Prologue: Listen Well
Midsummer’s night, upon the breeze,
The song of harvest-fly
Plays lullaby to land abroad
’Til morning light is nigh.
‘For all must rest,’ so sing the trees
From glen to Highrock’s spire,
Wherein Our Lady heeds the nod
To smother candle’s fire.
O Queen! O Vedra!
We beg thee not retire.
For tonight has foot in silence shod
They of foul desire.
Though thick the stone and firm the gate—
Unmatched, the guard’s blockade—
The rats, and dastard find their paths
Above the palisade.
Born on wings of patriot hate
The craven party flies.
O where is peace when lives the wrath
Of northern savage pride?
O Queen! O Fair!
The west wind cries,
Let not thy golden hair lay last
Upon Acerber’s tide.
Lo! As the creeping party sets
Upon the royal tower,
There brave Captain Becerrian
Stands forth in shining power.
The captain did their flight detect
Alert in still of night,
In splendored armor to defend
With shield and sword and might.
O Queen! O Grace!
The captain holds the line
Until a cry from chamber rends
That to thy side must fly.
But no! The chamber has been breached!
Below the window climbs
Lone archer seeking for to flee,
An arrow left behind.
Yet sure, the flight from captain’s reach
Through bone and flesh, as mud,
The gleaming edge of Harbinger’s steel
Hews down the poltroon sod.
O Queen! O Mother!
Thy rich and noble blood
In stain on crested tapestry
Portends the crimson flood.
Upon the royal guard then broke
The cowards’ midnight charge.
But, damage done, The Queen lay pale
In captain’s trembling arms.
The night lay still again, but spoke
The Queen with her last sigh,
’Protect the land, do not fail,
Avenge my death on high.’
O Queen! O True!
Across the northern sky
Thy words upon east breeze will sail
With dirge of harvest-fly.
It’s not right, you know. That isn’t how it happened. I wrote it—she told me to write the song, and I knew it wasn’t right but like a fool I did it. She is a scheming and treacherous villain. They both are, I believe, and I have spent my share believing both to be of nobility. So what does that make me? Who is worse, I ask, the liar, or the coward who knows the lie and keeps his peace, who writes others’ words to retain his station? I say, I should have to look into some veiled corner of childhood to discover the last time I did a thing by my own conscience, and because I knew it of myself. I have spent my life penning the eloquence of nobles and rulers, but now, to see my words used like this…
Listen to me child, for if I am to die in this cell, then I die with the record straight. You will see freedom tomorrow, little one, and you will know these two things: The first, there is one alone who knows that night, only one other who was there beyond myself, the late queen—bind her spirit—and The Captain. Excuse me, The General. Seek out the one, for I have been silenced, and he may be our hope and future—and you, oh yes, you will be needed. If we have the prudence to rescue ourselves from this mess, you and he must herald salvation.
Second, The General is not what she seems. For this knowledge I am charged with treason and locked here until the end of my days, or hers. And so, if this is to be the penultimate choice granted to me, I will seize it and I will speak the truth. By sunrise tomorrow, you will know of those terrible events all that is right and all that is false. Then the choice will be yours, and my part played. Listen well, young one, for I lay the kingdom in your hands.
