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The gallery was empty and quiet. The lights and the ventilation system made subtle humming noises. Vers’ano’taris sat alone next to the door on a stool, scrolling through her questis. She checked her chrono. Soon, she thought, my shift will be over, and I can finally go home.
Vers’ano’taris would never complain about her job; being a museum attendant was an incredible occupation for a commoner like herself. But interest in art was rare these days, and she spent most of her time sitting in an empty hall, waiting for time to pass – or for the rare occasion when an actual visitor would enter the gallery.
Years ago, when she first got this job, Vers’ano’taris had been all excited by the prospect of presenting the artwork in the museum’s collection, explaining the finer details of the exhibits, and telling the stories behind them to curious and excited guests. Vers’ano’taris had always been interested in both the art and the history of the Ascendency. But soon enough, her expectations had been ground to dust. Not only did Vers’ano’taris spend hours upon hours waiting alone, staring at the paintings and statues she knew far too well by then, but most visitors of the gallery preferred to be left alone, have a look at the art, and then leave.
Once again, she glanced at her chrono. Only 22 minutes until the museum would close its doors for today. Today's boredom will come to an end.
Just then, she heard the sound of hasty steps outside in the corridor. She straightened, corrected the placement of her employee sash, and looked at the door. To her surprise, a young boy stormed in as soon as the doors slid open far enough for him to squeeze through.
Vers’ano’taris frowned. She was not sure she wanted a new visitor so close to closing time. She always disliked having to usher people out. Some would cause trouble when being asked to leave. More than once, a self-important guest tried to play rank and status on her to be allowed to stay in the gallery after it had been closed for the night. Naturally, she never allowed such a thing.
But more than that, she was startled by both the boy’s age, appearance, and behaviour. The average visitor to the gallery was on the older side, clothing and stance often implying at least some wealth, and would walk the halls with an air of sobriety and grave expression.
This boy, however, was maybe ten or eleven years old; his clothes, although tidy and clean, were rather worn down. He bounced over to the nearest piece of art: a statuette showing a patriarch of the Clarr family from about 650 years ago. There he stood now, his hands neatly folded behind his back, smiling widely and rocking back and forth on his feet. He turned to the door just as another boy arrived, this one breathing heavily. The second boy appeared to be a bit older, perhaps well into his teens.
The younger boy’s grin grew even wider, and he made a wide, inviting motion with his arm.“Vurass! Come over here and look at this!”
The boy called Vurass was still trying to catch his breath, and although he didn’t seem happy with the situation, he did hurry over to him.
What followed, however, likely wasn’t what the kid had hoped for – Vurass shushed him and grabbed his wrist. “You can’t shout in here!” he whispered. “And speaking of the things you cannot do, why did you run off? Promise me not to do that again, Vurawn.”
Vurawn grimaced, but didn’t answer.
Vurass and Vurawn, Vers’ano’taris thought, probably brothers, judging by the name. Or maybe cousins. She watched the scene unfold with a sense of amusement. The few children brought here by their families usually looked as if they were close to falling asleep by the time they reached this floor of the museum.
Vurass sighed and turned to Vers’ano’taris. “I must apologise on behalf of my brother. He… sometimes there is just no stopping him, I’m afraid.”
Vers’ano’taris, having a hard time not to chuckle, felt the corners of her mouth twitch. Apparently, she thought, I have been right in the assumption of these boys being siblings. “No offence taken. He should just be careful not to damage any of the objects on display.”
“I would never!” Vurawn cried, offended.
“Then neither you nor I have anything to worry about,” Vers’ano’taris replied. “At least as long as no other guests are in here. If somebody else comes to this hall, please try not to bother them.”
Vurawn tilted his head slightly and seemed to think for a moment. “Agreed,” he said and turned back to the statue.
“Really, Vurawn, you shouldn’t just run off, and also you shouldn’t be running inside of a museum in the first place,” Vurass carried on scolding his brother in a hushed tone. “Now, why did you bolt like that?”
The younger shot him a quick look that implied the answer to be obvious. “The gallery is closing soon, and we have an entire floor left to look at! Running is faster than walking, and I can use the saved time to study the exhibits.”
Once again, Vurass sighed. “Very well. But from now on, no running in any museums, galleries, libraries or archives, alright? It is improper.”
