now where each letter stopped and another began. I stared, thinking it was hopeless, and then the letters seemed to move of their own accord right before my eyes, rearranging themselves into a pattern I could recognize. I blinked. It seemed obvious now.
The similarities appeared and the unknown letters revealed themselves. The curves, the missing accents, the key. It made sense. I translated in earnest. Word by word, sentence by sentence, I raced back and forth between the primer and the old Vendan text.
There is one true history and one true future.
Listen well, for the child sprung from misery
Will be the one to bring hope.
From the weakest will come strength.
From the hunted will come freedom.
The old men shall dream dreams,
The young maids will see visions,
The beast of the forest will turn away,
They will see the child of misery coming,
And make clear the path.
From the seed of the thief,
The Dragon will rise,
The gluttonous one, feeding on the blood of babes,
Drinking the tears of mothers.
His bite will be cruel, but his tongue cunning,
His breath seductive, but his grip deadly,
The Dragon knows only hunger, never sated,
Only thirst, never quenched.
It was little wonder that the ruler of Venda wanted her mad babblings destroyed. They were bleak and made no sense, but something about them must have disturbed the Scholar. Or was I wasting my time? Maybe it was only the gold jeweled box that was of value to him? Could it be worth his neck and position to be a thief of the court? But I was nearly finished translating the grim song, so I continued.
From the loins of Morrighan,
From the far end of desolation,
From the scheming of rulers,
From the fears of a queen,
Hope will be born.
On the far side of death,
Past the great divide,
Where hunger eats souls,
Their tears will increase.