Llewellyn

I.

“Cave Digger wants to build a giant hammer,”
Leandra said, a lizard in her lap,
the crystal creature stroked by idle hands.
She clarified: “The titan slumbering
deep underground demands a weapon fit
for sacred retribution. I have found
designs of ancient dwarves who built such things
when dwarves were great. The dwarves who slave for us
shall honor their ancestral legacy
constructing it at Cave Digger’s command.
And you, Miss Ice, will help him to decipher
the ancient runes, if you are able.”

					                 “Yes,”
Miss Ice too quickly said; she failed to hide
her juvenile excitement. But she’d prove
worthy anon: her chance had finally come.
She’d seen her newer peers advance while she
remained a lowly alchemist, her knowledge
of dwarven history of little use,
she’d thought. Fate worked in unexpected ways!

She found Lieutenant Cave Digger studying
the manuscript. She introduced herself.
He did not look, but gestured to a chair
beside him. So she sat, and read the runes,
hoped to impress him with her expertise,
but found herself confounded by the words
she recognized configured senselessly,
and thought herself defeated at the start.

Cave Digger spoke: “It’s all a baffling mess
to me. Can make any sense of this?”

Miss Ice, relieved, admitted she did not.
She said, “The diagrams are clear enough. 
Perhaps it’s written in a cipher. Look–
this phrase repeats: ‘they went will hammer free.’
Here too: repeating runes. It’s nonsense, but
there may be secret meaning hidden here.”

Cave Digger looked at her, then said, “Miss Ice,
you’ll work with me each day deciphering
this manuscript, until we understand
the magic and the making of the hammer.”
Miss Ice no longer felt she was a failure.

That night, her mentor met a man upon
his ship docked in the harbor: Mendar Gristy,
friend of a friend. “You’ll sail tomorrow night,”
Cave Digger said, “with dwarves within this hull.
You’ll take them to Yung Dregvel: to their home.”

But Mendar said, “Tomorrow night won’t work:
I fight in the arena two days hence.
I didn’t make the brackets. Sorry, pal.”

“Each day we wait’s a day of slavery
those dwarves endure. And I could be discovered
at any moment, damning them to toil
for Azdan’s wretched cult until their deaths.”

“Then take them on your own ship. Oh, that’s right:
you have no ship. So you will wait for me.”

Cave Digger left. He knew that Mendar risked
his life to free the dwarves. Another day;
another setback he would overcome.

Then he returned to us, his allies true,
except for Laeroth, the violent oaf
who greeted him: “Llewellyn! Change of plans:
Mendar is my opponent in the fights.
He’s gonna die. So find some other ship.”

“You will not murder him,” Llewellyn said.
“You’ll find some other method to subdue.
The fate of all the dwarves relies on him.
By killing him, you’d help the Cult of Azdan.”

“Maybe I want to help the cult to grow,
become more powerful, so I can fight
and kill them when they’re worthy enemies.”

“Your evil is far fouler, then, than theirs,
tor they at least believe in what they do.
To you, death is a game without a point
beyond your bloodlust and your vanity.”

“If you can find nonlethal means to win,
I’ll do it. That’s on you,” said Laeroth.

Llewellyn went to bed without a word.
He gazed upon the pages of a book
he’d taken from the archives of the Cult,
and in its illustrations saw the face 
of Piper, who had guided him in life;
dear sister Piper, guiding still in death.
She’d said she was a goddess; she’d return
to rid the world of war and poverty.
But she had been a child. No one believed
her sacred claims, of course. No one but him.
And here she was again, as she had said,
though not in flesh, but ink, and somehow changed:
for this girl was a drow, a cavern-elf,
but unmistakably the same. Her name,
according to the text, was Lolria;
still young, and still alive, but trapped inside
a monstrous centipede: Mangora Darling,
perversion of biology, so large 
its legs had leveled Qurrel, once a city,
now ruins, with survivors haunted still
by tremors which anticipated it,
and quakes which marked its passing through the ground,
who feared with every rumble it would surface
and kill again, again, until no food
remained for it. And then where would it go?
Llewellyn knew about Mangora Darling–
who hadn’t heard the horror stories? But
here was a girl who shared his sister’s face,
the visage of a goddess, being used
to animate the body of the beast.
And here in Galadoria was he,
a continent away, and waiting now
another day while Qurrel trembled. So
he set himself to solving what he could:
a sleeping salve for Laeroth to use
imbued upon his blades while fighting Mendar.

