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Litha
might be.
     
    Elva. There‘s so much I need to
ask you.
     
    But death is the final stripper
of illusions. It cuts away the pleasant images we use to cocoon ourselves
during the everyday, the insulating fluff of social interactions and light-hearted
entertainments, leaving bare the starkest of realities: that every life must
end, and in its wake leave survivors to contemplate their loved one’s passing,
the inevitability of their own extinction.
     
    And worse: that even initial
grief-heat passes, slowly cooling as the survivors’ energies begin to ebb,
leaving stunned acceptance in its wake, and unwiped tears which grow as cold as
death.
     

     
    There
had been a brother: Odom Strelsthorm, whose wedding Tom had attended, four
Standard Years ago. But Odom and his wife Trilina would be impossible to find—even
by courier—given the conditions in Gelmethri Syektor.
     
    It had taken Tom and Elva four
tendays to reach the Grand’aume; and it had taken all of Elva’s skills to make
the arrangements, to get them here. Yet she had not once complained.
     
    Damn it all to Chaos...
     
    Gritty-eyed, Tom waved open a
series of displays and traced through news-holos, using his noble-house access
rights—valid even here, in this realm which boasted no Lords or Ladies of its
own—to trace the revolution’s path. Wondering if he could search out the family
Strelsthorm; knowing it was impossible.
     
    It was not just an academic
exercise. For most of the four SY since Elva’s brother had married, Tom had
lived in exile, far from the revolution which suddenly seemed as arbitrary and
meaningless as the cruel and overbearing system it was meant to replace.
     
    Tom wiped his face, tried to
focus on the holo reports.
     
    Half-melted corpses;
smoke-blackened tunnels. ‘Sources implicating the White Glowclusters have
disappeared in mysterious ...’
     
    Gesturing, he interrogated the White
Glowclusters tricon. The three-dimensional ideograph changed shade,
unfurled like a blossoming flower, revealing intricate inner facets which read:
     
    ... a secret society of Zhongguo Ren
origin, affiliated with the Strontium Dragons and known to be responsible for
the following atrocities...
     
    Enough.
     
    He had friends among those secret
societies.
     
    Tom explored another link.
     
    Consul Populis, a breakaway
LudusVitae action brigade, came to power in Luftwin Sectoris during the second
putsch. They discovered documents implicating revanchist noble houses, led by
Lord Delivglan, in the arming of General d’Ovraison, the notorious Butcher of
Lenkilion ...
     
    ‘Stop.’
     
    He waved the holos away.
     
    It was a nightmare.
     
    Corduven’s bias, briefing Tom,
had been different—he hardly considered himself a butcher—but the facts
remained as he had outlined them: for two Standard Years, since the abortive
global action codenamed Flashpoint, there had been bloodshed and confusion in
hundreds of realms. Widespread so-called revolution ... yet nothing had changed
for the better.
     
    Nobles and repressed commoners...
They could all go to Chaos and Perdition, if only Tom could have her back.
     
    Elva. I need you.
     
    But there was no-one there to
answer.
     

     
    A
low chime sounded.
     
    Elva’s back!
     
    Then he shut down his emotions,
cursing himself.
     
    No, I don’t think so.
     
    Grimly, he waved the doorshimmer
away, and saw Nirilya standing there.
     
    ‘I don’t’—he spoke quickly,
before she could interject -’want to see you just now.’
     
    ‘I know.’ Nirilya bowed her head.
‘But the .., the Seer is expecting you. In three hours.’
     
    Expecting me?
     
    Tom remembered Elva’s ironic
comment: ‘I dare say the Seer knows we‘re coming.’
     
    Half-laughing, half-sobbing: ‘You
mean, it’s my Destiny to go?’
     
    Nirilya stared at him, confused.
     
    ‘Leave me, Nirilya. Now.’
     
    ‘All right.’ Stepping back into
the corridor outside. ‘I—’
     
    Doorshimmer, coalescing