at the trial of God we will ask: why did you allow this?
and the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?
and the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?
T
he capitol of Delumine reflects the springtime atmosphere of the surrounding Viride. Everywhere, ivy chokes the brick and mortar; and far below the Rapax is full to bursting. Spring has brought with it heavy rains and the vivaciousness of blooming foliage. The deciduous trees are the too-bright green of new life; pollen drifts on the wind like gold dust; birds flit happily from brick building to brick building, only to settle in a tree. All of Delumine seems to possess an aura of festivity. Perhaps it is the flower festival of Terrastella, or the fire festival Denocte has brought. Pravda could not say. It is simply a matter of fact that the days are brighter, longer, and he hears more laughter drift in from the streets.
He does not understand this, however. He has always preferred the silence of winter and nearly misses it, now, as he walks down the street of the city. Pravda is heading toward the library—it is strange, in fact, he is not already there. But when he catches a glimpse of the Warden through the trees, he pauses—he has always found the man to be very… un-Delumine, but more and more to an observer it seems as if everything within the Court is very…. un-Delumine.
But, perhaps, that is judgement before knowledge. Pravda walks toward him. “Warden,” he greets, but his deliverance is precise, controlled. “Am I interrupting anything? Or could I invite you to a walk?”
