Wrenogal: Act III, xxxvi-xxxix
xxxvi
Noval stared into Aerandel’s flushed face,
who’d said just what he never wished to hear—
who’d rung the death knell of his latest race,
who’d said in shock what caused, in him, more fear.
The bandits had a plan for nights like this,
when sounds just as this shriek met their night guard.
They’d reach far past the sound, so not to miss
a fleeing rogue, and make his way out barred.
“This lass is one of mine! Those letters? Hers.
No man but me will touch her. Bind her fast,
and put her where she says, in her letters,
she wants to be: ‘with me, for fortnights past’”.
The keen-eyed Aerandel stared down Noval,
and clutched not her cloak, but Lineya’s shawl.
xxxvii
They brought her to Noval’s tent, pushed her in,
all laughing and surveying her with eyes
that didn’t match each one’s fake-friendly grin,
that saw no person, but an easy prize.
But prize or no, a law was still a law,
and, lawless though they were, the heart loves rule.
That is the little known, and better flaw
that cutthroats know: the heart is not a fool—
while sophistry makes fools of all. No man
can argue what he wants. High courts will call
a keen mind better, and instinct less-than:
but that is not what guided our Noval.
For when Noval at last entered his tent,
he was prepared with both tongues’ drawstrings bent.
xxxviii
They did not speak at first. Not second. Third,
at last, was when they spoke, not candidly.
The tent allowed eavesdroppers every word,
and that was not what either wished to be.
“You came from New Ridge. All the way, to tell
me that ‘the regent‘ ‘someone‘ now defames?
I knew that much already. That’s as well,
it sounds like those who knew, his sword now claims.”
But though she was still bound, and though he scoffed,
our Aerandel saw kindred in the man
who had both truth and his own country doffed
to keep the truth he knew as best he can.
“’The regent‘ was a fool to forget you.
He knew not how you’d cling to what you knew.”
xxxix
Foil
His eyes stung, hot as all the sands of Ryke,
and just as desert dry they felt to him,
and red they gleamed, both irises alike
in swimming swells of sleeplessness full-brim.
That’s how they’d stay for as long as they saw—
his murder and his schemes would bear with toil
the sight of every calculated flaw,
the capture of each perfectly placed foil.
But as the seaspray dashed upon his face,
no solace came to him. His eyes stayed dry,
as if Tolno himself took every trace
of moisture promised to the poor man’s eye.
But Zlyr had no mind to save them, so assailed.
To Warponde, then to Ostia he sailed.