Canto 4

“What,” he said.

I nearly addressed him as ‘Master’ for the method of his teaching reminded me of my own lore-masters back home, but I cut the word short, deeming that it would be unwelcome.

“You have spoken,” I began, “Of Mirkem, Stol’rethas, the Arena and other such things of which I know nothing and recognize only as faint murmurs from the vague tales of childhood. I beg, reveal to me the meaning of these names before you continue the tale, otherwise I shall understand only a part of that which I wish to fully comprehend.”

And I held my breath, fearing the effect my request – nay, demand – might have on the bard.

Ominously the fire crackled between us as a wind that seemed to whisper riddles of menace whistled between the snow-clad rocks.

A slow, ponderous nod bent the grizzled head of my companion, and he spoke, his voice now gentled by agreement.

“Very well. Though young, you prove yourself not wholly foolish. I will explain the names and customs which have been aforehand eluded to. But do you,” he continued with a glinting eye, “Make no more promises which you cannot keep?”

With lips pressed firmly together I nodded, and then listened, as he explained:

For five years and an aching score
Had dragged the life of Emindor
Within the Arena’s confine.
He, being of the Mirkem nine,
Fought to retain his place and rank.
The only way that Mirkem sank
From their position of renown
Was when a warrior struck them down
And they were slain for place of fame;
A chance to play this lethal game.
Once it was an ambitious fool
Would challenge a Mirkem to duel.
Such men nine in ten times would die,
A warning that ‘twas naught to try.
More often now the Master chose
Some warriors as might stand for foes
Of Mirkem. Such one was the man
Whom Emindor had lately slain.
A Mirkem challenged Mirkem ne’er,
To last outsiders was their care.
When the Nine were gathered upon
The Arena together, then
They would not fight each other for
A higher rank. But Emindor,
Then Tirrey, Nipo’noi, as well
As Tareg and Oen-fiel,
Gauthn, Lintes, Dogo and
Thaelon, split up as a band
And on the Arena they staged
An ongoing story. A play
And fight wherein all foes but these
The Mirkem Nine were slain by need.
Nor did the Mirkem play their own
Persons, but acted and were shown
As characters within a lay;
The Mantles ‘neath which they did play
Had many names, but not their own,
And this was how the years had flown
For Emindor. His Mantle’s soul
Was dark as night and always full
Of hatred, bitterness and thirst
For satisfaction of his lust.
Kilos, his Mantle, was the name
Beloved by all who watch the game
And play. Such was his boundless fame
The crowd made glory of his shame.
Oftentimes Emindor would find
Himself caught so deep in the mind
Of Kilos that the cruelty
Of his Mantle was pleasantry.
This horrified his noble heart
And made the love of life so hard
To hold onto. He loathed the stain
That Kilos had given his name.
Would he never be free from this
Cursed well of brackish emptiness?
Most of Emindor’s friends feared not
The net wherein their souls were caught,
And saw no harm in turning to
Their Mantles in all they could do.
It would improve their performance
And give them that much more a chance
To live, survive, just one more day,
And prove their worth within the play.
Only two cherished not their roles,
The personas which ate their souls.
Thaelon, the silent, secret one,
Hated the game, and though he won
Time and again, would not receive
Advancement, nor would take his leave.
He loathed his life, but feared death more,
And had no hope like Emindor.
The other, Oen’fiel named
Had been so long within the game
He’d lost himself inside the play:
Become Mantle in every way;
Would answer the name Shirako
For he’d forgot his long ago.
Looking on both these warriors, small
Wonder Emindor had put all
His hope in freedom from the game.
To loose the yoke of fate and fame
Was all he wished. His sole desire
That kindled his soul into fire
Enough to live just one more day,
Enough to endure one more play,
Enough to watch the good men die,
For they would not use treachery.
But the Master insisted e’er
That Emindor he could not spare,
Which yet was true, for Emindor
Was more than all Mirkem before.
The Master said that he must stay
Until his father came someday
To take him home. Then he’d be free
To be the man he wished to be.
“Your father comes. Wait one more year.
If you go you’ll wish you were here.”
So ‘twas for a score years and five
Emindor waited – stayed alive.