Then Peli [???].5
1 The style shifts noticeably here.—AC
Yes. I will venture a guess, which is that this long text is, like your Scriptures, a compilation of smaller texts brought together to form a greater whole.—K Would you say this is scripture?—AC
At this stage I would not presume to evaluate that, especially since scripture is as much a matter of practice as the text itself. Whether the Anevrai venerated this tale in that sense, we cannot at this point judge.—K
2 The grammar indicates that this is an adjective, but I cannot decipher its meaning.—K
Me neither. The prefix is clearly duplicative, which in this case I think functions as an intensifier, but of all the inconvenient places to use a triconsonantal sign, with no other context! There’s some evidence that Ancient Draconean initial K mutated to G in Akhian, so if I squint very hard this might be saying that Hastu is humble, but . . . Well, if I can’t even convince myself, I can hardly convince anybody else.—AC
3 Maybe šiknas means “true friend”? Though in that case I have no idea what the root might be, nor why the scribe would use the more ordinary word for the fourth epithet here.—AC
If we assume metathesis, this could be the root that in Lashon becomes N-K-S.—K
Mirrors and duplication? How does that make any sense?—AC
Think of the various meanings for the Scirling word “reflection.” It could be a way of saying that Hastu reflects a great deal; that would fit with him being wise.—K
4 I suppose a “reflection” root might be a meta phorical commentary on the way he “reflects” Peli’s dream back at her, with interpretation.—AC
5 I can’t make anything out of these last lines. You?—AC
Not so far. Let me consider it.—K
FOR THE ARCHIVES OF THE SANCTUARY OF WINGS
written by Kudshayn, son of Ahheke, daughter of Iztam
I give thanks to the sun, wanderer of the world, guide and inspiration, for bringing me safely to the shores of this island, far to the east, far to the north. No place is unknown to you; no land is without your light. You who gazed upon my birth outside Sanctuary walls, watch over me here in this distant realm. You who have led me in my travels, show me the path now to wisdom and understanding. Here is an opportunity to shape the future, and I must be equal to the challenge. It is for my people that I undertake this task. For their sake I say, let your light shine upon the text; make its meaning plain.
I give thanks to the earth, shelter of us all, protector and guardian, for keeping me safe against the threat posed by those humans who see me only as a beast. Though water separates my home from this place, yet you are the same, the bedrock upon which we stand. It is your clay, your stone, your paper, your ink that records our present and our past. It is your embrace that preserves these things against the ravages of time. It is for this day that you have kept the words of the Anevrai, so that our ancestors may speak to us, a ghostly voice from the past. Help me consider their words in full, letting them enter my heart and emerge again for others to hear.
I give thanks to my foremothers, from the first to the last. I cup my wings before my mother, who gave me life before life outside the Sanctuary, so that I might come to this place on behalf of our brothers and our sisters. I cup my wings before the elders, mothers of us all, who chose me to study the ways of humans today and the people of the past, so that I might have the knowledge and skill necessary to represent us beyond the Sanctuary’s borders. I cup my wings before the foremothers of the ancient past, whose brothers scribed words that speak to us across the ages, across the fathomless gulf of the Downfall.
Eternal earth, protect the relics of our people against the cruelty and greed of malicious hearts. Hide them from the humans who would tear them from the earth and sell them for profit, filling their drawing rooms and libraries with objects they do not understand. Protect these tablets, which hold so much promise for our people; keep them safe from accident and from those hands which might seek to destroy them. Eternal sun, bring understanding to the hearts of all such people; help them see the value these relics hold for those of us who live today.
Help me understand that value. I gaze upon these tablets, treasures of the past, and know they are not mine. I share with those ancients my scales, my wings, my bones, my shell. I do not share the factors that shaped them, in body or in mind. The brother who marked these clay surfaces was born in a land that would kill me. For generations without counting my foremothers hid themselves away in the mountains, fearing the sight of humans, while his ancient foremothers ruled over the ancient foremothers of those self-same humans. Who am I to the Anevrai? I am no one. They did not know me, and despite the work of years, we are only beginning to know them. What claim do I have to this past? What claim does it have on me?
Dark stillness, give me patience. Bright mirror, give me wisdom. Open my eyes and my heart; let me receive the words of the past and consider their meaning today. Help me to record my own work with honesty and care, a memory to be kept in the archives of the Sanctuary. May what I do here become a blessing for our people, a star to guide us as we walk into a future whose terrain no one can see.
FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST
24 Ventis
Heavens, is that really the date? I’ve been noting it down in each day’s entry, but not really paying attention to what I was writing. Most of my diary entries lately are so short anyway, because after a day spent beating my head against my translation efforts, the last thing I want to do is spend yet more time writing.
That makes it sound like things are going very badly. Really they aren’t—except for that blasted final sentence in the second column of the obverse side of the third tablet, the one we’re calling the “Dream Tablet.” I can’t make wing nor tail of it, and neither can Kudshayn. Should we be reading those characters syllabically? Logographically? As determinatives? How should they be grouped? What on earth are we supposed to do with that first triconsonantal sign? Is Peli’s name actually in there, and therefore this is explaining what happened to her, or is it saying something about the egg, and why did Peli’s blasted name have to be etymologically related to the word for “egg”? Were the Anevrai out to confuse future translators? And while I’m at it, is the first character in the third line gil or suk, and why couldn’t the scribe have been less careless in pressing his stylus down? I wasted all today on it, long after I know I should have gone on to something else (and Kudshayn had); Grandpapa has countless stories about running into something he can’t translate, and then discovering that a later bit of the text made it clear as glass. But I have too much Camherst stubbornness in me, I think—or is that Hendemore stubbornness? Or Adiaratou stubbornness . . . I have so many to choose from, really, who can tell.
Cora wanted to know what we were stuck on, so I showed her and explained the difficulty. She immediately said, “Maybe it’s a mistake. I know I often catch errors in my own writing. That’s why I proofread my notebook every night before I sleep.”
“It’s possible,” I admitted. “But Grandpapa always says that the first principle of copying a text is, assume the scribe wasn’t drunk. Mistakes do happen, but they’re less common than we want to believe, and if we go around correcting presumed ‘errors’ all over the place, we’re likely to make a mess of the whole thing.”