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. . .
. . . YOUR ONE TRUE LOVE'S A SAILING SHIP . . .
. . . DOWN IN THE ARM OF CAERGOTH HE RODE . . .
I stopped. In the last of the voices, somewhere behind me in
the corridor, the old words had sounded. I forgot them all -
the druidess, the erasing wind of the plains, the medicine
and bawdy songs - and turned about.
In the midst of a long recounting of herb lore I discovered
that voice again . . . the bard's intonation masking the
accents of Coastlund. I followed the northern vowels, the
rhythmic sound of the verse. . . .
And I was in another chamber, for the echo swirled
around me and over me, and I felt cold air from all quarters,
and a warmth at a great distance to my left. The voice
continued, louder and unbroken by noise and distraction,
and it finished and repeated itself as an echo resounds upon
echo.
I held my breath, fumbled for pen and ink, then
remembering the monster, sniffed the air for acid and heat.
It was indeed Arion's "Song of the Rending," echoing
over the years unto this cavern and unto my listening.
So I waited. Through the old narrations of the sins of
the Kingpriest, through the poet's account of the numerous
decrees of perfection and the Edict of Thought Control. I
waited as the song recounted the glittering domes and spires
of Istar, the swelling of moons and the stars' convergence,
and voices and thunderings and lightnings and earthquakes.
I listened as hail and fire tumbled to earth in a downpour of
blood, igniting the trees and the grass, and the mountains
were burning, and the sea became blood, and above and
below us the heavens were scattered, and locusts and
scorpions wandered the face of the planet
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