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 ask of you—
that bids you chase this man upon the run,
when there are many better things to do?”
But it could not refuse to answer, not
when such a secret as this one it had—
to quietly reveal a secret plot
as this was tempting, whatever it said.
“You know all things, this I would also know,”
and so he prised the pride of the Shadow.
lv
“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.”