dreaded mountains there were only three.

The range of Ostia, where bandits roamed,

whose visage matched their peoples’ villainry.

The ones he’d just now timorously combed,

where, if the Wren was hid, he might as well

have hid in his own coffin. Then, the wreath

of shipwreck, where they say Locrien dwells,

the dire, tortured crags that make the Teeth.

They said that Wrenogal flew on the wind,

no ship he’d need to spare to make that cove.

And if society you must rescind,

where better than that merciless karst-grove?

To Warponde, then, and then to Dustan’s door.

If not, his Ostian haunts he would endure.

xxxiii

“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.”

xxxiv

“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.”

xxxv

“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, with whom

some said trade was as woeful as her wit.

And wit she had. But, so far, scarcely friends

with any of the other known richlings.

Such humble means could 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.”

xxxvi

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!

xxxvii

They now approached the seaside, where the ship

lay washed upon the beach, her cave-in bare,

and growing new life with each new wave’s sip

that sweetly washed into her open air.

And Wrenogal descended, with a smile

that hadn’t been seen on his weary lips

since ere the Prowler’s first nautical mile

surpassed the likes of other, lesser ships.

And looked first, at his greatest, proudest joy:

the broken vessel, cankering with moss,

that could no longer voyages employ,

but was not, in his new mind, any loss.

And in that rapture turned to face his friend,

his first friend since his own steed’s own first end.

xxxviii

Now, I tell you, here’s a sight I really wish that I had seen.

When the Wren appeared before Wyveria, who had not been

expecting more than long lost treasures, or a secret she could use,

instead: a person, who, they said, had nothing left but death to lose.

But I’m told she was as clever as her reputation said.

Said she had far more to lose by vexing him or dealing dread,

instead, she said she needed him for something listed in his song:

why not help this fair merchant in reversing trade that had gone wrong?

“Here in Dustan are vast quarries, rich, but they cannot be sold—

mountains bar the way from changing caravans from ores to gold.

But take your dragon, secretly, transport our market in the sky,

and then good men like Nolda will not need to make their families fly.”

Wrenogal stared at the woman who asked that he be a coach,

and—swallowing his princely pride—he asked her more, without reproach.

xxxix

Back in her parlor, where the cat was curled

upon the desk within a slim sunbeam,

Wyveria a small letter unfurled

as her door cracked, revealing a horse team.

Before the well-brushed pair there stood the man

who’d written her the letter. “Dear, oh dear,

I’ve heard you’re staying put! You understand

I was about to leave this hovel here?

I’ve invited a few more here to pry,

if you, of course, don’t mind our stopping by.

We simply want to know why one like you

would fail to follow where your wealth was due.”

And filtered in a host of eyes askance,

to undo and reclothe her rightful stance.

“You must know they have well established roads

near Dunwich. That’s where I think I will go.

You’re welcome to come with me–we’d have loads

to talk about! The journey’s nice, you know!”

“That boy of yours. It’s not safe for him here,

but he’d have fun in Ryke. Why not go there?”

“I have a caravan that goes there! Clear

from Octave to the coast—our teams could share!”

“You know they’ll rip you up out here,” said he

who entered first. His eyes tried to be kind.

“Rip up what? You’ve all said, empty I’ll be

without your coaches. But, I think you’ll find

I’ve got a note you’ll never earn.” The door

flung wide by Nolda, looking like a boar.

xli

The cat leaped into Wyveria’s lap

at the crash of the door. “You need help, Miss?”

“Not now,” the lady said, milking the trap

she’d laid specifically for fools like this.

Their eyes, which started so proud to be here,

looked everywhere for any other door.

“Ah, that’s the only one. But never fear,

good Nolda is a kind man to the poor.”

She stood. “And poor you are if you must flank

a lady with such numbers—And such lies—

I would not be the one that you would thank

for coming, but your own illicit ties.”

The cat purred in her arms to see them leave.

“Dear Nolda, you’re a fine trick up a sleeve.”

xlii

As Nolda went to all the honest men

in Dustan, in the trades round about his,

Wyveria was questioned once again

by friends for whom her actions formed a quiz.

“You’re not going to Acles? There, I say,

your scope of demographics would be keen.”

“You’re staying? Why, when even on this day

the companies are nowhere to be seen?”

To all this, the fair merchant waved outside.

“See all the men who still live here? They’ll work

for those who cannot cross the countryside.

A job that stays is one they will not shirk.”

And, wagging heads, the capital seeped out,

while fortune in real people hung about.

xliii

The Wren flew through the night, to memorize

his route before the real route would be made,

and dipped beneath the clouds with furrowed eyes

to see through night—to know his course had stayed.

“And how has stayed my course!” He called below

to he he rode, whose wings suppressed the sky.

“Not that you’d know. You started it, you know—

the day you should have let my story die.”

He liked being in clouds. The bolt was there

that ‘saved’ him from the dragon in the storm.

Who was the seraph of the whirling air?

Who made sure that his life would be reborn?

Not Aeonia, he knew that for sure.

But he knew not who the three others were.

xliv: Lydoria

They say that one was master of the wind

(”that one would fit, whichever that one was”)

but she—if his memory hadn’t thinned—

was not so dreaded as that seastorm was.

They said a name at festivals more than

the others—and whenever there was song.

There was a pure connection that began

with wind to wherever the songs belong.

“That’s not so harsh as our wind,” said the Wren.

“Ours was a hurricane. No song in there.

It must not have been Lydoria, then.

I think that was the name they said at fair.

No wonder Naerendal studiously

rehearsed these stories to the listless me.”

xlv: Locrien

Another seemed to fit. The flaming one.

“That fits the lightning, kind-of, doesn’t it?

His stories are all pain, and never fun.

I think that really does.. Accurately fit.”

But he could not remember this one’s name.

They said it very rarely. More, by far,

he was called by his signature red flame,

and by the savage ways he left his scar.

“He’s left his scar on you, if it is he,”

he said quietly to the one below.

“And left an invisible one on me,

though not with fire. Not that I can know.”

Indeed, though not for him to know, some did,

if fire had a role in his life’s bid.

xlvi: Prydien

One more, they said, made gardens grow with tears.

She watered forests with her fearful sobs.

So many and so scattered were her fears,

that no-one knew where were her true heart’s throbs.

“That doesn’t sound like ours. Too sensitive.

Too caring, obviously, for new life

to see the likes of us, who would not live

without the instinct-anger of our strife.

Wherever that bolt came from, not from love

it struck. I cannot think anyone cared

enough for us to save, from high above,

a man who had naught but his revenge bared.”

That’s what I like about Wrenogal best.

He comes to wrong even by right’s behest.

xlviii

When Erison arrived at Dustan’s gate,

he saw the caravans of merchants leave.

He asked, “do you know—I see, I am late—

is there gold in these mountains to retrieve?”

They scoffed at his quaint question. He knew not

the dramas that had been made on that score.

But he would soon use that very same plot

to get gold—and to get a little more.

“There is one merchant left. There always will

be someone who will trust these wealthy peaks.

And anyone who, while most leave, stays still,

has more than money that their mind still seeks.”

But Erison went where his bones knew best:

the tavern, despite the Shroud’s shrewd behest.

xlix

Nevgondian was trapped by Aerandel,

who stood before the door he was to take,

inside an empty room, for now a well

of silence while the rest weren’t awake.

“You’ve got to track him. Erison,” she said.

“You know I can’t,” Nevgondian replied.

“You know, my last knight always quickly sped

to do whatever I had asked,” she lied.

She glared with something grim, much like malice,

but with something inside it that was kind.

Nevgondian knew she could be callous,

but had more than ambition on her mind.

“I see. I won’t betray the standard now.”

But Aerandel did not, his flight, allow.

“You know I didn’t mean that. You are far

the best—my favorite—of the ones who’ve served

beside me. There is no obsequious bar

between you and the honor you deserve.”

“’It’s just that this task must be—must—be done,’”

chided the knight. Who imitated her.

“We both know how this court is truly run,

no day makes any day the simpler.”

She’d promised quiet, once the court was still,

once whatever was brewing with the king

was better. She knew, even at the will

of Zlyr to join the Wren’s crew, it would sting.

“I’ve promised many things. And you are kind

to serve me still, despite what lays behind.”

“But do this last, and leave my service hence

once this is done. I’ve asked too much of you.

But bear this as your promised recompense:

I will, to you and yours, always be true.”

She could not meet his gaze, but pushed away,

and sped to where her true work would begin.