At noon, he took Miss Ice from translating
to scour the beach for sand. She knew the sort
that sleeping potions need. A good reprieve
it was: the runes had yielded nothing yet.
Of course not, for Llewellyn’d forged them all:
meticulously crafted gibberish
he’d hidden in the archives for Leandra
to make her great discovery. Miss Ice
was curious about the potion; asked
what it was for. Llewellyn said, “The fights.”

“You’re betting on a fight? They check for cheats,
but I can mix a paste they won’t detect.”

She did. Llewellyn gave it to Laeroth,
who, when he battled Mendar, cut him once
and watched him fall asleep. So victory
was Laeroth’s, and Mendar did not die.

Leandra summoned Cave Digger that night
to check his progress on the manuscript.
He handed her his notes, and touched her hand,
and in the touch imbued a memory:
she saw the Shade, her master, order her
to drown the dwarves at sea, lest they rebel,
and use her underlings to build the hammer.
The vision was too clear for her to doubt. 
Recalling it, she now told her lieutenant
what she had been commanded. He agreed
to lead the dwarves to death within the deep
that very night. 

    			   So he assembled them,
and led them to the dock where Mendar’s ship
awaited, telling them they’d be transported
to labor elsewhere. In the ship they went.
The sleeping potion had worn off by then,
and Mendar sailed the dwarves to freedom. 

      					                                  Then
a priestess of the cult approached Llewellyn
and asked him to explain this sudden change.
“I doubt Leandra’s loyalty,” she said.
“She’s always done the least that is required,
as though she acts through fear of punishment.
And now she sends our slaves away before
they’ve built the sacred weapon.” 

  					               And Llewellyn
thought long upon those words, and spoke to us,
away from evil ears, about Leandra.
Then Ihsan said, “If you believe she acts
against her will, then I’ll assess her soul.
But I must see her first.” 

     				         So Ihsan joined
Llewellyn when he next met with Leandra,
dressed as a guard. “This man,” Llewellyn said,
“shall be my foreman while we forge the hammer.”
Leandra looked at Ihsan, he at her,
and through his holy insight found her good,
though plagued from deep within: a parasite.
“M’am, I apologize,” he said, and thrust
his hand into her throat, reached deeply down,
and pulled the parasite out through her mouth,
a vile and wriggling arthropod. He crushed
the thing between his hands. Leandra stared
in wonder at the man whose holy hand
so easily had freed her from its curse.

“I’ve done things past forgiveness,” she intoned.

“Those things were done to you,” Llewellyn said,
“and now you have the power to do good.”
They spoke of how she might disrupt the evils
she’d heretofore commanded. Then he asked
about the girl inside Mangora Darling.

“Yes, Princess Lolria,” she said. “Her uncle –
you’ve met him: Suspayne Nath, who made the hybrids,
those spider-humanoids, those wretched things – 
confined her soul within the beast’s body
to use it as a weapon to defend
the drow from the invading elves. That war
is over, but the monster still remains,
a threat to us– to them, the Cult of Azdan,
against which they’ve supplied the cult commanders
with lizards, crystal–scaled, whose piercing song
can kill Mangora Darling.” And she held
her crystal lizard pet before them both.
“Would Lolria die too?” Llewellyn asked.
“She would be freed,” Leandra said, and gave
her crystal pet to him. “You’ll need a ship.”


II.

When they returned to us, Laeroth said,
“We need no ship to sail. I have a friend:
the hydra, guardian of Coringarth,
a greater monster than that centipede.
Upon his many heads we’ll cross the sea,
and by his side we’ll fight Mangora Darling,
and glory will be ours.” And so he called
the hydra through their telepathic bond.

The creature carried us to Qurrel’s coast,
a still life of destruction. Vacant piers
awaited us; all those with means had gone.
We got no greeting there. Then from the hydra
we parted, for its steps would rouse Mangora,
endangering the people who remained.
Survivors stared as we walked slowly through
their ruined city. No one spoke. They feared
the slightest sound would bring the monster back.
We trudged through rubble til we left the ruins
and trekked the distance to Seldara Peak,
and climbed into the ruins of its castle,
and found up in the tower a ballista.
We fired it at the mountain’s base, then waited.