While Vurawn was trying to counter his brother’s request with an explanation of why running is just so much more efficient compared to walking, Vers’ano’taris shifted her focus from the two siblings back to her questis, keeping an eye on them in her peripheral vision.
Surely, she thought to herself, I won’t have any trouble getting these two to leave as soon as we close. After all, they are just youngsters, and they don’t look like they could pull any status on me either.
But not long after, the boys’ conversation crept back into her awareness.
“… and clearly, he did not like him. Was General Ker’bano a controversial figure back in his time?” Vurawn looked up at Vurass, his eyes alight with excitement. They had moved on to a relief of an ancient general which had been carved and painted almost a millennium ago.
Vurass threw a quick glance at the plaque next to the artwork. “Well… uhm… I don’t know how you are getting to this conclusion, but nothing of the sort is mentioned here. All I get is that he was a very honourable and well-respected officer, appreciated and respected all throughout the Ascendancy. I have no idea why you’d assume the artist to have disliked General Ker’bano anyway; this artwork looks perfectly normal and properly executed to me. I think it was quite artistically done, to be honest.”
Vurawn shook his head ever so slightly and gestured to the general’s face. “No, look closer. The brushwork visible here is very clean – the one who painted this probably valued not only precision and order but also the general personally. If you look at the carving itself on the other hand...”
The boy stopped mid-sentence to throw an expectant look at his brother. Vurass, who had been squinting at the exhibit, shook his head and shrugged. “I have no idea what I am supposed to see here, Vurawn.”
Vurawn waited for a few more seconds for his brother to notice what he himself was getting on about, but eventually resumed his explanation.“Look,” he repeated, pointing right at the general’s nose. “The painter tried but failed to hide this, but the wood wasn’t cut very neatly; it looks like the artist has applied too much pressure. Do you see this dent here? It is a clear mark of it.” He smiled and motioned at the holo-portrait right above the label next to the relief.
By now, Vers’ano’taris was merely pretending to be reading on her questis. Instead, she listened in on the boys’ conversation.
“If you look at this holo-image,” Vurawn explained, “you see the general looked slightly different from what the artist made him look like. And to be honest, if we carefully examine both pictures, the craftsman exaggerated his more unflattering features and made him look overall more – ugly.”
Vurass threw him a disapproving look. Though the subject has been dead for nearly a thousand years, this was hardly an appropriate way of talking about a renowned general of the Expansionary Defence Fleet, and the older boy seemed to be well aware of that. He threw a wary glance over his shoulder at Vers’ano’taris, who quickly lowered her eyes back onto her questis.
In all her time at the museum, she had never met visitors like these two, especially not the younger boy. From her studies, she knew that Plikh’avo’semat, the man who had carved the relief, indeed had a dispute with General Ker’bano. The reason for this had been lost to time, and only very few cared to actually study such obscure topics as the personal feelings of an artist towards important historical figures they sculpted. Vers’ano’taris found herself rather impressed by Vurawn’s assessment.
And he wasn't even finished. “I mean, it is not too easy to spot. The painter tried to balance this out with his use of colour and shading, but you have to imagine the relief without the colours, Vurass. Anyway, this leaves only two possible conclusions. Either the artist did not like the General – possibly it was some personal quarrel, as the pressure he used implies anger in the very moment he was working on this piece – or he was simply inexperienced, and the not-so-precise work and deviation from the General’s real appearance is due to him not being a master of his craft. But then again, why would somebody put a work of such an unknown artist with no skill in a museum?”
Vurass smirked. “Well, I get your point now. Although I’d say it was the first option.”
His little brother looked at him with a look of curiosity, thoughtfulness and a slight hint of admiration on his face, as Vurass continued.“You see,” he said, “General Ker’bano was a man of quite some standing and importance within the Ascendancy at the time this particular image of him was carved.” He gestured towards the label again. “If you compare his life dates to the year this was made in, you see that it was after he had risen to the rank of general, as well as after his greatest achievements. A man of his standing within society would never hire an inexperienced or unskilled artist for a portrait of himself as long as any artist of significant reputation is available. A portrait is not just art, nor is it simply a depiction of a person. Having such a portrait made by hand is always a symbol of status and wealth.”
Vurawn frowned. “I see.” After a short pause, he added: “But why would the general hire an artist who let his personal feelings for him bleed into his work? Should he not avoid a person like this who seems to have a distaste for him, or, in case he did not know about the artist’s feelings, demand the finished work to be corrected or removed?
