Wrenogal: Act II, lxxi-lxxix
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.