Where even her Nevgondian must stay

away: her study, and she barred therein

her doors. She would not tempt her thoughtful charge

with finding her. And over sheaves she pored

of parchment detailing the Red Hawk’s charge

against the Wren. What crimes they could accord.

And tears dripped from her nose, blurring the lines

she read, while tucked away in her confines.

lii

Nevgondian had much to think on now.

But I won’t tell you what his true thoughts were.

He wouldn’t want to tell you anyhow,

but I’ll give that from which you may infer.

Suffice to say, he did what he’d been asked.

He took a quiet ship and made away

to where he’d picked up Erison was last,

ignoring his own squire’s plea to stay.

He told no sailor why he went to where

he bid them go. It would be bad indeed

for anyone to be welcome to share

the truth, and treasonous ideas feed.

And lone upon the prow, he ate his fear

at the same time as he shed his first tear.

liii

“You seek the Peak?” the captain said to he

who wouldn’t tell why he had picked his route.

“No-one sails there. It is all misery—

the winds there force all ships to come about.

We can’t get close unless we row.” “I’ll take

a dinghy when we come too close. You’ll stake

your anchor ‘til I venture back, and make

do, ‘til we, like the wind, that isle forsake.”

So, without explanation, they sailed then

to Jarod’s Peak: upon the Eastern sea,

where that insightful, sure Nevgondian

thought that, not Erison, but answers be.

That shroud of his has less than dark in it,

just like the Peak that still remains unlit.

liv

The clouds grew denser with each passing mile

as, passing Thalynvriy, the voyage took

their last glance at a harbor for awhile—

it was a long, and very heavy look.

“That’s why we never sail to Ostia

from here,” the captain said. “These sails will tear

if we don’t have leave of Lydoria

to go. Do you still dare to go out there?”

“I do. Lydoria will care for you.

She will not see that my ship is now sunk.”

He thought her songs would make his voyage true,

but knew not that such love songs are love-drunk.

“Then take the tender, lads!” The captain called.

“He means it!” But the men still looked appalled.

The ship went out as far as it could go,

about a league out from that wretched Peak,

which broke the surface of the sea just so,

it seemed the cruel jaw of a crow’s beak.

The clouds had not relented: godly dark,

they spoke to hearts of ends too far from home,

of warnings that even the foolish hark,

a miasma that roars you will not roam

herein. Turn back. Beware ye, and avast.

Nevgondian looked on that haze, and broke

his lips into a grin, of times now past,

when Aerandel a similar threat spoke.

She’d barred him from her study at that time.

He wondered what had been, that time, her crime.

lvi

She now had left her chambers, where she’d brought

some sheaves of papers that she was to read

until she fell asleep, but quickly thought

she mustn’t sleep on such a perfect lead.

She crept through quiet corridors, past guards

who kept well their patrols in palace halls,

and past rooms where the lively tunes of bards

kept up lords planning festivals and balls,

into the desert record hall, where she,

was not yet to have access, took in hand

a pilfered pleasure: the library key,

opened and closed the door, and there did stand,

aware, at last, for perhaps the first time,

the true legitimacy of her crime.

lvii

Ten of that crew were dead. In service slain,

and eight were now in court. They held their word.

No paper trail could, five others, regain,

and three were lost exploring lands northward.

Many more had displanted. Family trades

had died here—artisans were forced to take

their crafts and skills across seas and cascades,

to where few records keep and few scribes make.

And who had made so kingdom-side such crafts?

One voice above the others in the text

rose, powerful, and known to more court drafts:

Zlyr had, each sailor’s father’s trades, annexed.

But one she could still trace—the man had gone

to Ostia—Zlyr’s one forgotten pawn.

lviii

Curse you, you foolish Aerandel, she said,

who knew, now, that she’d had more time, not less.

She could have sent, to Ostia, instead

her… Knight, on a journey less dangerous.

At least.. Less dangerous for him. She moved,

silent, again, back to her cluttered room.

She’d be, someday, the hasty noble proved;

but now adventure, more than bearings, loomed.

An export borne to Ostia she spied,

and on its planks she planted one more box.

A royal stamp she gave it, and, disguised,

she waited for the morning on the docks.

“This cargo comes from castle. I’ve heard tell

it’s secret,” said the sailor Aerandel.

lix

The mercenary chewed on cheap stew chunks

that hadn’t softened in the boiling broth,

and listened over chair scrapes and boot thunks

for any talk with more weight than its froth.

He heard the gist of what had happened to

the market. How one woman was, alone,

the benefactor of the residue,

whose clientele had, past its balance, grown.

But also overheard a little child

tell a hard-bitten man that he should come

with him to a rough place out in the wild

where he might find work, if he wanted some.

He hearkened to the rendezvous, and went

to spy a witness of the shy event.

Arriving very early, Erison

stood underneath the Moon. Her Stars stood round

and glared at him, the fury of the Sun

emblazoned in their eyes where he was found.

For see, the Children of the Sun and Moon

know what the secret hearts of men conceal.

Both Star and Phantom see clearly, as soon

as seeing you, what you do not reveal.

But their squabble is with each other. Men

are free to stow away whate’er they will.

Though, be careful what you reveal, and when,

for once a thing is known, they know it still.

But now, Erison knew something so great,

even the Stars, for answers, had to wait:

lxi: The Third Song of Wrenogal

The rendezvous was half a mile out,

and Erison chose somewhere he could see

the place, and have no need even to scout

the area for what there soon would be.

And o’er his screen, the wings of Wrenogal

beat down, showering leaves upon his head.

He looked from whence the gale made them all fall,

and saw what would have caused other men dread.

But daunting though the Moon-blackening wings

should be, their whole effect was ruined, some,

by he who on the back of those wings sings

an obvious and tender requiem:

Write on, beyond where you are gone,

tell well your everlasting spell.

Yon wanness of your living song

will still, your dying treasures tell.

And write, tho fright consumes the light,

and speak, tho weak, and hope is bleak,

the sight of right that was your might,

and speak! Your pen was always meek.

But if you can’t, I will recant

my word, and tell what I had heard

you say, though in the only way

I know, an echo, even so.

The Shroud grew tense, and mocked the quiet song,

while Erison’s heart, absent, hummed along.

lxii

The dragon dropped a tarp, laden with ore,

down in the clearing, where a wagon drove

from an unrutted aisle in the shore

of the trees’ edge, out from a quiet grove.

And from the wagon, dropped the little boy

who’d said to find this place that very night,

followed by a huge man in his employ,

who started loading rocks like they were light.

But Erison saw not the other man

who Durn had last invited join that throng.

The Moonlight showed him something greater than

his mark. The Shroud had not, it seemed, been wrong.

I said you might find something that you crave,

as Erison eyed Nolda like a grave…

lxiii

He landed. All the wind had begged him not

to try, though wills were stronger than the arm

Lydoria moved through—the gale was fraught

with vigor, but could not prevent his harm.

A silence made more silent by his boots,

which crushed into the dead rock, sang him on,

and beckoned him into Jarod’s Peak’s roots:

a cave Nevgondian now looked upon.

Without a pause—he knew what he now saw

was wicked—delved into the depths below,

where no man’s goodness, and no country’s law

would save him from the evil he would know.

Decay, kept by corrupted entropy,

bestrangled everything the knight could see.

lxiv

His torch held only solace for some feet,

enough to see a step, and nothing more,

but great mosaics on the wall, replete

with detail, his lone light did poorly pour.

Draped in a kind of Shadow, all their shapes

suggested villainy of every kind.

Dark kings darkened their kingdoms in crude capes,

and base men cut what cape-cloth they could find.

Which cloak, which shroud, bled into the light’s edge,

lit here, but what it did elsewhere was known

to none. Who could say if its form could pledge

to stay there when it was left well alone?

He tested this uncanny thought, and when

the light returned, the shapes had moved again.

lxv

His fingers slipped upon his lonely light.

Curse you, Nevgondian so spurned his fear.

He touched his neck, which writhed at the fay sight,

that seemed to see vile smiles disappear.

He turned. He’d seen enough. No truth was worth

the cost of terror that it promised here;

but found no matter how wide each step’s berth,

the entrance to the cave would not draw near.

He thought he heard the laughing of a friend

behind him. Dark can speak as well as show.

And, turning back, slowly made to descend

into the depths of Jarod’s own Shadow…

How well-tailored to me is this nightmare.