While Vurawn was talking, a fond smile appeared on Vurass’ face and grew wider and wider. “Yes, you are correct. Nevertheless, you are missing one important detail.” He tapped a button on the relief’s label. The text it had displayed until then vanished, and new text appeared. “You see, the man who carved this was named Plikh’avo’semat.” He pointed at the label, paused, throwing an expectant look at Vurawn.
“Plikh? But… that makes him a member of one of the ruling families. No, wait. Were the Plikh a ruling family back then already?” Again, the boy rocked back and forth on his feet ever so slightly.
“Yes, they were. And quite up and coming, that is. It’s easy to remember: Since the climate on Csilla changed, no family has risen permanently into the rank of a ruling family. This was done 927 years ago and...”
“And that was after Csilla froze over!” Vurawn interrupted.
Once more, Vers’ano’taris had a hard time not chuckling. The passion that fuelled the younger brother’s inquisitive behaviour was quite endearing to her. It was refreshing to finally see such glee brought to a person by looking at the art she guarded and cherished.
Vurass was still trying to explain his point to his brother. “Very good, Vurawn. Well, anyway, Plikh’avo’semat was Plikh family blood, which back then brought – and still brings – a certain standing with it. Moreover...”
The excitement got the better of Vurawn once more, and again he interrupted his brother. “Well, that’s true, but the label also states that General Ker’bano was a Boadil before he rose through the ranks in the military. That should rule each other out, right? Both were members of powerful families.”
“On the one hand, yes, on the other hand no, Vurawn. Things are not always that simple, especially in politics.” At the mention of the last word, Vurawn grimaced, but his older brother either didn’t notice or simply ignored it. “General Ker’bano used to be Boadil’ker’bano, indeed, but different to Plikh’avo’semat, he was only a Boadil cousin, not blood. That makes quite a difference nowadays, but from what I remember, it should have made even more of a difference back in their time.”
Vurawn frowned. “One should think that being a general with all the military achievements it brings with it should also count into the equation of reputation, bringing them back to roughly the same level again.”
“In a way, yes, yet it is not that straightforward with things like status or reputation. You can’t just add different factors like numbers on an abacus. Social constructs tend to be much more complicated than simple math.” Vurass reached out and gently ruffled his brother's hair.
Vurawn grimaced and tried to escape his brother’s affectionate gesture. “Urgh! Politics! I just – I don’t get it.” He threw a frustrated glance at Vurass, who grinned and moved in to gently nudge his brother.
“Ah, you know, little brother. You are already bright enough as is. And with time, you will understand and learn how to deal with politics, too. Just be patient, stay curious and be eager to learn, and,” he chuckled, “in a few years you will probably be able to outsmart even a syndic.”
Vurawn, still frowning and pouting, was seemingly not convinced by the prospect of outsmarting any syndic, so much so that Vers’ano’taris felt almost bad for the little boy.
“No matter what, I still don’t really understand why General Ker’bano would allow this piece of art to be made by a man who let the dislike of his person influence his craft, Plikh family blood or not. There must have been other famous artists, other options. I don’t get it.” He sounded really frustrated now. “And also, if the solution is Plikh’avo’semat having disliked General Ker’bano, I really wonder why...” He threw another glance at the label next to the picture, but neither of the pages about the general and Plikh’avo’semat contained any information on that matter.
Vers’ano’taris took a deep breath. She usually left visitors alone if she was not directly addressed and asked for assistance, but she could not hold back any longer. She stood up, put her questis on her stool, and walked over to the boys as casually as she could. After all, she didn’t want to come off as an adult trying to lecture them. The steps of her boots resounded in the hall of the gallery. The boys turned to her. The frown had vanished from Vurawn’s face, replaced with a quizzical and slightly surprised expression. It seemed to be Vurass’ turn to frown now. Vers’ano’taris figured they were wondering what the two of them had done to upset her enough for her to come over and scold them.
She cleared her throat. “Greetings. If I may introduce myself, my name is Vers’ano’taris. I am the attendant of this hall of the gallery. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation – not on purpose, of course.” Vurass tried to exchange a look with his brother, but Vurawn didn’t seem to notice.
