Chapter 33
The Summoning Of The Tsagoroth
Tiger, tiger, burning bright,
In the forest of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake (1757-1827)
It was perhaps inevitable that the King should one day be forced to make use of the person and talents of Cyphallus, said Loremaster being the lowliest of all those creatures that served the King’s madness. Inevitable, because of the shortage of Loremasters and other servants caused by the King’s obsession, leaving only those inept churls who otherwise would never have risen above the lowly status ascribed to those who persisted in their studies, not because of talent, but rather because of its lack.
The obsequious Cyphallus: he was an embarrassment to the caste of Loremaster, in all ways a small man, with small, dark dreams that gnawed on his hard, inflexible little mind; that ate like worms at his twisted little driftwood soul.
Yet he had recently risen through the ranks, despite all odds. This was not due to any belated discovery of talent on his part, but rather came about because others possessed of greater talent, and therefore greater wit, sought to place him in harm’s way, in order to deflect possible notice of themselves. At the least, they surmised, this was surely the best way to be rid of him.