Wrenogal: Act III, l-lii
l
Some purchase of a share’s percent of chance,
was what wrought over Wyveria’s brow.
A full day 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.
li
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.