Sythyry (sythyry) wrote,

Heroes’ Cup, part II. [14 Thory 4385; Eigrach, Srineia]

Originally published at Sythyry. Please leave any comments there.

Not everyone was cheering when Yerenthax and Jyondre kissed on the balcony. A dozen Orren were particularly deep in their scowls and frowns — though they had been cheering as loudly as anyone else beforehand.

“What were you doing up there?” bellowed a titanic Orren woman. “You looked like you were kissing that Gormoror!”

“I was kissing her, Mother,” said Jyondre calmly. “This is Yerenthax, my intended. Yerenthax, this is my family.” He started trying to introduce them.

“Jyondre! You are avoiding the issue!” proclaimed his father or maybe uncle. I am not sure because the gentleman started roaring before Jyondre managed his introductions.

“Not in the slightest. I am confronting it directly,” said Jyondre.

Another Orren wailed, “But you have passed through the jivu! You have taken the vows of purity!”

Jyondre shrugged. “I wouldn’t be the first one to scant the jivu’s vows.”

“But — a foreign city! Even — Eigrach!”

“Should I let children die, because they are children of Eigrach?” asked Jyondre.

Jyondre’s mother climbed on a bench, and broke a walking-staff over her knee, and crashed the halves together seven and twelve times, proclaiming, “A nithe, a nithe, a nithe!”

(On the balcony, Rehit asked the Mayor, “An execration? We should stop her!” But the Mayor slashed with his hand, as if to say, “No; it must be done.”)

Jyondre’s mother howled as awful a poem as ever I have heard:

The roof that gives you shelter shall die with termites,
And the floor that upholds you shall break with shame,
The rollward wind shall blow you stenches
And the roll’gainst wind shall carry your own stench as a warning to all
When you request music, the hooting of owls shall answer you,
And when you request silence, it shall redouble,
The sunlight shall reveal your shame,
And the darkness shall never give you hiding,
The rain shall whisper as it falls on your head: Traitor, Traitor, Traitor
And the hail in your eyes shall answer it: Vile One, Vile One, Vile One
The cushion for your head shall be stuffed with thistles
And in the boots for your feet, small twigs
Bones of the fish shall pierce your tongue as you eat
And the wine served you with lees shall be bitter
In your path always, the dung of the perdithorne and the hyena
But compared to you, even the dung shall be proud.

At times, the heroes’ cup is full of gall and poison.

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