Slightly related, in that Tamran’s part of the conversation. One thing I definitely didn’t expect (but should’ve expected in hindsight) from Irduin was for its title “Dance of Shadows” to at least partially allude to Plato’s allegory of the cave.
Ulmey has taken enough wine to start showing off his erudition. “Did you know the ancient Karagonds taught that we should consider ourselves as fire-thrown shadows? Not just us humans, but, but all this material world.”
“Shadows?” The Telone frowns as if already sensing some heresy in the making. Across the room, Tamran’s ears have pricked up; she walks over, eyes bright, and seats herself with you all.
Ulmey gestures away from the fireplace, toward the dancing shapes you’re casting on the far wall of the Chesnery. “The True Light of Order emanates from Xthonos into the glorious realm of Ideals…and we see the outline cast by that Light through those truths, all the way down to our muddy little level of reality.” He hiccups. “As represented here by…the wall.”
“The world is a fermenting dung-heap, into which the Angels seed some semblance of order,” Baldassare counters with sepulchral relish. When Ulmey wrinkles his nose, the Telone adds, somewhat defensively, “It was spoken by an approved philosopher of the Erezziano court. And useful things may grow from a byre if well-tended.”
“So the Angels spend their time looking downward, talking to us shadows in the dung-heap.” Tamran leans forward, chin on her hands, to watch the wall with a faint smile on her face. “Is it a flaw in Them that They care, do you think?”
“The philosophers of old Karagon wrote before the Codex, so they’re no help when it comes to matters Angelic.” The priest drains his glass, still looking with distaste at Baldassare. “The Polyomphalos who taught me didn’t use metaphors half as coarse as a dung-pile. But he would still have argued that the Angels don’t care for us, as such. Their compassion is purer than ours, closer to Unmoved Xthonos. They teach us lowly shadows that we owe each other care and compassion…but They don’t feel it, not as we do. Their ‘care’ is reserved for more perfect things. For the beauty of Order, not for us.”
Tamran gives a slow nod. “Do you credit that?”
“I don’t know, lass.” Ulmey smiles a little sadly. “I know your dama wouldn’t. But for all that I love him, sometimes…sometimes I only half-believe in his tinkering, all-attentive Angels, with a word ready for every farmer with a lost lamb.”
“And what do you think, good${woman} ${alias}?” Tamran turns to look at you. "When an Angel hovers close and observes us squabbling here…do They care for the folk They watch? Or do They only care for the Order They mean to create—or the flawed order They mean to destroy? No matter how many of us innocent shadows may be unmade along the way?"
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