Wrenogal: Act II, lvi-lviii
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.