“As a matter of fact,” she continued, “I not only guard the art in this hall, but I have also studied all the artwork in here. As I see you have taken a special interest in this portrait of General Ker’bano by sculptor Plikh’avo’semat and painter Dasklo’ves’parok, I would like to offer my assistance. I have heard that questions have arisen.” She tried her best at looking both friendly and approachable, but also competent and dignified. She wasn’t sure it worked, judging by the reactions of the two boys.
A wide grin had made its way on Vurawn’s face, curiosity and enthusiasm flashing in his eyes. Vurass, on the other hand, had stiffened; his face had gone all serious.“My apologies, Attendant Vers’ano’taris. We did not mean to -” he started, but like before, Vurawn interrupted him, much to his visible frustration.
“Haven’t you heard her? She offers her assistance – that is no reason to apologise! And now, don’t give me that ‘she says this but means that’ political business, Vurass. She is sincere in her offer,” the boy said with utter conviction. Vers’ano’taris decided it was best to just incline her head at this statement and remain silent.
Vurass looked at her, sighed and then relaxed ever so slightly. “Very well. In this case, a ‘thank you’ is appropriate, attendant. I reckon you are already aware of my brother's question?”
Again, she inclined her head. “Yes, I am.” A slight smile flashed over her face as she looked at Vurawn. “But first, I’d like to say that I am very impressed by your assessment of the portrait and its history. The assessments of both of you, actually.”
Vurawn seemed to almost burst with pride and excitement. “Thank you, ma’am. So, why did General Ker’bano not only commission Plikh’avo’semat to carve the portrait but also hire Dasklo’ves’parok to patch it up instead of disposing of it? And what was up between the two of them?”
Vers’ano’taris had a hard time not grinning back at the boy; his youthful emotions were somewhat infectious. “Before I answer, I’d like to ask the two of you who I am talking to?”
Vurass stepped forward a bit, put a fist on his chest and bowed slightly yet elegantly. “My apologies once more.” Apparently, he liked offering them. “I am forgetting my manners, attendant. My name is Kivu’ras’saf and this is my brother, Kivu’raw’nuru.”
He jogged his elbow slightly. Vurawn’s eyes widened, and he mimicked Vurass’ bow and gesture, albeit more hastily and less elegantly. “It is our pleasure to make your acquaintance, Attendant Vers’ano’taris.” His eyes had quickly darted to the name tag on her chest.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Vers’ano’taris replied. Then, she gestured at the general’s portrait. Quickly, Vurawn spun back around, facing back towards the artwork. He folded his hands neatly behind his back, a focused expression returning to his face. Vurass had turned to the portrait again, too.
“Several assumptions of yours were correct. First, yes, Plikh’avo’semat’s work was not executed perfectly, although he was a very skilled and renowned artist.” She gently pointed at an area right under the general’s eye, where the carving gave the illusion of an odd, shadowed wrinkle. “Second, you were correct, too, with your assumption that Plikh’avo’semat was chosen for his artistic reputation, and that being Plikh family blood might have taken a significant part in gaining this, but there is more to it. And last,” she winked at Vurawn – and regretted it immediately, as it was highly unprofessional behaviour, but the boy didn’t seem to mind – “you also correctly deduced the fact that there was a personal connection between General Ker’bano and Plikh’avo’semat.”
While she was speaking, Vurawn kept his eyes on Ker’banos face. “Obviously, yes. Still, my question stands: What connected them, why did he dislike the general, and why was his portrait still kept and displayed?” His stance and face were oddly calm and far too mature for his age; probably, he was trying to be taken seriously, but his voice could not hide his excitement.
Vurass put a calming hand on his brother’s shoulder, who, in turn, tried to shrug it off. “That was three questions, not one, brother,” Vurass mumbled.
Vers’ano’taris sighed. “We do have some fragments of personal letters by Plikh’avo’semat which have survived through time. They were addressed to one of his cousins, Plikh’ina’ronil, who served in the military at the same time as General Ber’kano did. Plikh’ina’ronil or one of her descendants must have hidden them away. About 270 years ago, they were recovered when the Plikh homestead undertook some renovations. They were donated to the Central Archive for the History of the Chiss Ascendancy on Csilla 17 years ago but ignored by most scholars.”
She smiled. By most scholars, but not myself. “I did study them, though, out of an interest for Plikh’avo’semat’s art and career. He mentions General Ber’kano several times, and not once is it in a friendly manner. ‘This person’, ‘this disgrace to the Ascendancy’, ‘this sad excuse of a general’ - he clearly disapproved of the man.”
