"We say that the flowers return every spring," Danat said, "but that is a lie. It is true that the world is renewed. It is also true that that renewal comes at a price, for even if the flower grows from an ancient vine, the flowers of spring are themselves new to the world, untried and untested.
"The flower that wilted last year is gone. Petals once fallen are fallen forever. Flowers do not return in the spring, rather they are replaced. It is in this difference between returned and replaced that the price of renewal is paid.
"And as it is for spring flowers, so it is for us."
Danat paused, the voices of the whisperers carrying his words out as far as they would travel. As he waited, he caught sight of Idaan and Cehmai standing before the pyre. The old poet looked somber. Idaan's long face carried an expression that might have been amusement or anger or the distance of being lost in her own thoughts. She was unreadable, as she always was. He saw, not for the first time, how much she and Otah resembled each other.
The rain tapped on the page before him as if to recall his attention. The ink was beginning to blur. Danat began again.
"My father founded an empire, something no man living can equal. My father also took a wife, raised children, struggled with all that it meant to have us, and there are any number of men and women in the cities or in Galt, Eymond, Bakta, Eddensea, or the world as a whole who have taken that road as well.
"My father was born, lived his days, and died. In that he is like all of us. All of us, every one, without exception. And so it is for that, perhaps, that he most deserves to be honored."
The ink bled, Danat's words fading and blurring. He looked up at the low sky and thought of his father's letters. Page after page after page of saying what could never be said. He didn't know any longer what he'd hoped to achieve with his own speech. He folded the pages and put them back in his sleeve.
"I loved my father," Danat said. "I miss him."
He proceeded slowly down the wide stairs to the base of the pyre. A servant whose face he didn't know presented Danat with a lit torch. He took it, and walked slowly around the base of the pyre, cool raindrops dampening his face, his hair. He smelled of soft rain. Danat touched flame to tinder as he went, the coal oil flaring and stinking.
The fire roared. Smoke rose through the falling rain, carrying the body of Otah Machi with it. And pale petals of almond blossoms floated over the crowd and the pyre, the palaces and the city, like the announcement that spring had come at last.
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Document creation date: 27.05.2011
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Price of Spring lpq-4 Page 41