We heard the rumble first, before we felt
the mountain shaking subtly, then immense
tremors that rent the ground apart released,
erupting from the rock, Mangora Darling.
Its hundred legs propelled it up the mountain
and up the castle tower where we stood.
A single strike collapsed the tower wall,
exposing us. Llewelyn held the lizard
and hummed to coax from it its piercing song.
But massive insect legs soon struck him down;
the beast loomed over him with giant jaws.
So we defended him against its blows
until the hydra reached us, and it fought
against the centipede. Mangora bit
one of its heads off. Blood poured on the rampart,
but still it fought. And still Llewellyn hummed;
the crystal lizard sang a perfect pitch;
Mangora Darling shuddered, twisted, died;
expelling as it fell a little girl,
grey-skinned, and elven-eared, and yet the face
was Piper’s. And Llewellyn carried her
and laid her in the hydra’s healing blood,
and Lolria awoke, a hundred years
away from everything she’d ever known.

We told her how her soul had been exploited.
“Why my soul? Why not someone else?” she asked.

The hydra spoke: “Because you are divine:
an incarnation of the goddess Arc.
I served her with my sibling holy beasts;
we fought with her to seal Azdan away.
I saw her trap herself along with him,
and I have missed her ever since. Now you
are what remains of Arc within our world,
along with others like you.”

				             “I have felt
as though I have a home I’ve never seen,
a longing for the friends I’ve never known
calling to me like church bells chiming. If
my uncle recognized my godliness,
but kept it from me, trapping me instead,
then I don’t care if he is dead. Don’t tell me.
What’s wrong with him?” Llewellyn had been weeping.

“The bells you heard – my sister heard them too.”

“I hope your dad did not imprison her.”

“She died.”

	              “What merry fates befall us gods!
Divinity does little good for us.
Who are the other goddess incarnations?
What tragedies have they known? No, don’t say.
I’ve had my fill of misery. But here
I am, alive, and bathed in hydra blood;
and that, at least, befits my temperament.
Now tell me of your siblings, noble beast:
how many heads do they have?”

                                                       “One apiece,”
the hydra said. “They’ve slept for many years,
I know not where, except for Pamolai,
upon whose sleeping wings a city stands.
And I would go to her, but I am bound
to Coringarth, and cannot go that far.”

“My friend,” said Laeroth, “you should have told me!
We’ll find your sister Pamolai.”

				                  “But first,”
Llewellyn said, “to Galadoria
we must return, for Suspayne Nath is there.
And if more goddess incarnations live,
he’s surely using them, as he used her,
to bring to life his sick abominations.”

“You don’t know that,” said Laeroth. “The hydra
just saved our lives, and hers, and lost a head.
We owe it to our friend to save his sister.”

“We will, but she must sleep a little more.
Lives are at stake.” And Laeroth relented.


III.

The atmosphere within the Cult of Azdan
had changed while we were gone: uneasiness
prevailed. Without the dwarves, the cultists slaved
to forge the giant hammer, which Miss Ice
now oversaw. And many of their members
were sickened by a curse which struck the pure
and left the evil unaffected. Now
Leandra was imprisoned with the good,
and Suspayne Nath, an outsider, was chief.
Llewellyn entered those infernal quarters
as Cave Digger, and quickly realized
that killing Suspayne would be difficult.

Miss Ice, when she saw him, was overjoyed.
She rushed to him, but stopped short of a hug,
and said, “I need your help. Those dwarven runes
bewilder me; I’m guessing as I go.
The workers doubt me, as they should. I fear
the punishment I’ll get when they find out.
But Suspayne won’t allow further delay.
and my association with Leandra
makes him suspect me. Cave Digger, I am trapped.”

Llewellyn said, “The runes are beyond me.
But I can get you out of here, if you
will help me save Leandra, and the others.”
Miss Ice agreed. 

    			    Llewellyn then told us
the situation. “I’ll distract the guards,”
said Laeroth, “while you release Leandra.
I’ll find this Suspayne Nath, and kill him good.”

“Be careful not to kill his victims too,”
Llewellyn said. “I know you relish death,
but this requires thought. Please have some sense.”

“Do you wanna kill this guy? I thought not. Good,
then you’ll do your part. Meanwhile, I’ll do mine.”

So wearing robes they went into that place.
Llewellyn led him to the prisoners,
all sick, Leandra with them. Laeroth
slew one guard. Before the other screamed,
a blade was in his chest. Llewellyn glared;
Laeroth left for Suspayne silently.
Llewellyn led the prisoners in chains
through torchlit halls of stone, past staring zealots
who recognized Lieutenant Cave Digger,
and now suspected him, but none detained him:
they would let Suspayne deal with it. Then screams
and clashing steal commanded their attention
while all the prisoners escaped unscathed.

