The end of man is knowledge, but there is one thing he can't know. He can't know whether knowledge will save him or kill him. He will be killed, all right, but he can't know whether he is killed because of the knowledge which he has got or because of the knowledge which he hasn't got and which if he had it, would save him.
T
he bonfires cast dramatic shadows; the elongated light dances alongside the oppressive darkness, until the clashing of opposites creates a mural of blinking, still-framed images. The festival is full of hope; is full of growing. A poet sings of spring and children laugh aloud, among the high bright flames. Pravda might have once marveled at the flickering orange flames; or, certainly, the indigos. The kaleidoscope of colors is at once unimaginable and right before my eyes; blue flames, or green, and yellow too.He does not marvel at them now. Perhaps it is because he feels separated from the occasion; the fires dance, but not for him. There are lovers singing poetry, but not for him. There are children laughing, but not for him. There is a race, but not for him.
The devision is stark and impenetrable; he is something, someone other, and these joys do not—should not—belong to Pravda, or so he believes.
Yet, he is enticed by one fire in particular. Perhaps it is because of the size; or simply that it is the only bonfire in the vicinity that seems to burn as normal flames do. Pravda is not typically impulsive; but something urges him forward. Perhaps it is the way the men stand there with bright silver eyes. He watches from afar, initially: but when they reveal tarots and delve into oomancy and divination by eggs, he is increasingly intrigued. There must be something to write about this experience. (After all, is not the most profitable knowledge rooted in experience itself?) Pravda steps forward, and then—hesitates.
He had not, at first, seen Ipomoea. But the other stallion emerges from the darkness and, before he can reach one of the Shed Stars, Pravda intercepts.
“Sovereign,” he greets curtly, but not without politeness. The light glances unevenly in Pravda’s strange eyes. His expression is marble, and spilled ink. “What are you hoping they tell you?”
He has never been one for social courtesies. Pravda gestures towards the Shed Stars and their divinations with a sharp motion of his chin; it had been clear that was where Ipomoea had been going.
But, Pravda supposes, it had been his intention as well.
