Free Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome by Stephen Lawhead

arms of the chair. The older woman studied Yarden for a moment, searching her eyes. Yarden gazed back hopefully, confidently, knowing herself to be in the presence of a wise and powerful teacher. “Tell me, daughter,” Gerdes said at last, “why have you come to me?”
    Now that they had finally come to the reason for Yarden's visit, Yarden found her voice had dried up. She forced the words out: “I want to dance. That is, I want to learn to be a dancer.”
    Gerdes peered at her and nodded absently. “Stand, please. Walk for me.” She made a back-and-forth motion in the air with her hand.
    Yarden stood and walked slowly, passing before Gerdes once, twice, and then again, conscious of the woman's sharp appraisal. “Yes,” said Gerdes, “that's enough. You may sit.”
    Yarden returned to her seat. “Will you teach me?”
    Gerdes nodded slowly, keeping her eyes on Yarden's face. “I'll teach you—but not to dance.”
    Yarden's smile disappeared instantly. “I don't understand. Why not, may I ask?”
    Gerdes leaned forward, reaching out a hand to touch Yarden's knee. “You move well. There is grace and ease in your step. No doubt you have great natural abilities—talent, yes. But, daughter, you are too old.”
    This pronouncement shocked Yarden. She'd never been told she was too old for anything in her life. Why, she had at least a hundred and fifty good, productive years left, probably many more than that. How could she be too old? “Are you sure?” asked Yarden.
    “I know what you are thinking,” replied Gerdes. “Ianni has told me that your lifespan is not like ours. You will live long, many times longer than will I. In this you are like the Ancients of our own people. This is what you are thinking, yes?”
    Yarden nodded silently.
    “Of course. But the dancers that you saw yesterday, that filled you with such longing to dance, have been working at their craft since they were small children. Their bodies have been adapted to the dance, formed by it; their minds think in terms of movement and rhythm. Everything they think and do is dance.”
    “You don't think I could learn?” asked Yarden, disappointment making her petulant.
    Gerdes simply shook her head. “No,” she said, and then quickly explained. “Oh, you could learn the steps, the movement. You could dance, probably very well, I imagine. But never well enough to suit yourself, or the Fieri standards of excellence either, for that matter. If you danced, you would always be reminded just how inferior your craft remained. You would see children dance with greater skill and proficiency than you would ever achieve, and you would envy them.
    “In time, your envy would turn bitter—you would hate yourself for not being better than you can ever be. This hate would destroy your craft and art. It would destroy your heart, your soul. In the end it would destroy you. Rather than being a blessing, dance would become a curse.”
    Yarden was amazed by what she heard. Never had anyone spoken like this to her. “But—you said you would teach me,” she replied, shaking her head in confusion.
    Gerdes patted her knee and then leaned back once more, smiling. “Yes, I'll teach you. But not to dance. I'll teach you to paint.”
    “To paint?” The idea had never occurred to her.
    Gerdes laughed. “You would be surprised to learn how close the two are to one another. There is much movement and rhythm in painting—it is dance of another kind, and more. I will teach you to paint, if you are willing.”
    Yarden blinked back, bewildered. “I don't know what to say.”
    “No one can decide for you. But I will tell you this: you have the heart of an artist; you are sensitive, you feel things very deeply in your soul. You long to create beauty and to share it. These things are good and necessary.
    “What is more, painting is an art that requires a special kind of intelligence. I sense in you that intelligence—wise, intuitive, loving. This is important. If you