Llewellyn removed their chains upon the beach
and cast the manacles into the sea.
He said, “The Cult of Azdan did you wrong
by promising protection, or well-being,
but giving you instead its tyranny.
Whoever needs protection, we can give it:
Laeroth, prince of Coringarth, has guards.
Whoever needs some money, talk to Malfyre.”

And to Miss Ice he said, “Your intellect
could grant you almost any life you choose.
I don’t know what brought you to Azdan’s cult,
but know that you have other means than that.”
She nodded, and she wished to tell him more
of what she’d suffered, what she’d feared and lost,
but said no more than “Thank you.” Then she left.

And then a severed head walloped Llewellyn:
the head of Suspayne Nath, which Laeroth
had thrown. “I saved some goddess kids,” he said.
And there they were, their faces just like Piper’s,
all looking at Llewellyn with the blood
of Suspayne on his person; and they laughed
to see their tormentor used as a joke.
Behind them were the workers of the forge
whom Laeroth had roused to mutiny.
“Well fought, my boys,” he shouted.

				                          “Aye!” they yelled.

Llewellyn gave the crystal lizard pet
back to Leandra. “She sang well,” he said.


IV.

We set a course for distant Pamolai,
the city in the Swordheld Desert wastes
whose sands assaulted us in blinding storms.

One day, atop a dune, we saw below
a ring of rowdy warriors around
a tengu man, his beak and feathers bloody.
The leader of the gang was taunting him:
“Witness, my friends, the mighty Brother Riptooth,
Scourge of the Wastes, yet claiming righteousness,
which I find difficult to reconcile,
alone and at our mercy. What a day!
My faithful friends, I am your humble servant,
not leader: Terry Three-Toes serves you all.
And so I ask you: what is your command?
Shall Brother Riptooth lose his feathered head?
Shall I cut off his wings and watch him run?
Or maybe pluck his feathers one by one
until he looks like us. What shall it be?”
Sadistic shouts resounded. 

   				             Then Llewellyn
called out to the assailants from the dune,
entreating them to go their way in peace.
But they responded with a deadly arrow
which barely missed his head. 

     				                   Then Laeroth
descended on the gang with us behind,
and soon the sand was wet with bandit blood;
a gang of corpses lay before our feet.
The tengu, Brother Riptooth, thanked us then:
“I’ve led good soldiers in my day, but you
are better than the best I’ve ever seen.
Woe to your enemies, for they are doomed
to suffer death as swiftly as you choose.”

“That’s right,” said Laeroth. “So who were they?”

“Some former slaves,” said Riptooth, “just like me.
We all escaped from Pamolai, but they
turned into raiders, pillagers, a gang
who saw no wrong in taking others’ freedom
once they had theirs. I might have led a charge
on Pamolai, and rescued my dear daughter,
my darling Abaquee, from servitude,
but they attacked at night and killed my men.”

“We’re going to Pamolai,” Llewellyn said,
“to wake the bird beneath it. We can help
your daughter to escape if you tell us
how we may infiltrate that awful place.”
So Riptooth drew a map of Pamolai,
and of the palace where his daughter lived
among the nobles as a courtesan,
the only life available to her
outside of poverty. Within this palace
a central pillar stood, a hollow shaft
which reached below the ground. And if a beast
slept underneath the town, that was the way.

He led us to the city with its spires
against the desert sun, and there we parted.
Through streets of squalor, past the starving poor,
we walked until we reached the palace gates,
announced ourselves as rich ambassadors,
and entered. 

  		        In that hall of opulence
they offered us whatever we desired
while waiting for our meeting with the Council.
“We seek the company of courtesans,”
Llewellyn said, “the beaked and feathered kind.”
They brought us to a room with jeweled curtains,
and soon a tengu woman entered, dressed
in samite, carrying a tray of tea.
“Would you enjoy a harping song?” she asked.
“I know the histories, the comedies,
and most of all the tragedies, for these
come closest to the truth.” 

    				            Llewellyn said,
“I’d love to hear you sing those epic tales
another time. But that is not our quest:
your father, Riptooth, sent us here for you.”
And Abaquee rejoiced to hear of him
and how he fared, a legend of the wastes.
“He was a famous general once,” she said.
“The Council feared that he would lead the people
against their tyranny, so he was charged
with treason, and enslaved, but he escaped.
And I survived by serving his oppressors.
Beware the Councilors. There’s more than greed
behind their evil. I have been alone
with each of them, and heard a vulgar voice
come from their throats, a voice they seem to share;
but never does the public hear it. No,
it only speaks through them in private rooms
when they are at their weakest. It is said,
in books I’ve read in secret, that a demon
is trapped beneath this city. I suspect
Pazuzu sends his spirit to control
the Councilors, and pushes them to evils
beyond what they would do in selfishness.”

