17 Scribal error?—K
18 Hah! That’s why there are two gates! One for brothers, and one for sisters. What Ektabr did must be the equivalent of putting on a skirt and cosmetics—he dressed himself in drag, and now he’s introducing himself with the feminine form of his name and using the feminine endings for his verbs, so that he’ll go to the same part of the underworld as his missing sisters.—AC
19 Is this why you said Draconean priests wear that band around their wings? Because Ektabr’s wings got broken?—CF
But Imalkit’s wings were broken, too.—AC
Both are very good points. I . . . am not sure. Rather, I can say that we do not remember the story of Ektabr, and so that is not consciously the reason for the margash, the band I described to you. But I have never been told why we wear it; the margash is simply a tradition. So I cannot rule out the possibility that yes, in the distant past that was the reason, and we have simply . . . forgotten it.—K
20 Because now the markers of femininity have been removed.—K
21 Imalkit? What about the Light of the World?—CF
Samšin tried for that, and failed. Nahri tried for that, and failed. Imalkit tried for that, and failed. At least Ektabr is trying something else, rather than saying, “It’ll work this time, because I’m smarter!”—AC
22 There’s nothing like this underworld in the modern Draconean religion, is there?—AC
No. There is not.—K
FOR THE ARCHIVES OF THE SANCTUARY OF WINGS
written by Kudshayn, son of Ahheke, daughter of Iztam
I raise my hand to the sun, giver of life. I touch my hand to the earth, protector of all. I spread my wings to the wind, always in motion. I close my wings to the underworld, where all things stop.
Even writing such words makes the brush sit oddly in my hand. This is not how my ancient foremothers would have worshipped. I do not even know if they can be said to have worshipped the Endless Maw, the Crown of the Abyss. Perhaps to them, what I have just written would be blasphemy. Perhaps my failure to offer worship to the wind would be apostasy. Perhaps my understanding of the earth would be foolishness. Perhaps my reverence of the sun would be no better than a hatchling’s silly prating.
For ages this has been our link to the past, the last strand to which we cling. We may have relinquished the territories we once held around the world; we may have lost all the power and wealth we once possessed. But we worship the gods of our foremothers, and so we are their kin.
If that link breaks, what do we have left?
Not one god lost, but two. The Ever-Moving, Source of Wind, and the Endless Maw, Crown of the Abyss—whether that latter was ever worshipped or not. When one of our people dies, we say they have gone to the sky. Is this a mutated remnant of the worship the Ever-Moving once received? Or some innovation with no basis in the past? Where are the spirits of my lost sisters: in the heavens, or beneath the earth?
Blessed sun, take from me this uncertainty and doubt. You light the path forward, but I cannot see it yet.
I take refuge in what I know, which is the patient reasoning of the mind. Teslit, studying Yelangese philosophy, has noticed similarity between our conception of the sun and the earth and their notions of yin and yang: the primal forces of action and passivity, light and darkness, warmth and cold. In Vidwatha they speak of three greater gods who hold the powers of creation, preservation, and destruction. But if there are four, what then?
The cellar of Stokesley offers not only refuge from the warming days, but the dark shelter of the earth. There I meditated upon this question, and when I emerged, understanding came. Is this self-delusion, my imagination creating conviction where I have no proof? Or is this a gift from the glorious eye, inspiration linking my spirit to those of my foremothers?
The Light of the World, Maker of Above and Below. The Ever-Moving, Source of Wind. The Ever-Standing, Foundation of All. The Endless Maw, Crown of the Abyss. If the last is, as the text has it, “the undoing of doing,” then it is destruction. If the earth is protector and guardian, as I have always known it to be, then it is preservation. If the sun is the active force, yang in Yelangese terms, the Maker of Above and Below, then it is creation. And if the wind is the mother of dragons, whose bodies mutate in response to their environments—a truth the Anevrai certainly knew—then it is change.
Creation counterpoised with destruction. Preservation counterpoised with change. Our people, not only the children of the Light of the World, but also a balance of those latter two forces. Both the story I know and the one I have read agree on that point; they only differ in their account of which came first.
What, then, of the khashetta Samšin encounters?
Are they the children of the Endless Maw, as dragons are of the Ever-Moving and humans of the Ever-Standing? If we are the ideal balance of change and preservation, are they the imbalance? Or balance of a different sort?
Did they ever exist?
Do they exist today?
I would say these questions are absurd. But fifty years ago, humans believed my own people to be mythical. How can I be certain the khashetta never lived—may not live still, somewhere deep within the earth, as yet unmet with some second Lady Trent?
Such things must be the concern of others. My thoughts must be given to this translation, and to the gods we have lost.
Whether we wish it or not, change will continue to come for my people. Source of Wind, help us meet it with grace.
And whether we welcome it or not, destruction is inevitable—even if it is only of our old ways of living. Crown of the Abyss, help us give the past its proper rites, so that it will not haunt us in future days.
FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST
29 Graminis
Dear Lord Gleinleigh: if you are reading this, I congratulate you on your determination. It can’t have been easy, finding someone both capable of reading Talungri and unethical enough to do so in my private diary. Unethical people are easy to come by, it seems, but the former should pose a challenge for your spies going forward.
Cora, a spy! I can barely make myself write the words. Except it makes a hideous kind of sense, because now I know why Gleinleigh so unexpectedly suggested bringing Kudshayn here; he knew I was thinking about it, because I said as much in a letter to Papa, and Cora read that letter. And then it turns around and stops making sense again, because Gleinleigh is a Calderite, and why would one of them pretend to be in favour of such a thing? I can’t convince myself he was really in favour of it—that he is somehow reformed of his old ways—not when he’s been seen with Mrs. Kefford, not when Aaron Mornett was here, not when he has his ward reading my post in secret.
I might never have known if I hadn’t noticed it was taking Cora far too long to return to the library. I’ve been keeping a list of other texts I’d like to consult in my large blue notebook, and I forgot to bring it downstairs today, so I asked Cora to go fetch it while Kudshayn and I tried to extract a few more readable signs from the damaged part of the next tablet. Then he got hot enough that his breathing started to get difficult, so he went down into the cellar, and then I realized Cora hadn’t come back yet. I assumed Mrs. Hilleck must have buttonholed her for some question of household management, so I went upstairs to fetch the notebook myself.
And found Cora standing in the middle of my room, reading this diary.