The well-known laugh twisted into despair.

lxvi

The art upon the cave wall hid no more,

but showed its scenes with grandeur and with pride:

of garish plunders, won with pain and gore,

of throne-drunk traditions of regicide.

And following and leading him, the voice

of one he knew, pulled deep into the earth

the knight who made, right then, his final choice

regarding his composure in this dearth.

But kept, as always, that choice to himself.

He passed a river of gold liquid, down

past ancient books on an ancient bookshelf,

past pictures of a king whose prudent frown

allowed no discourse, past a statue, which

he swore had hands that he swore he saw twitch.

lxvii

And finally to a great bolt of cloth,

Nevgondian approached. And, last, the voice

said, “If you do not want me to be wroth,

you’ll put out that hot flame, and I’ll rejoice.”

“What am I seeing here? This darkly thing,

this lightless stretch of shadow?” “You know well

the thing you see. It has been answering

your questions since your journey downward fell.”

“Then I’m to wear your shawl. And listen close

to where you guide?” “I knew you understood!

Cut out that light, and let my care engross

you, cut a shroud, and give it a deep hood…”

Nevgondian had made his choice. The light

he sacrificed for even better sight.

lxviii

“You make me think,” it said, when he had donned

his Shroud, “of one who wore me long ago.

He also was not so easily conned,

but darkness suited him well, even so.”

The quenched torch rolled away, farther than it

would ever have in light. But now the knight

would not by firelight be warmed nor lit,

but by the lurid detail of nightlight.

“He too had plans he did not tell to me,

but I am generous! Give me a hint,

and I’ll guide where we both would want to be..

to where both glory and gold amply glint..

His name was Krrgan, and he hid beneath

the shadows of that sweet Cove of Fell Teeth..”

lxix

“I’m curious about this cove,” the eyes

Nevgondian once used swam now in black.

“This..Krrgan.. Did he leave there any prize

a good man like myself might now take back?”

“I see! The transfer of goods is quite well,

and goods thieved by one may be thieved right back,

but Krrgan did not, on fine treasures, dwell,

but on blood, and the power he might lack.

There’s one who dwells there now.. If deeds you’d call

to bear of ages yonder, bear you thence.

By killing the disgusting Wrenogal,

you’d do Krrgan a tender service hence.”

“Show me the way out of this hideout here,

and I shall see this Krrgan’s cove made clear.”

lxx

So with his plunder, Nevgondian rode

away from Jarod’s Peak. While plundered, he,

a newfound treasure of the Shadow’s, strode,

to tempt forever into villainy.

The sailors eyed him carefully. “That cloak,”

they said, “bears something that was not, before,

your visage.” But on guesses, they would choke

before they could mutter any word more.

And when outside his earshot, their captain

said, “when we’re back at port, the dinghy’s done.

Rip it to pieces, and don’t use again

the planks that made the curséd vessel run.”

“To Warponde, then to Dustan,” said the knight.

Their voyage they began in perfect night.

And Lydoria lamented their plight.

lxxi

A dragon flew from southwest to northeast,

whose scales were gemstones of clear, refined make.

From southeast to northwest, another beast

flew also—it, too, was a dazzling drake.

But one with vigor made its northeast ride.

The other, with a wealth of dragging wake.

While one’s excitement gave it perfect pride,

the other’s dread drove in it like a stake.

But pity not the latter more than first,

for that gemstone-cut dragon would awake

to venture at its end that would be cursed,

while grace would let the other, dread, forsake.

At the same time, below their cloudy sky,

two ships holding two lovers passed each by.

lxxii

The coast of New Ridge was as dry as clay,

the sand sticky and slick as potters’ fuel.

The desperate heat that darkened the East’s day

made parched the street, and slimy-plaqued the pool.

Her venture ended here. Or so the scribe

had written: “Haran’s house, for skills in need,

have gone to Ostia, to join a tribe

whose village burned because of bandit greed.”

That was a census from a year ago,

while Wrenogal was still “lost out at sea”.

This hamlet must have suffered greatly so

to take in yet another refugee.

But now to find, among the dusty bind,

some villagers to village goss inclined.

lxxiii

“They’s stay away from here, but out the mines

they break the caves in e’ery time they can.

See these here houses? All different kinds

of clay we’ve gotta use to make ‘em stand,

since out the way the mines don’t bring back ore.”

The woman said it all with heavy lip—

literally—for her gums were clearly sore

from having very few teeth to equip.

“Then most men go out mining?” Aerandel

had seen practically only women here

in town. “The young boys do! They might as well,

a pickaxe makes a shovel, if you hear.”

“I do,” Aerandel said. “Then Haran’s son

must be out mining, or be on the run?”

lxxiv

“Well, Haran died a little back. Them roughs

got to him. But his Noval’s still around.

Yeah–that’s right, he’d be out with all the scruffs,

out seein’ what’s out there that might be found.

Tough boy.” She shook her head. “You must be here

to take him back. I don’t think that you will,

but maybe his own trail is crystal clear—

get out of this here dry backwater swill.”

“I’m not here taking anyone. Although,

I wish he wasn’t skirting scoundrels so.

I’ll have to find the mine. Where do they go,

when prospecting for ores that fail to show?”

“Now listen, these here ‘scoundrels’, as you say,

they’d take you quick as lightning. You will stay.”

lxxv

“Did anybody matter to him here?

Was anyone the bearer of his heart?

If I can, like that heartstealer, appear,

I may, in his repentance, play a part.”

“What? Lure him like a fish upon a hook?

And if you are the fly, what when he bites?

And if the other ruff’uns catch a look,

How can you keep temptation from their sights?”

Aerandel peered into the woman’s face.

“Would you not know, a heart you know so well,

How to locate him in a secret place–

And what you’d say to set him in a spell?”

“You do know how to play your games, I see.

You learned from court what hard life taught to me.”

lxxvi

“You’ll want Lineya,” pointing to a house

that was not more or less than other ones.

“But if you make them chase her like a mouse,

You’ll get no love when Locrien’s wrath comes.”

“She will know no harm in my hands,” said she.

She thought of someone doing so to her—

not her as lure, but luring her with he

who sought a law-forsaken murderer.

“If he were used to pull me from my place,

and threatened, and put off his stalwart feet,

no man who aided it would see my face

before bathing in Locrien’s own heat.

I’ll mirror her, and know what she would say,

and die, or bring him back another way.”

lxxvii

A false Lineya walked a dusty road,

more like the mem’ry of a trail, in fact,

approaching evening, carrying a load

of parchment in the box upon her back.

She wore a smock that never had before

touched her fake skin, but hugged the fake guise well,

for what she wore the real Lineya wore

back when she and her Noval got on swell.

There, in the even purple, there was smoke

up from a camp where her fake lover was,

and where its firelight petered and choked,

the fake left real love letters, as one does.

And sometime on the watch, as watch they did,

they found out where Lineya would be hid.

lxviii

“Don’t you come closer, Noval!” said the fake.

Beneath a moonlit tree she made her stake.

“I know you’ve fought off hungry men for me,

but that’s not quite enough to let you see.”

The young man stopped. Lineya knew him well.

“I’m sorry you think so. Why don’t you tell

me what to do to make your heart alright?

You know I do not want another fight.

You said so—said you knew I couldn’t say

what I’d wished that day when I couldn’t stay.

You know so, so why don’t we drop the scheme?”

He stepped into a promising Moonbeam.

“That hair you’ve dyed to be like them..” she said.

I liked your black hair better than the red.”

lxxix

I’ve kept something important from your ears:

something about two figures that you know.

Two bold, brash men, who both inspire fears,

one to good men, and one to every foe.

The bad man, Erison, hates Nolda so.

You’ve got that much, but you cannot know why.

You see now, or you will, if you can sew

together two remote facts like a spy.

“Lineya” saw red hair, dyed from its black.

It’s what cruel bandits do. We all know this,

we who have been cursed by the brutes’ attack,

or those who’ve been close enough to catch the gist.

It’s this Erison saw on Nolda’s head

by Moonlight—his rage, and his secret dread.

lxxx

A thousand thoughts now thicketed his mind,

though lurid was his visage. Even though

his first mark, truer, now he needn’t find,

his true mark, foremost, he would choose to go.

You’ll lose your name if you now go for this,

the Shroud said, knowing how it would be heard.

I cannot guarantee you will not miss,

if you go back on your official word.

But Erison had no ears left for talk.

His monologue retreated inward, mute,

he had so long been predator, the stalk

of kings, but now he was his own recruit.