Laeroth gave the girl a stolen sword,
and Wiccup cast on her a magic shroud,
and she invisibly escaped the palace.

And then we met the Councilors: three men
in ostentatious dress. We showed them things
of magic and high value, which we said
were plentiful in our homeland. And they,
delighted, planned to make a trading route,
thereby increasing all our wealth. Then we
requested entrance to the central pillar
to see its architecture, and proclaim
the glory of Pamolai to those back home.
They eagerly obliged. 

  	 		             So to that column
they took us, and unlocked its hidden door,
and ushered us inside a room of horror:
pentagrams painted on the walls in blood,
and bleeding bodies hung above from chains.
“You’ve seen too much,” they laughed, and then they left,
locking us in the column with the dead,
an offering to their demonic lord.

Llewellyn saw inscribed upon the floor:
“Descent demands his name thrice spoken here.”
“Pazuzu,” said Llewellyn, then, “Pazuzu,”
and finally, “Pazuzu” once again.
The horrors disappeared, and all went dark,
and in his head he heard a horrid voice:
“Hello, Llewellyn. Let’s have fun together.”
And then he saw his friends through demon eyes
and could not tell them anything he’d heard:
his body was no longer his to use.

The floor descended to a corridor.
Flickering lights gave glimpses of its walls,
all metal, strange and ancient, lined with bones:
old sacrifices to the demon lord.
Llewellyn led us deep into those halls,
“For Pamolai sleeps here,” he said, but knew
Pazuzu’s body languished in those depths.
The hallway opened up into a room
whose ceiling stretched into the dark above.
Perched on its rafters, lesser demons watched
but did not stop us. “Sheathe your weapons now,”
Llewellyn said, “and they will not attack.”
Not yet, he thought: the time for blood would come.
We walked beneath their staring demon eyes
until we reached a cage. Within its bars
a demon, winged and terrible, reposed.
And on the pedestal without, a button.
“This is the key to waking Pamolai,”
Llewellyn said. And then he pushed the button.
The cage evaporated, and the demon
unfurled its giant wings, while all its minions
descended from the rafters. 

      				                Then Llewellyn,
while we fought off the demons, cast a spell
on Laeroth, commanding him to fight
against his friends. Laeroth turned to Malfyre,
the halfling, small and vulnerable, and struck 
a blow that would have slain him, but for Ihsan,
who with his tower shield deflected it.
Then Laeroth revived, and punched Llewellyn,
who fell into a swoon. 

  			              When he awoke 
the demons all were dead. His allies stood
around him, glaring at their traitor friend.
“It was not me,” he said, “it was Pazuzu
controlling me. Forgive me; I was weak.”

“How do we know,” said Laeroth, “that you
are not still under his command?”

				                      “He’s dead,”
Llewellyn said, for he could see the corpse.

“No thanks to you. But he can leave his body,
as you are well aware.” 

			               “Yes, you are right.
If Ihsan scans my spirit, finds it pure,
will that put you at ease?”

				             “Perhaps.”

					                       So Ihsan
assessed Llewellyn’s soul, and found it pure,
but did not heal him of his injury.

A tremor nearly knocked us to the floor;
it sounded like the world ripping apart.
A massive voice erupted in a yawn
which shook us violently, and then a squawk
which blasted us across the room. Then words:
“Good morning, little ones inside my guts.
How nice to wake up demon-free! I feel
like I may fly again above the world.
Come up and see the view.” So we returned.
The central platform rose at our arrival
up through the palace, to the roof above.

We stared out at a city in the air,
an island lifted by gigantic wings,
its coastline bordering not sea, but sky.
And at the gaping edge, the Councilors
stood cornered by a group of courtesans
with Abaquee commanding, sword in hand.
And at her word they rushed upon the men
and cast them off the island. Long they fell,
and saw before their deaths the giant bird
upon whose back they’d made their cruel lives.
Now Riptooth had returned, and joined his daughter
whose victory was greater than his deeds.
They hugged upon the edge of Pamolai
and watched the bodies fall into the sea.
Then Riptooth saw Llewellyn on the palace
and bade him speak to mark this joyous moment.

