Passage: Sethra understands Tazendra
Tazendra pointed to a grey chair in the corner, a stuffed chair that seemed to be falling apart; one leg was missing and was propped up by books, while the stuffing on one side had burst from its bounds and the headrest was loose on the other side. "That is where he would sit betimes," she said, "and look at that picture," here she pointed to the opposite wall, "and contemplate the ruined side of the castle, and how he would someday repair it, for," she indicated the painting again, "that cannot be other than his home, and," here she indicated a whetstone by the side of the chair, "he would, I am convinced, sharpen his sword as he did so. I believe it must have been a form of meditation; I, myself--" she broke off abruptly, and blushed.
"Of course," said Sethra. "You are a Dzurlord, as was he. To the Dzur, there is a ritual to the sharpening of the sword -- so warlike and yet so soothing; a preparation for the future, a defiance, a threat, and, at the same time, it is rhythmical, and, while so engaged, one is given to dream, and to think about the blade, its history and destiny; and to contemplate and wonder, above all, for what one strives -- and always one finds answers to this question, for finding those answers is what it means to be a Dzur.
"Sometimes," she continued softly, staring at the painting which Gyorg must have himself spent so much time gazing upon, "Those of other Houses laugh, or call the Dzur foolish, stupid, or blind, and there is no good answer to such charges, for to kill for such an insult is often beneath the Dzurlord; yet there is always the sword, whose sharpening breathes of the future, and the glory which is not only in being remembered, but in knowing one has defied the entire world, and pitted one's self against the impossible, and proven, to all who are not Dzur, that there is value and glory in the battle, regardless of the outcome. All of these thoughts come to mind when the Dzurlord sharpens his sword, and looks upon some token of the past until he can feel the wind that blows to the future."
For some time, it seemed as if Sethra were speaking to herself, but at last she fell silent. "You understand," said Tazendra in a whisper.
"Of course," said Sethra. "You are a Dzurlord, as was he. To the Dzur, there is a ritual to the sharpening of the sword -- so warlike and yet so soothing; a preparation for the future, a defiance, a threat, and, at the same time, it is rhythmical, and, while so engaged, one is given to dream, and to think about the blade, its history and destiny; and to contemplate and wonder, above all, for what one strives -- and always one finds answers to this question, for finding those answers is what it means to be a Dzur.
"Sometimes," she continued softly, staring at the painting which Gyorg must have himself spent so much time gazing upon, "Those of other Houses laugh, or call the Dzur foolish, stupid, or blind, and there is no good answer to such charges, for to kill for such an insult is often beneath the Dzurlord; yet there is always the sword, whose sharpening breathes of the future, and the glory which is not only in being remembered, but in knowing one has defied the entire world, and pitted one's self against the impossible, and proven, to all who are not Dzur, that there is value and glory in the battle, regardless of the outcome. All of these thoughts come to mind when the Dzurlord sharpens his sword, and looks upon some token of the past until he can feel the wind that blows to the future."
For some time, it seemed as if Sethra were speaking to herself, but at last she fell silent. "You understand," said Tazendra in a whisper.