Cordially,
Annabelle Himpton
Lady Plimmer
FOR THE ARCHIVES OF THE SANCTUARY OF WINGS
written by Kudshayn, son of Ahheke, daughter of Iztam
I touch my hand to the earth, which once was called the Ever-Standing, Foundation of All, creator—if we are correctly interpreting the word āmu—of humankind.
My hatching outside the Sanctuary means that I have spent as much of my life among humans as among my own kind. I know more of their ways than any other of our people, and there are many humans whom I call friend.
Yet I am constantly aware that in their eyes—those of humanity as a whole, not those I am close to—I bear the weight of the ancient past. The slow pressure of time has deformed the recollection of history, both in human memory and our own, but my foremothers are known around the world as cruel tyrants who oppressed and enslaved their kind. Even those who do not wear the red mask of Hadamists often see me—see my scales and my wings—and recall that ancestral hatred.
I fear Hadamists less than I fear those who hide behind a mask of moderation. Those attack without warning, with word or with deed, and against them it is harder to defend.
If there is one common thread between the various stories of our origins, however, it is this: that our two species cannot be separated. Whether we played a role in creating humans or they played a role in creating us, we have been interconnected since the beginning. It is only in recent ages, when my people hid themselves away, that we have grown apart.
Until more are hatched outside the Sanctuary and grow to better health, the duty of bridging that gap will fall heavily upon me. Infinite stone, give me the patience to fulfill that duty well. Teach me to understand the hearts of the people this tale says you once made.
It is not their mammalian nature that puzzles me most, nor their strange technologies. It is the complexity of their world: their numbers so numerous, like flakes of snow upon the mountaintops, the customs and laws necessary to keep themselves in order, and the variation of these things between one land and another. I am soon to enact a human ritual, a Scirling custom of attending a meal at the house of a local dignitary; we will participate even though none of those invited from this household wish to attend, because that is what custom requires. And I must learn from Audrey the proper behaviours for such an event—behaviours that are not the same as those practiced in Yelang or Tser-nga.
There has been no such thing for my people within living memory, or even the middle past. We have been few in number, single in society. My own kindred find me strange when I visit the Sanctuary, because my behaviour has been shaped by my time outside of it; this, as much as my physical difficulties, is the sacrifice my mother made on my behalf when she chose to lay her clutch beyond the Sanctuary’s walls. Teslit, too frail to travel, finds her own species more alien than the Yelangese among whom she has spent her entire life. If we succeed in spreading beyond our borders, in hatching our children in far-distant lands, they will become strangers to each other, not only in acquaintance but in culture, as Tser-zhag are to Thiessois, Vidwathi to Vystrani.
And so I find myself asking again: to what extent were these ancients my people? Audrey would not call the ancient humans of southern Anthiope any kin of hers. Is it only by contrast with humankind that we consider the Anevrai to be our ancestors?
I began this work of translation expecting to feel a greater bond with my ancient foremothers as a result. Its effect has been quite the opposite.
Precious earth, dark stillness, give me something to hold on to. Shelter me from this storm of change. In time I must emerge once more into the light of action, but for now let me rest in your embrace, protected from my own doubts.
FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST
19 Floris
I cannot believe that Lord Gleinleigh is forcing us to go to this dinner at Priorfield. Well, yes, I can; I’ve heard stories from relatives, the ones who live in Scirland all the time, about the way the countryside can be. Lady Plimmer is of Grandmama’s generation, and apparently she is the local dragon, the sort of person you cross at your peril. Lord Gleinleigh outranks her and has more money to boot, so if he were to refuse her, she couldn’t ruin him in Falchester society or break his fortune or anything like that . . . but he might find living here a good deal less pleasant: uncooperative merchants down in the village, inferior produce delivered to his house, delayed repairs on the road to the estate, vandalism by local children, that sort of thing. And while I believe he could brazen it out if he wanted to, in the end it’s much less effort to simply bow to the dragon every once in a while and do as she says.
So we’re to go to a dinner, all four of us: Lord Gleinleigh, Cora, myself, and Kudshayn. He’s the real point of all this affair, of course; it hasn’t escaped my attention that I escaped Lady Plimmer’s attention until a Real Live Draconean arrived in the neighbourhood. Which means hours spent watching Kudshayn be treated like the zoo has come to town, and being saved from the same fate myself only because a “lizard-man” is far more exotic than a mere half-Erigan woman. Cora will loathe it, and I don’t think Lord Gleinleigh will enjoy it much more; that’s four people made miserable, just so Lady Plimmer can brag that she had a Draconean at her dinner table.
I have the earl’s assurance, though, that when this is over, he won’t force me or Kudshayn to do anything social at all for at least a month. The next several tablets seem to involve the siblings descending into the underworld to rescue the Maker of Above and Below; I’d far rather be reading about that than sitting through a tedious dinner.
later
I think I would cheerfully toss Lady Plimmer overboard if I had to spend more than an evening in her company, but must for the sake of my conscience rescind some of the suspicions I directed her way before. (Ugh, I’m even beginning to write like she talks.) She may be a fossilized old biddy who doesn’t understand why we can’t go back to the good old days of the turn of the century, but she had more up her sleeve than simply the desire to brag about her draconic dinner guest.
It was all set to start off exactly as badly as I had feared. Lady Plimmer had invited everybody who is anybody in the neighbourhood, none of whom had ever set eyes on a Draconean in their lives; all they know of Kudshayn’s people is drawn from newspapers, magazines, and general gossip. They speculated as to whether he could understand them (with him standing right there!), and then fell about in utter shock when he spoke. They asked me how I taught him to do that—as if Kudshayn had not learned to speak Scirling when I was still in swaddling clothes! They marveled at his clothing, not quite coming out and saying that they were marveling to see that he wore it at all—as if modesty is something only humans understand!
And then one fellow (Mr. Bradford, the local barrister) correctly identified Kudshayn’s high-collared robe as being a modified Yelangese style. “Yes,” Kudshayn said, tipping him a little Yelangese-flavored bow. “Many of my people have visited Yelang, and we have found that this style is far more convenient to us than an Anthiopean-style shirt, as we can fasten it at the neck and then leave the back open to more easily accommodate our wings.”
Mr. Bradford opened his mouth again, and I swear to you, diary, I saw the question rising up from his throat. Do you also have to accommodate your tail? People always think Draconeans have tails, and they always ask.