“People of Pamolai,” Llewellyn said,
“the evil Councilors are overthrown!
As Pamolai flies free, so shall you all 
rise up from the oppression you endured,
creating in its place community
where everyone is valued: no great wealth 
shall leave the masses lacking, for to each
an equal wage will go. All will have food,
and none shall slave, nor rule. Instead together
we’ll write the laws that benefit us all.”
And all the nobles scoffed to hear such words,
for they desired to hoard their money still.
But they were overruled by the repressed,
who cheered Llewellyn’s words. And so a forum
was held, and policies debated well.
And Laeroth spoke often at those meetings,
arranging an alliance with his home
of Coringarth. So princely was he then,
attuned to weighty matters of the state
and generous in his diplomacy,
Llewellyn marveled at this other side
of Laeroth, a side he’d never seen,
and which he had assumed did not exist.
Laeroth warned against the Cult of Azdan:
“For they creep into cities everywhere
whose leaders fear them, letting them corrupt
their people. Do not let this happen here.
Denounce them. Coringarth will give support.”
Llewellyn and Prince Laeroth together
thus worked to guarantee the state’s success.
And Pamolai devised a constitution
that Piper would have loved, Llewellyn thought.


V.

Now back in Galadoria, Miss Ice
lived on the streets, for no one would employ
a former cultist whom they did not know.
Even the library, where Liam worked
when he escaped the Cult, would not take her,
even though Liam recommended her.
So starving, homeless, loved by no one, she
requested readmittance to the Cult.
They offered her a place, but at a price:
she must give them a fellow renegade.
By luring Liam back into their grasp
she thought they would be satisfied. But no,
only his death by her own hands would do.
She hid her anguish as she murdered him.

Miss Ice believed that she could still do good
within the cult, as Cave Digger had done,
but things had changed. The good had all been purged,
leaving fanatics only. There were none
that she could save, or influence, or trust:
she was alone. And staying there required
more heinous acts that I will not transcribe.
Those were the worst days of her life. 

   		 			                         But then,
while serving on a raiding ship at sea,
pirates attacked and came aboard their ship
and slaughtered all the cultists, save for her,
for she fought for the pirates, casting spells
of freezing death against her former team.
She asked to join, and since the captain saw
her bravery and magic, he agreed.
When asked her name, she said, “Nadalia,”
and left her cultist moniker behind.
The captain’s name was Kenton. And he too
had served the Cult of Azdan in the past,
but now he fought and looted them. And they,
through talking of their pasts, found they both knew
Llewellyn and his friends. “But they’ve been gone,”
the halfling captain said, “for many moons.
This was their ship: the Darkfyre. And I hope
to find them one day.” 

  				     So they sailed eight years,
had more adventures than I can recount,
til in the sky they saw a gleaming dragon,
green-scaled, with us upon his mighty back.
The dragon let us down on Kenton’s deck
and shrank down to a gnome, for this was Wiccup.
Kenton rejoiced, and he and Malfyre hugged.

Nadalia could not look upon Llewellyn
for guilt and shame at what she’d done. And he
could see she was distraught, but asked no questions.
He said, “If you would like to talk, I’m here.”
Nadalia didn’t give her story then,
but listened to the tales of our adventures,
and proved her skill in dangerous encounters
with pirates, and with monsters of the sea,
until she couldn’t bear to keep her secret.
She told Llewellyn, stumbling through her words,
how she’d returned to Azdan’s cult. 

     					                    He said,
“All that is in the past. Now you are here.
And I am comforted to have a mage
of honesty, intelligence, and skill
beside me.” 

		        “I don’t see how you can say
these things of me when I have done such wrong.”

“I too have done things I cannot forget:
misused my power, turned against my friends;
and I will likely fail again. But that
does not define me. I can still improve
the lives of those around me, and myself.
You are a force for good, Nadalia. This
is worth remembering.” 

    				         Nadalia thought
about his words, believed them to be true;
and though her guilt remained for all her life,
she clung to what she loved about herself,
and did great wonders in her day. 

   					   Llewellyn
asked about Pamolai: how it had fared
since he’d been gone. Nadalia told him thus:
“We heard about your efforts there, and searched
for you atop that flying island city.
It has become a paradise, a place
where no one hungers; no one lacks a home.
The people work together to decide
what’s best for everyone. If I’d lived there,
my life would be quite different. Pamolai
proves that prosperity and peace for all
are possible.” 

                        Llewellyn could have wept.
He prayed to Piper: “From your sacred word
utopia has blossomed on a bird.”