The boys, especially Vurawn, hung on to her every word. I hate letting him down, but oh well, here we go. “Sadly enough, we can’t find any hint in those papers what exactly caused him to not only have this opinion of the general but also to mention it in several letters. He might, in fact, have been even more vocal about this distaste for General Ber’kano publicly, but we cannot tell with certainty. No proof of such events has survived the past millennium.”
At the mention of her not knowing the answer to his question, Vurawn’s face fell slightly. “I… see.”
Vurass put a hand on his brother’s shoulder again. “See, the nice lady told us everything there is to know about the history of this relief.”
He clearly tried to hide it as well as he could, but Vurawn looked sad about the revelation that he could not find the solution to this historical riddle on the spot, and that he most likely never would do so. Vers’ano’taris felt bad for him.
“Thank you for the explanation,” Vurass said, offering another little bow. “It was very educational.”
“I wish… I wish I could find out what was up with them,” Vurawn mumbled.
A thought occurred to Vers’ano’taris. She quickly glanced at her chrono. Five minutes until the gallery closes, she mused. That should be just enough time.
“If the two of you would follow me, please. I would like to show you something else.”
Vurawn did not look overly convinced, but Vurass, who seemed to be very focused on his manners, inclined his head. “Yes, of course, Attendant.”
Quickly, she moved through the gallery’s hall, passing artwork after artwork, sculptures, paintings, and installations alike. She could hear the boys following her. Ah, yes, here it is. She stopped in front of one of her favourite pieces in the collection. She swiftly pressed a combination of buttons on its label to turn it off.
The artwork was a dark, raised square in a durasteel frame, about 4 square yards in size. In it were thousands of curved, anthracite pieces of transpirasteel. It was not a static artwork, though, but ever-moving. Waves seemed to move through the transpirasteel, most of them having their epicentre roughly in the middle of the square. Behind it was light, moving back and forth over the dark background of the square, following the waves and changing colour to all possible shades of a prism. It was quite mesmerising.
“What are we looking at?” Vurass asked.
Vers’ano’taris did not answer and simply looked at the younger of the boys.
Vurawn stood there, all wide-eyed, for a while just watching the art change in bursts of light and colour, and waves of movement.
“This is beautiful,” he whispered.
“What are we looking at?” Vurass repeated.
Again, Vers’ano’taris looked at Vurawn. “Do you want to explain or shall I?”
The boy started grinning. “It is the Ascendancy,” he said. “Or rather, the Ascendancy and its history.” He pointed at the centre of the square, where a constant light was pulsing and sending out waves and beams of light. “This is Csilla.” He then pointed to a spot next to it. “And we should be about here. On Rentor.” Just as he had spoken these words, a light-filled wave erupted from the glowing centre and lit up a spot about one inch from where Vurawn was pointing. He quickly corrected the position of his finger to match the light.
Of course, Vers’ano’taris could not be sure the boy hadn’t ever read about this artwork called “Legacy of Civilisation”. But nevertheless, she thought, it is really impressive how fast Vurawn has made out what the lights and movements depict. She could not tell for sure how fast other viewers usually grasped the concept of the piece, but the boy had been exceptionally fast, even before considering his age. Most visitors spent quite some time in front of it until she could see their eyes lit up in realisation. Unless they simply read the label and moved on, that is.
Vurass had started eyeing his brother instead of the art whilst Vurawn stood there, squinting at the lights and the moving lamellae, his eyes following their quick movements. He bit his lip in concentration, a deepening frown on his face.
Vers’ano’taris had to admit that she was rooting for Vurawn to figure out the entire meaning of the piece by himself. But no matter if he did, Vurawn was a promising prodigy for the science of art. He’d make an outstanding art analyst one day – actually, he already was one. And if he joined this scientific discipline, the future of research would be great indeed.
Vurawn’s face lit up in epiphany. “It is history. The Ascendancy’s history, our history!” He turned first to Vurass, then Vers’ano’taris, looking for approval.
Vers’ano’taris had to admit she was proud of the boy for realising this. Pleased, she nodded at him. “You are correct. Well done. How did you come to this conclusion? What else can you tell us about it?”
He pursed his lips. “We haven’t seen the full sequence yet, have we? I suppose it is looped and restarts whenever it has reached a depiction of the time it was completed?”
