Wrenogal: Act II, xciii-xcviii: End of Act II
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.