"The attitude reflected by your statement is," she said, sitting in the senior observer's chair. "My investigations remain preliminary, but what I see indicates that chemicals derived from this flower, combined with native compounds we are already aware of, may extend the average lifespan by five years."
"That is remarkable," I said, meaning it. Her hostility had put me off-balance.
"What would you say if it could be proven to extend our lifespans by a decade, Farren?" she asked. "Twenty years? Would you still think it remarkable?"
"Seraeda...," I said, my ears still back.
"Would you?" she asked. "Or would you tell me 'we are not ready to live another twenty years? What would happen to the children waiting for their elders to pass on their responsibilities? What would happen to the worlds, if suddenly more people lived to eat the food currently harvested? What would happen to our cities, forced to contend with the sanitation needs of so many more people? What would happen to our spiritual development, if we became too accustomed to living longer than our wont?'"
Now I stared at her. "I think," I said slowly, "you have thought these objections out much more definitively than I have."
"Of course I have," she said. "I am an observer; it is my work to think. You, though, are an artist. Your reaction was an unexamined feeling, wasn't it. A feeling that said 'it is not for us to act above our natural station.' You made a joke. You were flippant. You do not believe."
This was rather much. "Seraeda, the joke was harmless."
"You think the joke was harmless," she said. "But it revealed you. Humor reveals the true heart, just as art does." She opened the desk drawer as she continued, her voice brisk and impersonal. "I remain unaware of the cause for Baran's collapse, or the reason behind his arguments with the lord. However, I did find this." She set a capped jar on the desk between us. "It is pigment."
"Pigment," I repeated.
"Yes," she said. "Medically inert, as far as I can tell. It is not the ink he used to write with, however, and I cannot explain its presence otherwise. We are not in the habit of having spare ink pots hidden in locked drawers."
Perplexed, I took the jar, but its contents mattered far less to me than Seraeda's state. "I will tell Shame that it is important we continue trading for the foreign flowers."
"It is not important," she said. "It is imperative."
To that, I said nothing, for it was not for me to make such decisions... nor for her, at that. In the end, it is Thirukedi's decision. And with my silence, we made clear our philosophical differences in the matter.
"I hope," I said, voice low, "you are not too sore with me."
"I don't blame you for your attitude, Farren," she said. "I'm just disappointed you haven't risen above it."
That stung. I stood quietly, taking the jar with me. "Thank you for the evidence."
"Such as it is," she said. "I hope it helps."
And that was as much farewell as I received from Seraeda the last time I saw her in Qenain's laboratory, as one of its observers.
Outside the room I needed several moments to compose myself. My hands were shaking, something I noticed only because my sleeves trembled on my wrists. I smoothed the fabric down to my hands, where the signs of empire were limned, and then pocketed the jar before going outside, where I expected to find Ajan waiting for his master... and fortunately, he was, standing with our beasts in the courtyard.
"My trunk?" I asked, subdued.
"Already sent ahead," he said. "If that pleases you, osulkedi."
"That is well," I said.
He studied me carefully, something I allowed while I made pretense at checking my mount's tack and re-acquainting myself with it, petting its soft nose. But kindly, he did not say anything, and somehow this silence between us remained restful. I had thought being left alone with my thoughts would distress me, but Ajan did not leave me alone. Without words, somehow, he drew me from myself, and that sufficed.
Shame emerged from Qenain's gate-house not long after, and I found great comfort in the sight. I expected nothing more than that, but his gaze swept over us, beasts and people both, and then halted abruptly on me. Before I could make explanation he was before me, hands on my arms and a frown on his face.
"What is it?"
"Seraeda..." I trailed off.
"Hurt you?" Ajan said from behind me, and I heard the growl in his voice. Kor looked past me at his penokedi and twitched his head in minute negation before looking again at me. "Something we need to know?"
"The aunerai flower may extend our lives," I said. "She guesses by as much as five years."
"Interesting," Kor murmured, eyes losing their focus. I remembered the look from what seemed like so long ago now, when we first met, and waited for him to return from his thoughts before speaking my own.
"You don't think this is a good thing?"
"To live longer?" he said. "It depends on the quality of the life those five years offer." He let me go. "I am sorry you argued."
"She is..." I looked for words. "She is an observer. Her chief thought is for the science."
"And you, perhaps not enough so for her taste," Kor guessed as he checked his mount's tack rather more knowledgeably than I had mine.
"She called me an artist," I said. "I don't think she meant it as kindly as you did."
"We sometimes say things we don't mean when passion takes us in the moment," Kor said, his voice gentle.
Thinking of her words, I said, "And sometimes, we reveal ourselves."
To that, Kor—Shame—said nothing.
We mounted then, the two younger Ai-Naidar with rather more grace than I managed, and without fanfare or farewell we departed. I was glad of the chance to be away from the Gate-house with all its uneasy memories. "I presume the lady gave you the permit?" I said, guiding my mount up alongside his as we gained the byway.
"She did," he said.
