Canto 3

‘Satisfied?” Thaelon’s deep voice growled. Slowly, I nodded, eyes gazing afar into the dancing fire.

“Yes, and I am sorry for my hasty judgment. But . . . but what of Emindor’s father? I doubt he truly made such a promise, for what parent would sell their child to slavery?” I glanced up into Thaelon’s face, “Why did he not come for his son? Did the crafty man trick him . . . or worse?”

Thaelon half-closed his eyes and sighed, “That question will be answered in the due course of the tale. If you wish to hear more, I will continue from where I left-off when you demanded an explanation.”

“Yes, please,” I said, gesturing him to go on, “I will not interrupt.”

“We’ll see,” Thaelon said, then began:

'Dark-red the twisted wheels burned:
The bloody stripes Emindor earned
For not exalting in the gain
Of arms wherefore his friend was slain.
“You must excite and rouse the crowd,”
The Master hissed. Emindor bowed
To take the lash; his grief’s reward:
The cracks, the cries, the bloody cord.
At last, when twenty blows were spent,
Emindor was released and sent
Down to a lonely, barren cell
Wherein he would await the bell
Which summoned him to fight again
In the Arena ‘gainst his friends.
The walls were streaked with blood and grime;
The water-bucket filled with slime
Unnamed, and in a single ray
Of warm sunlight Emindor lay.
The storm had broke and eventide
Was rushing through the air outside.
Twilight permeated unchanged
Within the cell for those estranged.
A knock was heard upon the door;
“Yes, come in,” answered Emindor.
Through it stepped Kysébryte the Gray,
Emindor’s friend known as Tirrey.
“You have only yourself to blame,”
she said, referring to the game
When Emindor had mourned the loss
Of his friend’s life and paid the cost.
All Mirkem knew Arena Law:
“Be bloody, swift, and even cruel;
Anything that will satisfy
The people – loss or victory.
Your wins are not your own. The crowd
Pays to be entertained, not cowed
By guilt at your noble displays.
The man who quails is he who pays.”
He knew this, and had made the choice
To stay silent and not rejoice
At that which he could not call good,
“I did what I believed I should.”
Tirrey just shook her head, “You are
A fool, my friend, to sight a star
Which never could exist. You know
There’s no such thing as a hero.
Wake up, grow up, and stop pretending.
There’s no good out there worth defending.”
Emindor looked away and sighed:
“You speak because you’ve never tried
To see the person in a foe,
Or think about where he will go
When that sword-thrust pierces his breast.
Is life the fight and death our rest?
Or is death just another war?”
He stood, “I’d rather sight a star
That may not ever have been made
Than give up because I’m afraid.
There’s something missing from this plot,
But I cannot discover what.”
Silence ensued, long and unbroke.
At last, her eyes dark, Tirrey spoke:
“You do not know what I have thought,
Nor understand the wars I’ve fought
Within myself. Do not assume
You are the only in this room
Who aches to see a comrade fall
And wonders where he goes. Don’t call
Me coward. Second-highest I
Am of the Mirkem. When you die
I will be the foremost of all,
And then ‘twill be my turn to fall.
This is the cycle, yes, deranged.
But doubt not what you cannot change.”
“Then how will anything improve?”
Emindor cried, “If those who love
Cannot be greater than the night,
What purpose is there in the right?”
“None,” Tirrey replied, “For this strife
Is not for good or bad, but life.”
“And if we take another’s, then
What good is life with such an end?”
Emindor countered, eyes ablaze
With agony of his friend’s gaze
And all the other men he’d slain.
His voice was taught and filled with pain.
Tirrey sighed, shook her head, “You think
More than is good for you. Just drink.
I brought some wine to wash the stain
Away, and it will ease your pain.”
“No,” Emindor replied and sat,
“I’ll drink any poison but that.”
Tirrey knelt down and touched his head,
“We need you living, friend, not dead.
Destroy yourself with guilt and grief
And who will give your friends relief?
No, we do not hold your faith,
But painful good is more than death.”
With a low sigh, Emindor said:
“I’ll live. And yet my heart is dead.”