Before Vers’ano’taris could answer, he carried on. “In the beginning, there was only darkness. The sole lit spot was the centre of the piece and, simultaneously, the centre of the Ascendancy, Csilla. The light was dim at first, but quickly got brighter. That, as well as the pulsing, is meant to reflect the earliest demographic and social developments of our culture at its very dawn.” He hesitated and threw a glance at Vers’ano’taris, who was puzzled by the range and precision of his speech. Where had the boy learned to speak like that? “Is this correct?” Vurawn asked.
“Indeed. It is, very much so. What do you make of the different colours?”
“I do have a theory. May I have a moment for further observation and confirmation of said hypothesis, please?”
“Of course.” Vers’ano’taris frowned. As much as she was in awe of the boy’s analytical skills and his interest in art, as uncanny was the discrepancy in his behaviour oscillating between childlike wonder and speaking with the vocabulary and confidence equal to a professor at one of the academies. She kept wondering where he had picked this up. Her eyes wandered to his older brother, just as Vurass tried to subtly glance at her chrono. As soon as he noticed that she was looking at him, he looked away at the lights flashing before them.
“May I ask you a question, Vurass?” Vers’ano’taris approached him.
“Yes, Attendant.”
“Your brother’s knowledge is quite impressive. Where has he learnt that? Do your parents work in the arts?”
Vurass huffed. “Certainly not.”
“What do they do for a living, then?”
“Our father works on one of the deep-sea trawlers, and our mother works for the Staegaar Mining Association.”
Probably as simple labourers, or else the boy would have specified their positions. Vurass’ and Vurawn’s family struggling financially also explained the state of the boys’ clothes.
“Is your mother working on Rentor?” Vers’ano’taris didn’t mean to pry. However, she knew that trawlers could stay out there for weeks on end. And while running a few planet-side operations, the main focus of the Staegaar Mining Association was the exploration of the resources found on Rentor’s moon – the namesake of the company – and in the nearby asteroid belt. She knew it was none of her business, but the thought of the boys being left on their own for vast amounts of time was heart-wrenching.
Vurass frowned. He did not seem comfortable discussing the topic. “No. They send her to Staegaar most of the time, but sometimes she has to go to the belt, too.” He gave her a long glance. “Do not worry about us, Attendant Vers’ano’taris.” Apparently, he had guessed her intentions. “We are not left alone while our parents are away. Usually, we stay with our grandmother.”
Vers’ano’taris nodded, but before she could reply, Vurawn chimed in on the conversation.
“Yes, but she is a bit-”
“- old,” Vurass interrupted with a warning glance at Vurawn.
Vurawn, however, didn’t let himself be bothered by that. “That is one way to put it. You know, she did not take it overly well when our sister-”
“- died.” Again, a sharp interruption and a warning glance.
“Oh. My condolences,” Vers’ano’taris said. She did not want to poke around the brothers’ loss, and Vurass clearly didn’t seem fond of the idea of washing his family’s emotional laundry with a stranger.
Nevertheless, Vurawn kept on talking. “She is a good grandmother, though. She looks after us. And she can do a lot of things. For example, if something breaks, there is nothing she cannot repair! She disassembles the broken device, changes a few things around, reassembles it, and it works again. Sometimes she lets me watch her work and explains what she is doing. It is quite interesting, actually. I like being in her workshop.” The words flowed out of the boy with impressive speed. “Also, she makes some money with it. And when she doesn’t have time, I can always read. Or play board games with Vurass. Or-”
“Please, Vurawn, you are boring the attendant,” Vurass said, but his eyes spoke a different sentence. And our family life is none of her business.
But he knew how to distract his brother. “So, what do the colours mean now?” He gestured towards the moving lamellae and pulsing light in front of them.
Vurawn’s eyes darted back to the artwork. “Oh. Yes. It is quite simple, actually. The colours indicate the main ruling family forces at a given time in a given location, using the traditional system of family colours. Wherever and whenever several families struggle for domination, you can see this interplay of colours getting stronger and phasing out again. Of course, not every effort in our history was driven by a ruling family, and for cases that were an achievement of the Ascendancy as a whole or the Chiss, generally, the artist chose uncoloured light, as it contains all colours of the spectrum and, thus, all families, all Chiss.” He eagerly looked at Vers’ano’taris, looking for confirmation.
She nodded slowly. So far, the boy was not only correct about the family colours, but he had even made a point she never considered before when it came to why white was chosen to reflect the Ascendancy.
