VII

So masked in intention,

in a sacred name

for a year and a day

Orestes surrendered

his anger to music and wind,

apprenticeship honed

on the laddered wires

of a harp that the gods whispered over,

of a wandering in lore

and the cloudy geographies

tied to the fractured past,

and he dwelt by the poet

and traveled to Dargaard

to the heart of Solanthus,

to imperiled Thelgaard,

to nameless castles of memory

where the knights abided

in yearning for something

that moved in the channels of history,

redeeming the damaged blood of the rose,

while the story that Arion sang,

his back to the dream

and incredulous fire,

discovered the years

and the fading arm of the sword.

Seven songs of instruction

arose from the fire and the dreaming:

the spiral of Quen

love’s first geometry

the wing of Habbakuk

brooding above the world

the circle of Solin

rash and recurrent heart

the arc of Jolith

dividing intention from deed

the white fire of Paladine

perfected song of the dragon

the prayer of Matheri

merciful grammar of thought

and the last one the high one

light of Branchala

that measures all song

in the shape of words

Alone in the margin

of darkness, Orestes

surrendered and listened

singing reluctantly, joyfully,

as the gods and the planets

and the cycle of years

devolved in a long dream of murder

and the cleansing of harp strings.