Kudshayn’s crest was still stiff with fury. But he has a lot of practice in staying calm around humans, so when he spoke, his voice was perfectly mild. “What do you want to do?”
How could I answer that? It does no good to say that I want to hurt him the way he hurt me; there’s no way I can ever do that, because he doesn’t care an ounce for me and never did. His reputation isn’t what it once was, and I can at least claim some credit for that, but even if Lord Gleinleigh were at home, I could hardly go stomping into his study to slander the man on the basis of a late-night argument I barely heard.
I said, “I want to know what he was doing here.”
Cora said thoughtfully, “He didn’t stay the night in the house, because I heard Uncle throw him out. So unless he drove here and then drove through the night leaving, he must have stayed in Lower Stoke. In fact, that makes sense; the overnight train from Falchester to Locheala stops there at eleven twenty-one, leaving him just enough time to walk here from the station, have a conversation with Uncle, and be overheard a bit after midnight. But there isn’t any train back toward Falchester until eight fourteen. So he might be gone by now, but he would have needed to stay somewhere for the rest of the night, unless he sat on a bench at the station the whole time. I can ask.”
Her sensible recital of facts brought me back down to earth, especially because it explained the suspiciously late hour. “Would you? It won’t tell me what he was doing, but it would help to know something.”
“Of course,” she said. “But why don’t you just ask Uncle when he comes back?”
I sighed. “Because that would mean admitting I eavesdropped on them last night. I’ll consider it, I just—you understand.”
Cora looked like she didn’t understand at all, but she went out, leaving me alone with Kudshayn.
He came and put his wings around me, and I wrapped my arms around his waist. It is not as good as being able to return a wing-hug, but it was the best I could do. “I have to do something about him,” I said into Kudshayn’s ribs—it’s inconvenient that he’s so much taller than me. “I can’t keep being like this, hiding from him, jumping at shadows. For five years I’ve been going to sea and avoiding places I want to be, because I know I might see him there.”
Kudshayn’s wings closed in a little more, putting me inside a warm, comforting cave. “Be yourself,” he said. “Translate the epic. Win fame that he cannot touch. And then one day you will realize he is unimportant to you, and to everyone else. That will be the best revenge.”
He’s right . . . but it’s abstract enough, not to mention far enough in the future, that it’s hard to reassure myself with such thoughts.
Anyway, Cora came back around lunchtime and said he stayed the night in the railway inn and left by the 8:14 train, which shows a surprising amount of early-bird vigor for him. At least I know he’s gone, which means I can breathe more easily.
But Kudshayn tore two sets of gouges through the library carpet when I told him Mornett had been there, and if I had claws I might have done the same. I don’t trust that man any farther than I can throw him, and I don’t like not knowing what he’s up to. I held a viper to my bosom five years ago; having him somewhere I can’t see him isn’t much better.
Tablet III: “The Dream Tablet”
translated by Audrey Camherst and Kudshayn
Before cities, before iron, before fields, before laws, a dream came to a daughter of the line of Ninlaš, a daughter known as Peli. One night she lay in her cave, two nights she dreamed, three nights she had a vision, which she did not understand.1
She saw a seed. A wind came and blew the seed onto stony soil, but there it took root, and from it grew a tree, four branches from one root. A wind came and tried to blow down the tree as it grew, but the branches bent and did not break. Flowers grew from the tree, each branch bearing a flower of a different colour, and again a great wind blew. This time it tore the flowers from their twigs and blew them to earth, but where each flower landed, something new began to grow. From the black flower came a river, flowing between banks of clay. From the blue flower came a round stone that began to endlessly roll in place. From the green flower came thick grasses bearing seed. From the golden flower came a tall mountain whose top reached the sun, and whose root descended deep into the earth.
Still Peli slept, and still she dreamed. She saw the mountain shake, the grasses tremble, the stone falter in its rolling, the river flow backward in its course. Light vanished from the world. From deep in the earth came a howling; from deep in the earth came the sound of lamentation. Then light grew once more, but now the tree bore only three branches.
These dreams made Peli sorely afraid, for she did not know their meaning. She therefore went to seek out one who could explain them. Across plains she went, across rivers, across forests, across mountains, until she came to the place where Hastu dwelt.
She came to him and said, “I have seen a thing I do not understand. One night I lay in my cave, two nights I dreamed, three nights I had a vision; I slept and saw a thing I did not understand. Listen and tell me its meaning.”
She told him of her dream: of the wind that blew the seed onto stony soil, of the tree that grew from the seed, of the four branches from one root. She told him of the flowers of different colours, blown to the ground, and what grew from each. She told him of the calamity that came, and afterward the tree had only three branches.
He listened to her, Hastu, wise Hastu, clear-sighted Hastu, Hastu the šiknas.2 He listened as Peli told him her dream.
When she finished he said, “Not easy is this to understand.”
“Wise Hastu can understand it.” And she told him her dream again.
When she finished he said, “Not easy is this to interpret.”
“Clear-sighted Hastu can interpret it.” And she told him her dream again.
When she finished he said, “Not easy is this to explain.”
“My friend3 Hastu can explain it,” she said, and told him her dream again.
When she finished he said, “Your dream is one of calamity. You will bear an egg; you will bear four hatchlings in a single egg. The Ever-Moving, the Source of Wind, will try to strike them down. From them will come many new changes that will threaten the world. The river you saw will drown the sun; the stone you saw will crush the sun; the grasses you saw will ensnare the sun; the mountain you saw will devour the sun. Your hatchlings will cast the world into darkness. At least one of them must die to prevent this evil, but better it would be for all of us if all four were to die, before this calamity comes.”
This was how Hastu the šiknas explained Peli’s dream for her.4
Peli was again sorely afraid. She said, “Advise me, wise Hastu, in how to prevent this evil from coming to pass. For I feel the egg taking shape within me already, and do not want it to hatch such horrors.”
“Go into the wilderness,” Hastu said, “into a barren place of stone, and lay your egg there. And when it is laid, take up a stone and crush the egg. Break its shell into eight pieces, nine pieces, ten pieces, and grind the pieces beneath your foot. Only then will we be safe.”
Peli went into the wilderness, into a barren place of stone, and she laid her egg there. It was an egg unlike any other, an egg of many colours, radiant and glorious. Looking at it, kind Peli could not believe that evil would come of it. Looking at it, tender-hearted Peli could not take up a stone. Looking at it, fearful Peli thought of what Hastu had said, and left the egg there in the wilderness, whole in shell, but alone. Grieving Peli left her egg and went back to Hastu, and she told him that she had done as he said.