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IV. The Hand of the Sorcerer

In THE HAND OF THE SORCERER, Prince Modareth reads a piece from Jobareth’s second book of poetry:

What bow has set me to this futile flight,
Has sent me arcing to your armored heart?
Dare I trace the journey of that dart
To some willful archer of the night,

Some jokester god who, laughing, took his aim
At a mark no man might penetrate,
Leaving me to curse both love and fate?
No, I will myself take all the blame

And know I was a fool, as are men all,
For we choose to fly and, spent, must fall.

In HAND, Lord Radal recalls a prayer he wrote as a boy:

Darkness, Asak’s eldest child,
Lady of the Lifeless Lands,
on your carved ebon throne,
scatter Time’s unnumbered sands.

Wisdom comes as nightmare runes,
written on the lids of eyes
that beheld you, vast and still,
ere stars rose in ancient skies.

All the children of the day,
generations raised in light,
shrink from the Abyss’s gaze,
waste and wither in your sight.

Darkness, born of endless Void,
Goddess to the men of old,
reign as Queen of endless realms,
worlds where all things grow cold.

An early effort by young Sir Pol, in THE HAND OF THE SORCERER:

Never trust a poet —
he’ll only tell you lies
and pretty bits of nonsense,
pretending to be wise.

The words have all been crafted
to bring tears to your eyes;
he’ll beguile your hearts,
he’ll seek to hear your sighs.

But, in time, he knows
whatever words he tries,
you’ll turn the page and read
some other poet’s lies.

In HAND, Pol reads from a tragedy he is writing:

The line dividing life and death
is measured by a single breath.

Exhale what is and all that might,
a wisp to fade into the night.

When next we breathe, what unknown air
fills souls now past all mortal care?

That dark divide breaks ev’ry bond;
breathe deeply ere you cross beyond.

A song from Pol’s comedy “Bumbiap,” in THE HAND OF THE SORCERER:

I’ve given you my heart
to do with as you please,
to break beneath your heel
or heal its injuries.

And nothing more I’ll ask
of you, no words save these:
remember how my love
came singing on the breeze.

Oft wounded in the past,
I’ll not avoid love’s dart
nor falter on a journey
I once feared to start.

This starry, vernal night,
though we be far apart,
remember how my love
came singing from the heart.

In THE HAND OF THE SORCERER, a Pol poem, read at his patron’s salon:

I’ll hang the moon from a silver chain
to wear beside your heart,
And fashion ear rings of the rain
that drip in subtle art

Against the midnight of your hair
and dawning of your skin —
A glowing, flushing morning fair
with hints of flame within.

I’ll set the sun in a ring of gold
to place upon your hand
And kiss your fingers, making bold
but making no demand;

No, only asking for your love,
that you be mine and stay
Each night of gem-starred sky above,
each jeweled golden day.

And that concludes the songs and poems found in the DONZALO’S DESTINY books.

The novels are available in print and ebook formats from Arachis Press.
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Insolent Lad
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