Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 519
demagogue or an inflexible ideology, or worst of all the
tyranny of condescension. There were no queens or kings in
the great interstellar civilization of which Armiger spoke.
There was no one who stood in a position to gaze down upon it
all.
She was half-way up the steps when her legs gave out.
She wasn’t winded; some force seemed to push her down
against the stones.
It was like a black cloud on the edges of her vision--some
thought she was denying herself. What had she been saying to
herself just now? Tyranny--yes, the tyranny of condescension.
Her reasons for this were--they were--
The world had narrowed to the grainy stones centimeters
below her. She was gasping, unable to breathe. The
kingdom--her plans--
Lavin.
She gave a shriek and lurched to her feet, stepping on the
hem of her gown and tearing it. Zig-zagging, bouncing off the
walls of the stairwell, she stumbled to the rooftop.
There were men here; catapults. They were staring out at
the smoke. Distant thuds signalled incoming missiles from
Lavin’s steam cannon.
There was an open coign, across an open span of roof.
She only had seconds now to endure this certain knowledge
that the one person whom she had loved had come to kill her.
There were no more defenses. The guardian thoughts,
her plans, the abstract perfection of her self-built ideology, lay
in ruins. Galas was alone with the unendurable pain of her
own failure, and so she ran to the edge of the roof with one
hope in mind, that the stones of the courtyard would raise a
wall against the pain once and for all.
She flung herself forward, saw the stones below and