But Vurawn wasn't finished yet. “Of course, this makes it hard to distinguish it from the First Ruling Family with their silver, especially as there is no such thing as silver light. Traditionally, silver can be represented by grey, too, but grey light is nothing but dimmer white light, and with the concept of this installation, indistinguishable from the white of the Ascendancy. But the artist has found a solution for this – albeit a very subtle one. If you look closely, you can see that the white of the Ascendancy is a pure white, neither warm nor cool. The Stybla silver, in contrast, is a much cooler off-white in this work, almost a very faint blue. It is hard to distinguish; only a close observer would notice.”
He paused for a moment, brows drawn together in a frown.“Yes. Yes, I think this is not a mere coincidence of colour choice, nor does it simply signify the close relationship of the Ascendancy’s early history with the First Ruling Family. No, I think there is more to it. I think the artist of this piece might have been Stybla themselves, subtly weaving a statement about the family’s status and importance into the piece. They do not seem distinct from the Ascendancy anymore, not as bright or shining as some of the other families, yet, they are the closest to its metaphorical core, and what the Ascendancy does might as well have been done by the Stybla.” He looked up at Vers’ano’taris. “Were they a Stybla?”
Vers’ano’taris blinked in surprise. “Indeed. It was done by an artist called Stybla’reff’ikintos. She was, however, born and raised here on Rentor as Varno’reff’ikin. This is why it was donated to our museum.”
The older boy, who had watched the piece with squinted eyes until now, turned to his brother. “It is indeed quite remarkable. Now that I know what it is meant to represent, I can see different developments in our society’s history. For instance, the power struggle between the Dasklo and the Chaf in the Srevon system. I read about it for my schoolwork.” Vurass pointed at a spot flashing from a muted green to bright yellow and back.
“Indeed! And you can see historical border conflicts we had with aliens outside of the Ascendancy; for example, he-” A loud GONG! sounded through the museum, interrupting Vurawn. Simultaneously, the neutral white light that was carefully selected to show the art’s true appearance shifted to the warm orange tones of a sunset. The panels that formed the smooth surface of the walls and ceiling started moving like the waves of a river streaming down a mountain towards the exit. The ceiling lights followed this pulsing pattern through the panels in the ceiling, walls, as well as the floor.
“I am afraid we are closing now,” Vers’ano’taris said. Although it is a shame that that is happening now, when I finally have something worthwhile to do.
With pity, she looked at Vurawn, who had flinched at the sudden and loud noise and was now making a long face, looking around at all the art in the upper hall he now lacked the time to look at. “My apologies,” she added.
She realised they were the only people still up here and positioned her body in a way so that she could gently usher the boys to the door. Vurass, being older, taller and stronger, grabbed his brother’s arm and pulled him along.
“But we haven’t seen everything yet!” Vurawn protested sheepishly.
“Shush. You know as well as I that Gran is going to worry if we come home too late. And you saw almost everything. All floors and halls.” In the far end of the gallery, the lights got increasingly dimmer, the colour shifting to a dark red, then purple, then dark blue, almost not visible.
“But not everything in this hall!”
The boy, being visibly upset, pulled at Vers’ano’taris’ heartstrings. “You can always come back another day,” she said while she closed and locked the hall’s door behind them, the art hall behind the transpirasteel of the door was almost in complete darkness. The light in the hallway was still orange and pulsing downstairs, together with the moving panels in the walls and ceiling, looping down the big circles of the main staircase.
“That’s not that ea-” Vurawn started, but without letting go of his arm, Vurass quickly covered his brother’s mouth with the other hand.
“Thank you, Attendant,” he spoke over Vurawn.
“No, let him speak. Why is it not easy?”
Vurawn, whose mouth was still covered, made an indignant noise, trying to escape his brother’s grip. Vurass sighed and let go of him, but answered in his stead. “Our family’s financial resources require careful planning.”
“We cannot afford the entry fee another time,” Vurawn translated.
Vers’ano’taris, guiding the boys down the staircase, did not know how to react. It was gut-wrenching to think that one of the few kids actually interested in art and its history was not able to study it to his heart’s content. Finally, she managed a brief “I see,” hoping that her voice wouldn’t crack.
Vurass sighed, looked at Vurawn, and stated, “This light installation is quite fascinating, is it not?”