I’ll play the game I’ve played, and when I’m close,

I’ll take their necks together, and, both, gross.

lxxxi

“What ho!” He called, embracing character,

ignoring the reactions of the rest.

He knew hostility as an actor

who acted late at surprise’s behest.

“I know you must be fearful I am here,

I know this is a secret that I’ve found.

But though a villain I know I appear,”

he dropped his greatsword on the dewy ground.

“I overheard that there was work to do.

I used to be a soldier, hence the sword.

But let me help, I know what caused all you

to hide like this. My silence is my word.

That woman who you work for—she might save

my sickly mother from an early grave.”

lxxxii

The Wren had been deceived like this before.

By one who claimed a sickly father, too,

but killed the very man his lying wore,

and false ethos forced pathos that was true.

This one–another one who wished him well,

who came, even as Nolda, from the dark,

but whose arrangement spun as does a spell

that none can falsify who wait and hark.

Though truth was less the issue, and, again,

the ethos crushed, with logos, this time, he

who had two choices: be the trusting Wren,

or be the one who kills what he can’t see.

“You’re bold enough to trust us. That will earn

at least one other bold, and trusting, turn.”

lxxxiii

The thicket in his mind now roared, its roots

now writhed in one great riveting concourse:

the traumas in his bones knew their pursuits,

his unhealed ecstasy now came in force.

“Then let me share my sword! I will defend

if ever there are foes that find you here!

Or, better yet, I’ll watch over your friend,

the woman that holds balm to all our fear!

But place me where your most dangerous roads

converge. I have such skill. I will not sleep

until the caravans return their loads,

the compensation that our efforts reap!”

His eyes flashed, at almost each other word,

reflecting, red, the hair he now could touch,

and such was his mind that he hadn’t heard

the warning of the Shroud he idly clutched:

Your avarice will be a plague to you.

You know not but what rests in your sinew.

lxxxiv

“There’s time enough for that tomorrow morn,”

said Nolda, peering into the red eyes.

“But load the rest of this,” and sudden scorn

flashed, even as Erison kept his guise.

Nolda could not make heads or tails of this,

his insight more than most, but lacking facts.

He knew enough to not let go amiss

his thoughts without some truth behind their backs.

And Erison replaced his scornful gaze

with one of pleasant eagerness again.

Which was not hard: an act of a few days

was quite alright with vengeance at their end.

That night, Nolda did as his mother said,

who’d taught to dye his hair red before bed.

lxxxv

While far away, swift letters were exchanged,

between some several very chagrined men,

who knew that, even so badly arranged,

there was a hidden fortune in Dustan.

They blotted out their names on each receipt,

protecting their own interlocutors.

Preventing those they purposed to entreat

from knowing who were the real murderers.

For who knew but what Wyveria would find

some way around that mountain range? And make,

from that sore village, dismally confined,

a wealth that Dustaners would get to take?

Such grace was not anywhere in their will.

They’d sought persuasion—now they sought to kill.

lxxxvi

The frenzied mind of Erison now buzzed

in anthems of courageous vengeance. Eyes

could see what ears heard not, but, as it does,

one’s ears, over the eyes, the mind does prize.

And so spoke Erison’s mind to his ears,

blotting out all the other sounds there were,

the story that, to him, there now appeared:

how that he would be his homeland’s savior.

And so consumed by this, his story, spun,

his frame threatened more than his mind had thought:

and, watching over, flaming Locrien

gave what Erison needed, but knew not.

So, on his watch, when murderers would creep,

the blade, unlike himself, fell fast asleep.

lxxxvii

They’d read their maps with care. They knew the place.

There was no need for any undue haste.

Their work, indeed, was one of quiet night.

They kept both speed and footsteps very light.

The three assassins stopped before the door

and peered into its window, seeking eyes,

but saw what they had never seen before:

not none, but snoring, where Erison lies.

They touched their noses, grinning at the one

before. A guardless guard—a chance in none

that comes to one of their profession.

Now would be murder, not for pay, but fun.

But as Wyveria’s assassins tried

to carve to her in blood, they were, too, spied:

lxxxviii

He’d woken, fraught with terror at his choice.

How could he trust that man? Where was his mind?

One with naught but sweet honey on his voice?

Who had, somehow, such skill to seek and find?

He’d gotten up from bed. He’d made his choice:

no man could be so trusted. Not alone

he’d prove himself. He’d hear another voice:

the one that did not put him on a throne.

He’d never had a throne. He’d had no choice

to take one, and he found it fit him well.

He liked having a not-so-courtly voice

that understood what Erison might sell.

But found, arriving at the watch, a sight

that made Nolda see Erison aright.

lxxxix

As one assassin raised his knife: the Lead,

and one held his nearby the neck: the Nick,

the third observed with something much like greed:

the Watch, whose watch was laced with something sick:

who knew he had been more dutiful than

the one who slept before him—he had failed;

but ere his satisfaction went to plan,

he downward looked at his ribs: red—impaled.

The redhead boar raised once again his pick:

the Lead whirled round, the Nick saw bloody dread,

convulsed at the foul sight, and drew up sick,

while Nolda’s pickaxe found the Lead’s shocked head.

The Nick fled, and now Erison awoke,

and found a sight that made his morals choke.

“By Shadow’s blood!” He fell back in the chair

he’d slept on. “Boar! You—put your axe down! Stay!

I’ll–” he breathed, as he stood up, miasmic air

that only he could have described that way.

For who had saved him but this bandit brute?

No thing could be the fouler! He must not

be, now the kindness, nay, the good work’s fruit

of one who should, by any ledger, rot!

His hands now clutched his Shroud, his only sense,

his only dire-saving recompense,

the only thing that bore him ever hence,

the only thing he’d trust to bear him thence,

and fled he into, still, the dark of night,

to be taught by his pain and firelight.

xci

I WARNED YOU NOT TO RUSH IT, CUR! The Shroud

now harnessed every fibre of his haunt.

I SAID TO STAY JUST AS YOU WERE! So loud,

his harvest of disgust, his deep-set daunt.

And while the Shadow screamed through fabrics black,

the mercenary failed to counter back,

his terror and his shame refused to yield,

there, by wood homes and cold night yet concealed.

Though not enough, the voice nor yet the night,

for Erison, who yielded to his fright,

now donned the hood, letting the Shroud now bite

his horror, his flame, pitching at a height

no man could bear, his fight became his blight,

he saw what no man had seen since the Wight:

the Shadow in his fulness held him tight,

within the safety of his sunless night!

YOU ARE NO SAVIOR OF YOUR SAVAGE TOWN!

YOU WILL NOT SEE ANOTHER SAFE SUNDOWN!

THIS NIGHT SHALL FINISH YOU, FOR YOU ARE MINE!

THE LIGHT WILL NEVER FIND YOUR SOUL IN TIME!

And in that fit of conflict, and of dread,

Erison saw the Shadow in his head,

but Locrien, whose wings are lit in flame,

made Erison’s sword bear the very same.

xcii

Concealed, still, by both hood and night, the blade

of Erison flung from his scabbard, red,

and, with his indecision and flux, bade

an oath of terror, sword held o’er his head:

“He cannot be! He cannot be my flight!

He must not ever be a godly sight!

No more will holiness make ruined, me,

I shall befall with hate all I can see!”

And blinded by the Shroud, Erison drove

with whirling sword of flame throughout Dustan,

ensuring that his brazen flame would rove

through every house, and every work of man.

While watched in terror every villager!

While watched with horror even his own Shroud!

While watched that Locrien, the flame lender,

While watched Lyrdoria, who was not cowed,

who sent a bird to find Her Wrenogal,

who darted with great haste over a man

who watched as well, ignoring his Shroud’s pull,

who saw Lydoria complete her plan:

For Erison now screamed into the light

he’d made, calling for flame to eat him, too.

Lydoria’s gale took away his blight:

the Shroud’s hood tore off him—complete, and true.

His screaming stopped, his mind was his again,

as his eyes met those of Nevgondian.

xciii: The Fourth Song of Wrenogal

To all, to all, to all, your music sang,

with ev’ry word the wonder of it wrung,

what could you say other than what you brang

to all, to all, to all to whom you sung?

Be now, be now, be now even as bright

as ev’ry act your art so well appeared,

are even your memories just as light?

Be now, be now, be now so well endeared.

Sing on, sing on, sing on with words more deep,

tell ev’ry tale as tender as the sea,

talk now, even as in your grave I weep,

sing on, sing on, sing on so cheerfully.

