The Fifth Book of the Glory Cycle: Derlian and Mariera
Ollo Derlian
In Audiaurea a valley lies, Green as a promise from the Masked One's coffers. Audvelyn is its name, and fair to all eyes It has been for centuries; peace it offers, And rippling streams flowing beneath the trees, And shining flowers, content and ease. And on a high hill where the magewind sighs Stands the greatest city the Glory proffers.
This is the city of Summerfire, city of lords Who speak to the magewinds; and avatars They are of the wild magic, their swords Dedicated to keeping their people free as stars Burning in the far depths of time and space. There time and life flow more briskly apace: Few die of old age upon Summerfire's swards, But while they live they shine like rani jaguars.
High the city is, surrounded upon all its sides By a good view of the country of Audvelyn. No enemy for long in that country hides From the eyes of the sentries, who ever some sign Of hostile intent or clear enmity will gaze Until Summerfire ceases, or until end of days; Magewinds guard the city where their lord bides, And make a hazard of the air clear and fine.
There the grass is greener than any elsewhere, And there are shades that have no name at all Save in the graceful tongue that they speak there, In the city from which the magewinds fall Like tender hands to caress the grass, And leave new flowers springing where they pass. The wild magic is still creative here, still fair, And little Summerfire knows of evil's call.
War it knows, and war it knows all too well. There are enemies who want the people's wealth, And still others who want possession of their dell, And others who would prefer that the health Of the Lord of Summerfire would dwindle or decline. So it has been, so will be, time out of mind. The Lords are arrogant, pride clear as a bell In their voices, and each one is only himself.
The Lords no allies have, no delegates make, But guard and protect the city, and rule alone. Alone they bear the wild magic for the sake Of those in their city, and try to atone For some of the wild magic's madder courses. They are allied to the most capricious of forces Who will not accept a half-heart or fake, And binds itself, for some reason, to sons alone.
So it has been since the time of Derme, The first lord, who fled from the far south, And wandered into Audvelyn from far away, And learned both the deluge and the drouth The wild magic brought upon him: hate For his abilities; and he could not create, Could not work with his hands, could not say The words of a poem, or sing with his mouth.
But he commanded the magewinds; to his call They would come, and they could tell him Of the slightest word of any interest at all, Or of any plot or treason that was made to fell him. He had magic enough to defend his land, And when a magic to Change back was at hand, He refused; for then Summerfire must fall, And the vision the magic made to sell him.
The Lords suffer; unlike other mortals, they burn With restlessness, as the magic does, forever wild. To no one else for counsel or support can they turn, And few of them have tender love from wife or child. They seem forever condemned to stormy love, For such passions stir them, and such passions move In their hearts that the calmness of mind they spurn That is necessary for a love content, sweet, and mild.
Of all the wild loves the Lords have known, The most wild was borne by the Lord named Derlian. Like all the Lords, he suffered, but alone, And spared, by his suffering, his own people pain. Then he thought he saw a chance to woo A woman he loved, and who loved him too. But in what fell out afterwards his heart to stone Turned, and he called to madness and to flame.
Derlian was tall, and for such a Lord quiet-eyed, His eyes green as the calmly-laid magic lawn That about his home spread welcoming and wide. His face in a kind of stark beauty was drawn That made many people stare, and uneasily admire. His hair, like all the Lords', was made of fire, The red that, if the stories are true that still bide, Was borne by Lord Derme in Summerfire's dawn.
Many were the times that his people saw him, Standing on the battlements of his bloodline's hall, And staring to the north, as if on some whim He were going to ride off, and so kill them all. They kept a close eye, and always sighed in relief When he appeared healed of his hidden grief, And rode his karkadann only to hunt or swim In his favorite pool at the foot of a fall.
There he came one day, or so says the tale, Troubled by a dream of hate and of ire. He shook his head, making his hair swiftly sail About him in a cascade of air and of fire. No, such darkness he could not contemplate, Though the dream showed him on heights of hate Only attained by those who sanity fail. Violence had been his birthright, not desire.
He slid from his karkadann near the cascade, And approached on foot, smiling as he saw A riel lift from its nest, colored just then like jade, And fly to the south, swift-winged like awe. He came to the water, and crouched slowly there, Staring at the pool- for to him it was more fair Than anything save the dreams that sometimes made His destiny as Lord of Summerfire stick in his craw.
The manner of the waterfall was only this: It flowed down a channel from a small cliff, Sparking between the grasses with fire's hiss, Touched now and then with a flowery skiff Braving wild waters from the tame highlands. Dotted here and there it was with small islands, And each one sang with a scattered soft bliss. Derlian closed his eyes. If, only if-
But he was the Lord of the city, of Summerfire. He knew the truth of the wild magic's bargain. Such violence as he had dreamed was its desire, And held back only since Summerfire began By the Lord's willingness to come, intercede With the wild magic, and so have his people freed From the more restless effects of its ire. Derlian was a Lord, not an Elwen or man.
But if his mind knew that, neither spirit Nor heart had been consulted in the matter. Derlian knew this mood, and he feared it- The mood that came when he longed to shatter The manacles placed upon him by blood and birth, And go forth to do things of deed and worth. He was sometimes far, sometimes very near it, Shredding his lineage's chains with a sharp clatter.
But then what would they have, his kin and kith, Born into Summerfire, and knowing but joy? What did such fantasies have to do with The sacred bond he bore, and could not destroy? His people had grown almost, despite war, innocent. They knew what mortals could do, not perils sent From the wild magic others were afflicted with. If he was not a man, neither was he a boy.
Derlian knew the price of their joy was freedom, And not from them but from him that price Was ever exacted, and so still needed to come. He could not make of lives other than his a sacrifice. He sighed, and turned his head to stare down the stream, The water the source of his most harmless dream- That someday the wild magic would cease to be dumb About other lands, and show him visions of ice,
And ever-burning fires in the deep Sea of Sparks, Forged from the bones of a mountain range. He had read of them, but his mind could not the darks Of distance pierce as could the magic of Change. Someday, somewhen, the magic might tell him Of more than his enemies' plots to fell him, Might tell him of the singing of distant larks, Might tell him of wide realms new and strange.
So he dreamed. But then he heard a footfall. At once he turned, his face darkening with dread. He had told them he was not to be disturbed at all- But then he saw a sight that almost struck him dead. He stared in wonder, and a voice like soft flame Came and caressed his ears, giving him her name. "My name is Alferia." A voice like his beloved waterfall, A voice about which some words must now be said.
Or, if you like, on to the second canto