His brother took the bait. “Oh yes. It is quite reminiscent of Stybla’reff’ikintos’ work. It plays with light and moving lamellae in a similar manner.” He paused. “Attendant, was Stybla’reff’ikintos involved in the design of the gallery?”
Again, she was surprised by the boy’s skill of observation. “Well, yes, she was. Not only in the design, but also in the founding. Once she was well established within the Stybla, she tried to support the art community on her homeworld. And after all, it was her skill in design and also developing clever and elaborate circuitries that secured her a place in that family, as far as I know.”
They reached the entry hall on the ground floor.“We will fetch our things real quick,” Vurass said. “Thank you for your help and expertise, Attendant. Have a nice evening.” Again, he put his hand to his heart and inclined his head.
“Thanks,” Vurawn repeated after being nudged by his brother.
“It was a pleasure. Goodbye.”
Vers’ano’taris watched as the boys walked away towards the cloakroom. She started to think. Vurawn’s interest and talent were truly remarkable. A shame that it seemingly was going to waste. She pulled out her questis, typing and scrolling while gathering her thoughts.
She was still standing there when the boys, now clad in long coats, hats, scarves, and mittens, came back. They were accompanied by Varno’jal’kelmo, her colleague who was responsible for the cloakroom, the ticket office, and monitoring the visitor numbers.
“That’s everyone for today. When these kids have gone, you can lock the main doors,” he approached her, carrying the box with the day’s earnings, while the boys slowly shuffled towards said doors. Over his arm, he was carrying Vers’ano’taris’ own coat. He held it out towards her.
“Thank you, Nojalk. Have a good evening.” She took her coat and put it on.
“Thank you. I wish you a restful night, Sanota.” He vanished towards the gallery’s offices.
She hurried to the doors, which swung open. The piazza in front of the building was veiled by snow flurries, and only the cones of light directly under the lampposts were clearly visible. But through one such beam of light, she saw two silhouettes moving, the taller one walking in a dignified manner, the shorter one merrily hopping along. She pulled up her hood and rushed into the dancing snow to try to catch up with the boys.
“Kivu’ras’safis! Kivu’raw’nuru!” she called.
They stopped and turned. She could see Vurass putting an arm around his brother’s shoulders.
“Attendant Vers’ano’taris?” He frowned.
“Yes, I am she,” she confirmed when she arrived at the boys’ location. “My apologies for startling you, but I have an offer to make.”
“An offer? Which is?” Vurass seemed wary. She could not blame him; her behaviour was very much out of the ordinary right now, especially for a stranger to these children.
“I understand that you might not appreciate my interference, but you must clearly see the talent your brother exhibits in the field of arts and art analysis. In my opinion, skill should be rewarded, talents nurtured and, if you allow me this phrasing, prodigies supported.”
Vurass’ frown deepened, but Vurawn raised his face to her, his eyes glowing with curiosity.
“And I would like to invite you – both of you – to come back to our gallery another time. At my expense.”
Vurawn opened his mouth and formed a voiceless little “Oh.”
“If you let me know in advance, I would also like to offer you a private tour of the exhibition, including the archives, if you are interested.” She pulled out her questis. “Let me give you my contact information.”
Vurass looked torn. He likely didn’t want to feel as if he had to rely on charity, but it was clear that turning down such an opportunity would break his brother’s heart. Vurawn, beaming with excitement, already tried to reach into Vurass’ pocket to pull out a pencil and a slip of paper. Seeing this, Vurass sighed.
“Thank you, Attendant, for your kind offer,” he said, while Vurawn was already copying Vers’ano’taris’ contact information off her questis.
Vurawn grinned and showed the note to his brother, still looking at her. “Thank you, Attendant!”
“You are indeed very much welcome.” She smiled. “Well then, that is all. I have to go back to the museum to lock the doors. If you excuse me. Get home safely, and have a good night.”
“Goodnight, Attendant Vers’ano’taris,” Vurass said. “And thank you again.”
“See you soon,” Vurawn added, still beaming. Then, the boys turned, continuing their walk home.
For a few seconds, she followed them with her eyes while their shapes got more and more faint through the falling snow as they walked away into the cold Rentor winter. Finally, she turned around and walked back across the piazza to the entry of the museum.
I shall remember the name Kivu’raw’nuru, she thought. I can sense that a great future lies before the boy. And with these thoughts, she finally locked the doors of the gallery.