The bird now plucked the lute with its own beak,

“What have you?” swore the singing Wrenogal.

It flew above, pointing where he should seek:

the smoke that on poor Dustan did befall.

He leapt, clutching the lute, but saw at once

the cause he could not aid, though it be dire.

He could not dwell in publicly known haunts:

or else risk what was worse than burning fire.

The bird attacked the hand which held the lute,

so risking it to fall, and fall apart.

the Wren held on, and though the bird was mute,

he knew its meaning from its panicked art.

No song has yet been sung that’s sung for me,

I live, if live at all, their words to be.

xciv

He’d fly, of course. But how to save a town?

Alone, with naught but wings that, too, could burn?

He could not dart in, out, or all around,

with all the blindness that the smoke did earn.

A song, perhaps, could guide their ears, more than

the fire would allow. He had the lute.

His voice would need to ring, but would it scan

enough, alone, to show them all a route?

An arm was needed, something that could reach

and touch them, tell them how to go from where

persuasive peril would, their passing, preach,

but for the tether of the dragon there.

He saw the Prowler that had not survived,

and thought, this time, he’d not be so deprived.

xcv

A rope once more did Wrenogal affix

to he whose visage would scar all his seers;

but had to, with such terror, also mix

the salvage of their lives, and let live fears.

And fear made Dustan cling to fear the less,

for though a dragon offered it, they took

his offered rope over the tragic mess

that conquered everywhere that they could look.

Then those who clung, clung onto death and hope,

and anyone who had a heart at all,

while Erison held on his bit of rope:

afraid to live and see, afraid to fall.

But when the rope went low enough, he dropped,

where none would see how all his life had stopped.

xcvi

But one saw. One who was a silhouette

when first he came: the one who saw the hood

tear from the one who gods and hells beget,

in whom no other could see any good.

But now Nevgondian knew just as well

the terror that had schemed inside that man.

He knew where his heart had been forced to dwell

since his allegiance to the Shroud began.

Alas, it said to him, that one is gone.

But you can take his place. Your work is more

than his would have become, or yet gone on—

he was so stuck on vengeance. Such a bore.

Nevgondian but listened to the Shroud,

and to a new liege offered sword and bowed.

xcvii

While on a hill, the weighed-down dragon dropped

his payload full of people with a roar,

and landed on another hill, grass-topped,

and watched while resting wings that were now sore.

The many trips they’d taken, to and fro,

had wearied him more than that distant fight,

when Wrenogal had killed him as a foe,

and woke him with a flaming flash of light.

He looked toward the boy whose face now screwed

into a look he had not seen before.

He seemed in short of options, and construed

by what he had procrastinated for.

But now he spoke with one of the scorched women

who shared his look, though hers was far more hidden.

xcviii

When Wrenogal had finished talking with

Wyveria on what they were to do,

he looked to Nolda, looking like a myth:

the most scorched man who saved more than a few.

He nodded when he looked. And then he turned

back to his dragon. No more hiding here.

There was but one place now that he had earned

for hiding after showing up so clear.

Of Wilderness that northward lay, so wild,

the stories tell more, surely, than goes on;

but ev’ry mother tells to every child

no man has e’er returned who, there, has gone.

Perhaps that was the best that he could do—

He’d caused the deaths of some, and saved a few.

