Many travellers through the years have passed through the Garden of
Whispers at Tasur'ke, and read the plaque there which explains the
garden's origin and its name: the story of the sculptor Darius' efforts
to woo the woman he loved, Niliana, and how his art inadvertently led to
her madness and eventual suicide. These are the words Darius might have
spoken before he joined his beloved at the bottom of the sea.

My dear, you're gone, fair swallowed by my foe,
a lord who boasts of bounties vast, unsung:
gleaming pearls, precious silver, fit for king
and rogue alike; but warmth, he offers none.

For your beauty, I burned brightly, ever
seeking some small favour; your figure fair,
your smile, elusive, greater. For this I
yearned, and more, and in yearning, did so err.

In my greed, I sought the Logos, begging
Him to hear my cause: "Will You assist me?
I'm a ruin, insensible with need.
Name Your terms as her passion's guarantee."

Said He: "Pay Us tribute, to demonstrate
your fierce devotion." So I toiled, day
and night, inspired by my drive for you,
heedless that my art might cause Divine dismay.

With greatest zeal I set about my task:
From stone the figures of the Gods I raised,
assembled in a circle, hand in hand,
beneath our Mother Maya's watchful gaze.

I won't forget your joy, or the sparkle in
your eyes, or the promise of your kisses,
not your whispers, nor your sighs; I'm broken,
bent, riddled, rotten with reminiscence.

What were they like, the voices of the Gods?
Was it for Them, the bitter tears you wept?
To escape Their cruel demands, did you need
to seek your hard-won solace in the depths?

It was I who doomed you to this ending,
my sin that led my lover down this path;
the visage of the Sea-Lord I forgot,
a slight that brought about His savage wrath.

Where once I held you close is only air,
where once my heart beat strongly but a void.
My true companions solely guilt and shame
to know you whom I loved most, I destroyed.

I'd rather face a foe of flesh and blood
than one whose very face is the vast sea,
than one whose grasp is violent undertow,
than one whose claim is for eternity.

Had I the chance to make the choice again,
to claim you or to leave you on your own,
I'd rather love you from afar, than haunt
this garden's gem-flecked cobbles all alone.

The poppies and the pansies raise their heads
to witness, passively, my final deed:
this altar, grand as storm-waves, shot with pearls,
is Yours, Lord Caspian; and so are we.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Mayan, in the year 455 AF.