The Towers of Haran

The towers of Haran pierce the sky, great looping swirls of translucent glass.  We admired them from afar, up in the north, before we became Haran, long before we ever thought to come to this land in the first place.  At first they appear colorless, transparent, but then the first rays of the sun leap across the horizon and set the world afire, and the thousand subtle shades become apparent.  It is a tracery of frost that spreads from the highest slopes of Yttrin Mountain all the way down to the wall at the furthest reaches of the burbling Sal'Vikanti, where it runs through the valley and out to the sea.  

Sprouting from the city at unexpected intervals are the famed towers.  There, the Twins, curling around one another like a mating of serpents.  At the sea-gate, the lumpen and malformed Arpeggio Hall appears at first a hideous mistake, bumps and nodules poking out at erratic angles, until the winds blow and summon the music from its multifarious hollows.  Near the base of Mount Yttrin is the triple branch of Callista's Tower, where you can hear the tragic story of Prince Rupert's Stairs.  The colorful swatch of Gildwine's Blessing, home of the whimsical Ratajack and his half-mad wisdom, lends its brilliance to all the towers around it, now red, now blue, now softly golden-green as the breeze turns its enormous color-wheel to catch the sun.

The grandest tower is the Garinda, the great watchtower whose top is a series of interlocking lenses that allow a single man to keep watch across the whole of the city and the lands beyond.  The walls are nearly impenetrable, withstanding both fire and sword, hammer and bomb.  The story of the Ten-Year Siege, when the northern tribes attacked, claims that, in the time of direst need, the great inventor Artimeos discovered the precise angle of the sun that would turn the Garinda from a mere magnifier into a terrible weapon of focused heat and light, and he burned the attacking army of Doortun away to cinders.  Such a tale is, of course, mere myth; modern experiments have suggested such a plan would be implausibly difficult, and that it is likelier simple fire arrows were used to drive the barbarians away.  Still, the children enjoy the thought of such a dire secret weapon, and so the legend lives on and grows in the telling.  It is easy to imagine that it is true when you hear the hiss of the Garinda turning on its base and look up to see it turning, far overhead, always watching to keep the city safe.

No, Haran has no enemies, not anymore.  It has long since conquered all the lands around it, through trade where military might failed, and through treachery where trade was insufficient.  We are all citizens of Haran, here.

Unity.

That is the secret, you know.  The secret of Haran's incredible strength, its impervious skin and unbreakable towers as slender as wands.  Haran is all one glassine piece, raised up in a cataclysmic instant by the terrible magics of the ancient days, its outside held under the pressure of the deeper layers.  All of the tension within one tower hinges on the tower beside it, such that all are interwoven in a knot of astounding complexity and impossible duration.  In the same way, we, her people, are all one, despite our varying places of origin, despite the many ways Haran acquired us; we rely each upon the other, and so tightly that none could break away even if they wished to.  But why would anyone wish something as foolish as that?

I will tell you another secret, my child.  Somewhere within the mazes of glass and wood, the temporary coating the eternal like flesh upon a spirit, there is a center, a conjunction, a joining.  The core of the knot.  All the pressures of all the towers impinge upon that one frail, delicate point.  It is guarded, of course, but its greatest protection is obscurity.  Most do not even know it exists.

But I do.

Have you ever thought about beauty?  Timelessness is beautiful, yes.  Strength; glory; unity; all beautiful.

But the lore of the north, the legacy of Doortun, teaches another way, one that has never quite gained credence here in Haran.  Once, before we came south, we watched the seasons pass and fade, one into another, and we saw the cycles of birth and death, rare moments of peace and happiness amid a harsh and unforgiving land.  We have not lived that way for some time, but our uncouth barbarian aesthetics survive to a certain extent even now, in these latter days.

Consider the flower; it blooms and dies, it fades away, and the memory of it grows sweeter.  The knowledge of its brevity gives its presence a special savor.  We treasure most that which we have lost and cannot have again.  This, I think, is the core of true beauty.

Perhaps one day, Haran will be beautiful, too.