A sonnet appears in “The Crimson League,” one written by a supposed classic poet of Herezoth named Trenzelag. The novel gives no information about Trenzelag, because it’s simply too far outside the scope of the story, but I imagine the poet as a young sorcerer warrior during the time of the ancients (when names in Herezoth were even weirder than they are at the time of “The Crimson League.”) He had a noble-born lady love who spurned him. As a master of both arms and letters, Trenzelag would be a really fascinating guy! Anyways, here’s that sonnet.
A vile and cruel master Love has proved;
Sweet lies he speaks whene’er he opes his lips.
False hope he gives, anxieties to soothe,
As lines of fair deceit with skill he quips.
My heart into surrender Love cajoled,
Entreating me to lower fast-held sword.
Convinced, upon my blade I loosed my hold,
And now am but Love’s captive, he my lord.
For sake of hope my heart I sacrificed;
For sake of dreams Love’s slave I did become.
But hope is false, and dreams be but a guise,
For, love’s accomplice both, they reason numbed.
Betrayed, my thought impaired, I shan’t break free,
But slave must I remain to treach’rous three.
As a bonus, I also have a couple of sonnets that Neslan Dormenor, the League’s scholar and literature buff, supposedly wrote in imitation of Trenzelag, who happens to be his favorite poet. They didn’t make the final cut because the novel was too long and the extra poems just did not seem relevant, but I’ll put them here, cause Neslan’s a cool guy and want them out there. (I won’t mention the lovely lady he’s writing to, for spoiler purposes.)
Whene’er you speak, your words do reach my heart,
And I present a brave but false façade;
Although my soul speaks words of different sort,
I answer you with confidence, with nod.
You do not think I mean more than I say,
So expertly constructed is my mask;
For buried deep my love of you I lay;
In light of day I must not let it bask.
Nor do you know your words do pierce my soul
Until it bleeds from all the wounds received;
I feel within myself a gaping hole—
The sharpness of such pain I ne’er conceived.
You love, but love not I; ‘twill be my bane;
Thus stands my love, thus so shall it remain.
I know not if my love she does not see,
Or rather, seeing, chooses to ignore;
Baited, lost, bemused I find I be,
With spirit sick and heart supremely sore.
Is she so blind that she cannot see love
In how I look at her, in what I say?
Does not she know, by stars that shine above,
For her would I now give my life away?
I cannot think her so insensitive
That, should she feel my love, it moves her not;
Yet still I fear that, long as she may live,
She shall ignore me, leave my soul to rot.
Which explanation should I deem the worse?
Whiche’er be truth, I fear my love is cursed.