END OF ACT II

~~~

ACT III

Lydoria splayed out her arms, the blades

of grass beneath her, weaving with her wings,

and sang a song that glided through the glades,

an epic of an errant son who sings—

despite his desperate torment, in the sky,

where Prydien had given him, from pain,

a freed tormentor, now free so to fly

wherever ruin remade in the rain.

And how that Burning Locrien allowed

that pair to prove again what they had known:

that living, even if it must be loud,

bests all the quiet of a blissful throne.

Tho loudness, if not loud to everyone,

is still sound, tho it sounds to only one.

Now see, the others had their bit of say,

said something, too, not anything to scorn,

but now you’ll see Lydoria as day,

forgetting it is no longer the morn.

For Prydien was morning, dawn from night,

and Locrien shone out his noonday sun,

Lydoria is windy evening flight,

and Aeonia speaks when dark has come..

You live now under she who sends the birds,

who is not near as quiet as the rest.

She will appear now, more than in just words,

not only in her songs alone addressed.

For you know not: the Seraph of the Sky

speaks cheerfully the chorus of a lie.

iii

The Wren now glided over ancient trees

that surely hadn’t been seen by fresh eyes,

or any eyes at all—the eye that sees

an unknown face will note its shared surprise.

They found a clearing, leagues into the wood:

fay, natural, bare only of dense trees;

but still dense with something less understood:

the heart loves—but the eye still disagrees.

Yet so enchanted, still they settled down

into the earthy basin, flourishing.

And saw, as Wrenogal’s feet touched the ground,

a woman, lone, her wonder ravishing.

“Who are you to these woods,” said Wrenogal.

She smiled. “Of all things, most lamentable.”

Zlyr pierced a pigeon with a crossbow bolt.

His page reported: “she is still away,

but left one in her place—a pleasant colt,

who says no explanation did she say.”

Zlyr went to fetch the pigeon, but he stopped.

He turned back. “Claim it. Take it home tonight.”

He left without a word, his brow grease-topped,

unused to Tolno, for his sleepless night.

“My king?” the page, surprised, put toward him.

Zlyr nodded, pinning up a pleasant smile.

“I’ll talk myself to this ‘colt’. It is grim

that Aerandel has been gone all this while.”

The grateful page ate up the bird, and died:

a poison lived within its crossbowed hide.

“Lamentable? With such a cheerful face?”

The Wren descended down to where she sat.

“I am a sorry presence in this place,

she said. “It does not like me more than that.”

She stood, and traced her hands on fallen logs,

approaching Wrenogal, who stood his ground.

Something about her canniness played odds

with reactions his intuition found.

“You say it all without a touch of shame.

It must not be your fault that it is so,

whatever is this place’s hatred’s blame,

it must not be you that it calls its foe?”

“Not hatred. Sorrow. Know you not as well

the lie that is a castle’s signal bell?”

The eyes of Wrenogal now drew up wide,

“you know more than you seem, I see,” said he.

“Tell me your name, and from what watcher’s side

did you see what Zlyr’s signals did to me?”

The woman now was merely steps away.

Her eyes were as the tears of dawn. “Lya,”

she said. She stopped, beside a stump, to stay.

“My mother named me for Lydoria.”

“A mother who indeed has taught you well.

But how, I ask again, are you aware

of what occurred that I will never tell—

what happened in a viper’s signal snare?”

“My mother told me. She indeed was wise,

and many-seeing are her evening eyes.”

vii

The forest echoed with a gust of wind

that seemed to emanate from where they stood,

that seemed to be, somehow, a little thinned,

despite its shudder passing through the wood.

“Your namesake seems to speak. I’ll trust your word.

I’ve learned a little since some weeks ago:

Lydoria does not lightly afford

her voice to those she doesn’t kindly know.”

He had indeed borrowed a book or two,

Wyveria’s collection had been good.

He knew, now, that the Seraph of Wind flew

only o’er those who tried the good they could.

“She does indeed,” said Lya to the Wren.

“But false trust can be good, now and again.”

viii

The wind blew over Durn. He stood among

the miners who had been out when the flame

had drenched Dustan, when all their hopes it wrung

from all their homes from whence their hoping came.

They were very distraught. Obviously,

but Durn found it distracting. He, too, mourned

the death and dread the flames forced him to see,

but sorrowing, instead of haste, he scorned.

He climbed onto a rock. “Do you know how

we bore the ore from here to where we sold?

We had a dragon! Somewhere, even now,

he flies—now, guess, is all the mountain’s gold

more than the families that our city had?

They might live! But don’t trust a little lad.”

The men looked up as the boy crawled back down.

They eyed each other with a gaunted hope,

and looked once last toward the tortured town,

and gazed into their barrows with new scope.

Without words, they began to off their haul

of iron, all that must be smelted well

before it could be sold, and kept a small

gold bullion’s worth in a barrow-well.

One sauntered forward, sidling with Durn,

and turned toward the rest. A lucid face

reposed to eye the company in turn,

and lastly on Durn did his focus trace.

“You’ve said more than a boy of your age should.

But more than any of us grown men could.”

Wyveria had always handled well

those games of tactics, strategy, and scheme,

but now her game board to a fog befell,

with error bursting at its every seam.

Her pivotal piece—Wrenogal—withdrawn,

as he had every right to be right now.

Her rogue, her Durn, her son, was also gone,

but finding him she must not now allow.

He knows what he must do, she mutely said.

He has his angle, as he always has.

If I allow this tactless mother’s dread

to guide, I’m blind. Or at least half good as.

But this, the moment of her game the worst,

was one she might have let her heart choose first.

While Nolda watched her worrying, alone,

and worrying, himself, he found among

the scattered ones who lived, his very own:

his wife and his dear daughters—too, too young.

And he knew what Wyveria could not,

whose eyes were woollened over by great need,

that these were what a mind could not have bought—

that these were what the heart must always feed.

He stayed with them alone for quite some time,

ignoring need for now—this one was more.

Instead of wood or water, they shared rhyme:

their bond could die, but rain could always pour.

And after his were his again, he stood,

and went for water and for firewood.

xii

Why track him now? He’s finished. He cannot

do any more harm than he has now done.

I know you seek for vengeance, but take thought—

‘twas vengeance that made his ill overrun!

The Shroud so spoke to bold Nevgondian,

who chased, over the hill and plain, the man

who’d burned at heart and burned by Locrien,

and burned more now than when his fire began.

He had his lie to tell the Shroud. My charge,

my Aerandel has told me what to do.

I can’t refuse her order, tho so large

loom all the promises that come from you.

This lie appeased the Shroud, but he did hide

the true reasoning which he kept inside.

xiii

You idiot. You supine, vile fool.

You scarce of mind and full of vitriol.

Your cowardice has always been your tool

for getting out of trouble when you fall.

The Shroud so spoke to Erison. Whose sword

still blazed, and would do ‘til many weeks hence.

Who ran, and ran, and ran he knew not toward,

his feet as weary as his heart was tense.

Just whispers, now, now that the hood was gone.

It could not overtake his soul as then;

but had already greatly overrun

his mind, and would, by whispers, oft again.

You soul-forsaken sap, it spat. Just how

do you think to appease your village now?

xiv

And West they flew, two men and Shadow, too,

past all the hills of Dustan, to the sands

that start the desert, where few travel through

except in merchant shipping caravans.

And when they crossed the path those shipments made,

who else crossed, but the man who promised, false,

to take Wyveria in his parade,

that starts in Ryke and not ‘til Octave halts.

Just now that very man who tied his word

to such a lurid lie, a wagon rode,

who read his secret assassin’s record,

who said they’d failed, who wrote within their code:

“her guards knew that we came! Flee while you can!”

As Erison’s sword spied the caravan.

I’ve left you for some time upon a cliff—

a precipice called Aerandel, or, say,

a lie called fair Lineya? Know now: if

I’ve left too long, I will no longer stray:

Noval’s hand drifted up to touch his hair.

“tis red, yes. ‘tis the mark that we must bear,

who live out in these mountains, out here, where

there are only those who attempt to dare.”

“Then will you dare to come back?” said the maid,

“Will you now dare to dream again with me?

You once said that your heart could not be stayed—

was that but singsong for my ears to see?”

It was a tired trope, but tropes are good

for getting men to do things that they should.

xvi

His eyes now squinted. “You.. Are bolder now..

I don’t remember you to speak this way.

But, dare I say it, I would break no vow

I told you on a long-forgotten day.

But let me fetch the letters, and I will

prove, somehow, that I must remain out here.

This is the ground that I am meant to till,

these hills are not the only things I fear.”

He spoke of quiet—fear of a deep sort,

for his heart welled with grief he could not speak.

Adventure left no room for its retort:

the guilt of knowing his king’s word was weak.

“Then fetch, and come back here, and tell me why

you must leave me alone at home to die.”

xvii

This was exactly what Aerandel wished:

a chance to create distance from the man

who’d see her loose disguise if he had fished

even a little closer than he’d been.

But what she did not think would have occurred—

her love was formal, not so cavalier—

was that the space would quickly be transferred

in one or two bold steps as he came near.

“Allow me to prove words with something more,”

he said, extending one arm to her face.

“I cannot but prove that my heart can pour

more in a kiss than any word can trace.”

And shock took over Aerandel. “DO NOT!”

She shrieked. Far louder than she might have thought.

xviii

Noval jerked back his arm, and saw at last—

now close enough to tell something was wrong;

but stood his heart, and held his own ground fast

before the night mirage he was among.

“Do not leave now, Noval. I am not she;

but what I’ve said for her she would have said.

What you felt just now for the form of me

is what you ought to tell her. I, instead,

come here before you desperate in need.

Your word alone is last that can repel

a lie—or, I believe a lie—whose seed

has burrowed farther than most men can tell.

You were upon that voyage, were you not?”

But bandit watchmen had, her outcry, caught.

xix

“Fear not, young master! I once held your place.

Good Aerandel can trust her work with me.

She’s kind to let you keep up her own pace,

but I’ll take over now. Go on, be free.”

The shy replacement Aerandel had set

to watch her study now timidly rose.

He looked back, once the threshold had been met,

struck by the royal air, as striking goes.

“Ah, lest I fail to use you while I can,

was this what last she read? On this desk here?”

The understudy nodded. “Shipments, then?

