The shattered priest babbles incoherently as the weights bear down on him. “I will not speak his name. I will not speak his name.” As he gasps his last breaths, he whispers, “I will hide it in my words”
Six freedoms for live men, the river take the rest;
One king of a hellish prison, yet I hold another’s key;
Curved blade I bear in battle, though other curves are more deadly;
My people rise unbroken, hammered from my forge;
First to break life’s shackles, yet hungry I remain;
My gnashing maw is silent, but children crawl your world.
Born a mortal man, risen from my run;
The open-handed master, perfection shall he find;
I saw all there was to see, but not me, you see maddeningly;
My sword remains unbroken, iron in hands and veins.
My acts do not go unnoticed, a prophet’s herald once;
Four in one, or so I say, but so few will trust me.
Queen of burning dryness, an elemental figure;
Old protector of old profession, an eye for growing things;
Neither loving nor doting, but a dedicated mother all the same;
The seven-star scion, worshiped by a sloth;
A demon lord of undemon things, his wand he wields fiercely;
An empyreal lord of divine things, my library abounds.
Friendly hint: The answer is a name and a title (not 16 names).