That’s not exactly part of her career..”

Zlyr shut the door upon the little aid,

who knew not what pawns had just now been played.

“You wander woods wherein most men go not;

and if they do, they comprehend no part

of what they see. But you, for you are sought

by fate, endure the fear within your heart.”

Lya now spoke not as young as she looked,

but as one knowing—now there was no need

to keep her audience by that bait hooked:

the mystery would make Wrenogal heed.

“Take heart, dear Wrenogal.” She watched her hand

caress the same treestump whereat she stood.

“We will return, not after long, to land

right here. And here you will know all you should.”

She gazed into the stump, her eyes as dew,

“I must show many special things to you.”

xxi

Wrenogal made to speak, but was cut off—

“But off we go!” She smiled, newly bold.

“You mustn’t cheer me: that would make me scoff,

I am far happier than you, I’m told.”

The Wren’s hand hung mid-air, his lips apart,

as Lya strode without fear to his ride,

and ere the Wren could stop her with his start,

she had already gotten up astride.

“We go now West!” She said, pointing that way.

“There’s something you must see: a summary

of everything that I must now-on say—

of everything that matters most to me.”

He dropped his hand—befuddled, languid, coarse—

but followed after, following her course.

xxii

“If I remember right, you’ve sung four songs,”

Fair Lya said as they flew in the sky.

“Of your four friends where your true heart belongs.

You praise them for the way they had to die.”

It was not question, though it framed that way,

and Wrenogal knew not how to respond.

“I do not know what you wish me to say,

I have indeed sung to those who are gone.”

“But you said, once, your songs would tremolo

the words they would have said. ‘Songs they’d have sung’.

You sing to them, but have you learned to grow

past ode to giving dying lips a lung?”

The Wren now knew he was not to correct,

but learn, despite her canny intellect.

xxiii

They now descended at Lya’s request,

down to a lake that spanned a valley, full,

that was an eye within the Wilderness

because of a great tree in its middle.

“There is a boat on this close shore,” said she.

“You and I two will take it to the tree,

and you will feel, and you will see with me

the truest thing that there will ever be.”

They landed down upon one of the banks,

where there indeed sat idly a boat.

The Wren took oar while Lya stayed the planks

that took them. Eerily they stayed afloat:

for down beneath them, to the valley’s floor,

they saw, clear through the deep, what it once wore:

xxiv

A village of a very humble size,

yet brim with a fair hamlet’s family,

was set in water, pure, and crystallized

into an image, now permanently.

And in the middle, that great pupil-tree

grew long its tendril roots down to a place

beside a trail from the community

to where lone homes outside its edges grace.

But when they reached the tree, Lya had eyes

for only the fay leaves that grew on it.

That were but of a very humble size,

and drifted down to settle where they sit.

And Wrenogal gasped when he saw them flood

the boat—for they were each dipped as in blood.

xxv

A crow flew from the tree and rested by

fair Lya, who reached out to pet its head.

It looked to Wrenogal with one black eye

that did not, oddly, fill him with more dread.

“Seria is his name,” she said, and gazed

with love into its face. “He supervised

this village always, and has never fazed,

sitting inside this tree, so long unprized.”

“Why bring me here? To such a dreadful place?

What can I learn from this forsaken tree?”

“Forsaken now,” she said, her tender face

now teary. “But not after now. You see.“

She once again did not ask, but did tell.

He was to see it now, and see it well.

xxvi

To see it now, and see it well. He looked,

into those bloodlike branches, where the breeze

blew softly into leaves that loosely hooked

into their twigs that moved with humble ease.

And in a branch about the top he spied

a brooch with fingerprints upon its face.

It did not make any attempt to hide,

but made no boldness for its high-up place.

“A boy once tried to reach that jewel,”

said she who held the crow. “He fell, and broke

upon the roots. And it was harsh, and cruel,

he was a tender boy,” she faintly spoke.

“But Seria came to, and brought along

his lullaby, and soothed him with his song.”

xxvii

The Wren looked back at Lya, haunted now.

“You’ve shown too much. You are more than you say—

an apparition come, I know not how,

but more than what you are, and far more fay

than anything I might have guessed before.

Do not continue like this—who are you?

Tell no more stories, not a dread scene more

than this one, ‘til I see you and see true.”

She gazed back, lost in tears for what she’d said,

still thinking of the boy. “I do not hide.

I am what I have always been, but wed

with what I always should have been inside.”

She kissed the crow upon its head, and drew

the oars, while to the tree Seria flew.

xxviii

So Rowden asked the crowd, “where to then first?”

and all the miners looked around, and hoped

another had the better of their worst,

but all failed for ideas for which they groped.

The leader looked back down toward the boy.

“You know your mother best. Speak on, don’t stay.

We’re men of orders. Give us an employ,

don’t hold that smarmy tongue of yours at bay.”

And little Durn grinned up at the tall one.

He had only known gossip at his lips

from when his speech had very first begun,

but all that gossip had given him tips.

“If she’s in charge, she wouldn’t think of me,

but of the town—that’s where her mind will be.”

xxix

“Then what you say brings heart to all of us,

to find her without those who we stayed for

would not be worth our faithfulness nor fuss.”

He took the wagon that, their spoils, bore.

“Tell a direction, boy. Or else, Eastward

I say, to Warponde. Closest place to go.

Unless your intuition can afford

a better course—we trust the things you know.”

It was a little too much faith, I think,

but Durn was their employer, after all.

Or, at least, the managerial link

between them and from where their pay would fall.

But maybe Durn hid from me the detail

of how, sometimes, the hearts of good men fail.

xxx

However their peace or their backbites went,

they chose to go to Warponde. Though Durn, too,

thought that it simply was time better spent

to go to where civilization grew.

They could not have guessed then, what had become

of those they wished to follow. That, of course,

was kept by messengers who couldn’t run

where guessing was a matter of perforce.

Wyveria, though, had a different plan,

who cleverly reviewed what had been said

by Wrenogal, before his flight began:

how North must be his road, and wild his stead.

Faith, logic, and emotion fought in her,

and none of them enough to make her sure.

xxxi

Wyveria recalled her books. The ones

Wrenogal had requested from her store.

Durn knew how to survive—more than most sons,

and this was where she was needed far more.

That would be what Lydoria would want,

she said, secluded, to herself. Apace,

“No one love should all other lovers daunt

when ministering song and minstrel’s grace.”

She was no minstrel, and song was not hers,

but scripture had song been to her offtime.

And this is what Wrenogal so assures

in her heart—more than character—his rhyme.

I’ll follow where he went, then. If he’s there,

She must not be that far behind, somewhere.

xxxii

“M—Master Porrick, urgent, please, look out:

the flame of Dustan stands ahead of us.

I—I cannot know how he has found our route,

but witnesses saw just how perilous

he was to an entire town! Say now

to flee! Or send a warrior to fight

him off, and let our own lives so allow

another venture under a new light!”

“What’s this that haunts me! That old wench? Go, tell

the archers to filet him ere he strikes!”

But Erison was too far to see well,

and so dodged their so crudely volleyed spikes.

And though he knew not who owned the parade,

he knew enough to make a fair fight’s trade.

xxxiii

So, satisfying vengeance woke again

within the heart of he who bore the blade

that burned more now, it seemed, even more than

when in poor Dustan it was used to raid.

What are you doing, fool? The Shadow said,

as Erison raised up the Shroud before

his face, as he ran forward into dread,

into the implied many arrows more.

“You’ll be the shield for me,” he laughed. “You’ll take

the brunt of what they throw at me, until

I’m there to puncture all the holes they’d make

in me, until they’ve had their purchased thrill!”

The Shroud spoke not to this, but seethed to see

the callousness of this insanity.

xxxiv

A flaming sword burned through a wagon’s rein,

and sent its horses running off alone,

and sent many a forged and unforged vein

into the dirt: both of man’s blood, and stone.

A cry came from its wielder’s tongue, a shriek

of something that was not what man would make.

Another cry came from a wagon—weak—

quite real, but with an innocence quite fake.

A knight looked on, and let the sequence go—

allowed the massacre before his face—

who knew what all who know true battle know:

that rage is not a manageable race.

A seraph watched, too, on all parties there;

and smiled, and he called the matter fair.

xxxv

A cold, uneasy curiosity

surrounded bold Nevgondian. Say, ‘knight’,

what is it that you are so keen to see

in this vain man, this brash, pathetic blight?

I admit, it is entertaining now,

to see his rage consume him. How they fall.

But you chased him here. Why do you allow

his plight to be the tale on which you call?

You do not chase for vengeance. Loyalty

you’ve said is why you still do as you do.

If I told you you could be, from this, free—

would this true promise be of worth to you?

I tell you, Aerandel would know no part.

Or is that really what regales your heart?

xxxvi

Noval stared into Aerandel’s flushed face,

who’d said just what he never wished to hear—

who’d rung the death knell of his latest race,

who’d said in shock what caused, in him, more fear.

The bandits had a plan for nights like this,

when sounds just as this shriek met their night guard.

They’d reach far past the sound, so not to miss

a fleeing rogue, and make his way out barred.

“This lass is one of mine! Those letters? Hers.

No man but me will touch her. Bind her fast,

and put her where she says, in her letters,

she wants to be: ‘with me, for fortnights past’”.

The keen-eyed Aerandel stared down Noval,

and clutched not her cloak, but Lineya’s shawl.

xxxvii

They brought her to Noval’s tent, pushed her in,

all laughing and surveying her with eyes

that didn’t match each one’s fake-friendly grin,

that saw no person, but an easy prize.

But prize or no, a law was still a law,

and, lawless though they were, the heart loves rule.

That is the little known, and better flaw

that cutthroats know: the heart is not a fool—

while sophistry makes fools of all. No man

can argue what he wants. High courts will call

a keen mind better, and instinct less-than:

but that is not what guided our Noval.

For when Noval at last entered his tent,

he was prepared with both tongues’ drawstrings bent.

xxxviii

They did not speak at first. Not second. Third,

at last, was when they spoke, not candidly.

The tent allowed eavesdroppers every word,

and that was not what either wished to be.

“You came from New Ridge. All the way, to tell

me that ‘the regent’ ‘someone’ now defames?

I knew that much already. That’s as well,

it sounds like those who knew, his sword now claims.”

But though she was still bound, and though he scoffed,

that Aerandel saw kindred in the man

who had both truth and his own country doffed

to keep the truth he knew as best he can.

“’The regent’ was a fool to forget you.

He knew not how you’d cling to what you knew.”

xxxix

Foil

His eyes stung, hot as all the sands of Ryke,

and just as desert dry they felt to him,

and red they gleamed, both irises alike

in swimming swells of sleeplessness full-brim.

That’s how they’d stay for as long as they saw—

his murder and his schemes would bear with toil

the sight of every calculated flaw,

the capture of each perfectly placed foil.

But as the seaspray dashed upon his face,

no solace came to him. His eyes stayed dry,

as if Tolno himself took every trace

of moisture promised to the poor man’s eye.

But Zlyr had no mind to save them, so assailed.

To Warponde, then to Ostia he sailed.

Soil

The Wren was silent as they left the tree,

whose bloodied leaves soiled the little boat.

“There is a play on words right here,” said she

who navigated out of the lake-moat.

“See how the red leaves soil ‘neath our feet?

We are not seeing mess, but otherwise.

What is called soil to something kept neat

is rich earth to a little seed’s soft eyes.

You see it, yes?” But Wrenogal still held—

he was not sure what anything meant now,

and kept his feet from where the said leaves welled,

and looked not at Lya, but o’er the prow.

“They are like soil. Soiled, though they are,”

said he—but she: “Because of it, they are.”

xli

“I must take you somewhere that I would not,

unless it was to help you. On we go.”

But Wrenogal, looking up with some haught,

said, “hold now. There is something I must know—

you know more of me than you should. You speak,

of elements far more than man, as kin.

I cannot simply follow, kind and meek,

if I cannot tell where your soul has been.”

Lya had been about to take the reins

as she had done to get here. Now she turned,

“you know now that the world you know contains

both souls and fates that neither one has earned.

The time is short, and lessons there are great,

come: two flights more and all your wants will sate.”

xlii

She brought him to a tower deep inside

the wilderness, but near its southward edge,

built just so that it could, from keen eyes, hide

surrounded by both canopy and hedge.

Within it, from a window, they two peered

as spiders, secret, and as silent, too.

And inward were philosophers, who leered

at someone sitting on a little pew.

They asked him questions which he answered well,

until he knew no answer—then he stood

and read from books, and could, the answers, tell,

and then went back to sit right where he should.

“You’re seeing new life born—or old life caged—

in ways that should make anyone enraged.”

xliii

“This life will live to do one thing alone:

to tell and to be told what it should do.

But any man or woman to condone

conditions such as this is nothing new.

You’ve seen it often before. And back and forth

the collar goes, and now they think that one

can bear the leash because it’s what it’s worth,

and all the oscillation can be done.”

There was a flame within her eyes just then

that never had been witnessed there before.

So full of kind compassion—then again,

perhaps it was compassion, only more.

“But collars must be broken—leashes torn—

for anyone to tell it is the morn.”

xliv

“And what leash have you now? You wear one—yes!

It is as tight as any that I’ve seen!

You are no slave by law, but nonetheless

you bear a dog’s own collar: cruel and keen!”

The Wren stared back, his hand reached up to feel

what he knew was not there. Her zeal was bold

enough to make a metaphor so real

he thought he felt the collar: crisp and cold.

“Your world so holds you—no, not even Zlyr

can claim it. But there are those who have judged

you better. They were where the good hearts were:

the ones whose openness needed no nudge.”

More than he knew, but less than he would know,

Wrenogal saw the source of Lya’s glow.

xlv

“I do not understand this simile..

I am not bound but by my plodding feet!

And even they are blessed to, skyward, be,

what with a dragon’s wings with which to beat!”

“You call my song a simile?” she said,

(who had not sung the words). “No, little wren.

You will not on my testimony tread:

I speak what I have seen, and seen again.

The soul that stands before you will not know

but this life that you see before you now.

His is mute telling only. None will go

into his heart, though they would not know how.

They keep him on his leash. Not just to tell,

but so they never have to know him well.”

xlvi

“They’ve done the same to you. You say you’re free—

that anywhere in Ralquez you may be.

But can’t you feel the confines? Can’t you see:

you are invisible to all but me.”

And Wrenogal at last had words to say

to all his sad adventure. He was not

confined at all to country, but to stay

away from any mind and any thought.

“I must not be a thorn in any side,”

he said, staring into the window, where

the Tell was in his element—his stride—

telling but what they wanted to hear there.

“This is the last leash that shall be undone,”

said Lya. “Till your many songs are one.”

xlvii

So while Wyveria chased Wrenogal

(that is, while she chased Lydoria’s song),

her Durn and his good crew were pivotal

in being where good characters belong.

I say that—being one now set apart

to see the story as if from above.

The pieces you have come to know now start

to line up snug as fingers in a glove.

And first to line up so (besides the blade,

and better—for one side, at least, was good)

was one such fated meeting fitly made

on Warponde’s docks where two strategists stood.

For when Durn came up dockside , he’d confer

with who but he, the sore ill-fated Zlyr.

xlviii

They had a problem there in Warponde’s walls:

the king of Lewellen was to arrive.

Thus shipways fell to indefinite stalls,

while still the docks buzzed as bees of a hive.

No man would take them, no ship would embark,

not ere the king was coming, and not aft,

for while the ships were presently so parked,

they’d be a fortnight longer backlog trapped.

Durn skulked the pier, then, doing his best craft,

awaiting eavesdropped words that could be won,

and over seaspray did someone’s words waft:

“I must make Ostia, ere eaves the Sun.”

The boy leaped up to see who spoke the word,

and saw Lewellen’s wealed and woeful lord.

xlix

A reckless race ran through Durn’s mind just then,

when seeing such a prospect on this pier,

and he forgot how many able men

could easily remove him far from here.

“King, Wrenogal’s pursuer! I have word!

My mother knows the one you seek! And I,

bereft of her so long, cannot afford

to wonder longer if she’ll live or die!

I think she’s gone to Ostia! That’s where

you’re headed, yes?” He stood, supplicant, short

enough to hold the stature, though not wear

the posture of the supplicant’s report.

But Durn knew drawn eyes forced men to be fair;

and, sure enough, Zlyr said, “I’ll take you there.”

Some purchase of a share’s percent of chance,

was what wrought over Wyveria’s brow.

A day-full full of travel made her trance

of yesternight seem very folly now.

How could she—could she make a choice like this?

No faith, however fair, could make it right.

What if, because of rhyming words, she missed

the chance to save her Durn from his own plight?

She looked out o’er the village camp, to those

who’d kept their families—those she had tried

to save—to Nolda, with the ones he chose—

back to her empty tent, all kinship-dried.

First he had had to leave, then Durn had, too.

The cat had also failed to make it through.

Nolda had had some time to think upon

the same plight that Wyveria reviewed,

in which their opportunities were gone,

and naught’s gain was their only thing accrued.

He wondered if Wyveria supposed

the other men and Durn had gone North, too.

He thought they might be far better reposed

again near mountains, to their work renewed.

But she had brought their company not near

to Dunwich, where the nearest quarry set,

but past its road, and off, it would appear,

toward the capitol a half day yet.

He would not question her until its gates.

He was not one for fondling with fates.’

lii

They settled for an evensong that night,

but could not raise their voices for their woes,

until Lydoria’s lark did alight

upon a battered boot’s mud-mangled toes,

who sang for them the first notes of a song

that well they knew: that Hadlighans sung oft:

a tune for local epics that belong

to northeast pines wherein Hadligh set soft.

Relief plunged through Wyveria’s poor heart—

for, still convinced her wisdom folly, hark:

she had, at least, a little light to start

her way again tomorrow, thank the lark!

So song would guide her yet again, despite

the way they could not sing the notes that night.

liii

The burning caravan stayed on the way

for months after the rage of Erison,

and there’s a wagon wheel there to this day,

charred, cracked, and twisted, sitting ‘neath the Sun.

But this time, Erison left with a smile,

the burning blade held with a stronger hand,

one that knew, even with another mile,

another flaming swing might duly land.

For, not for vengeance was this weapon swung,

not this time, the first time in his career—

this time, each wrest, he, from its pommel, wrung,

was wrought in justice—or for something near.

And wind blew him to northward go, to see

if Acles would look better fiery..

liv

“Whose carriage was this?” asked Nevgondian,

when Erison had left the sorry scene.

“Who could deserve such carnage? Who had been

enough the enemy of kind so keen?”

“Why do you wish to know this, prying one?

What is it, I again must as of you—

that bids you chase this man upon the run,

when there are many better things to do?”

But he could not refuse to answer, not

when such a secret as this one he had—

to quietly reveal a secret plot

as this was tempting, whatever he said.

“You know all things, this I would also know,”

and so he prised the pride of the Shadow.

“His name was Porrick, neat-tongued, nosy one.

Of all Erison’s murders, this was just,

for Porrick’s plots would have had him undone,

if not by accident and a wind’s gust.

But now, my friend, you’ve asked of me too much,”

and what Nevgondian had never guessed—

the Shroud around his frame tightened its touch,

and on each inch of skin and mind it pressed.

“I have been very fair to you,” it said.

“I have answered your questions, led you well,

but this is my true power, and my dread:

I must take if you must ask me to tell.”

The knight had not ever encountered it—

few had—inside his mind, the Shadow bit!

lvi

Thus into the most closed of any mind,

the Shroud had lease, and shudder was its breath,

for in one breathless gasp its bite could bind

even brave, bold Nevgondian like death.

No answer could the good knight give it now,

as every answer was laid very bare

before the grip that held him like a vow—

the grip that thought its trade was very fair.

It had its choice of any secret there,

and Nevgondian had so many. Like

a fanned-out blade of cards laid out to share,

the smug Shroud took its chance—and struck its strike.

“I see,” it said. “You mercenary thing.

You chase this one for secrets on your king.”

1000 Sonnets

The Wrenogal Sonnets