4 Odd. I would expect the usual directional associations of the colours, but all of these are said to lie to the south, and black is omitted. Because Ektabr is dead? But that does not explain the focus on the south.—K
5 Didn’t they use to do things together? Now Samšin’s giving orders.—CF
Modern Draconean society is ruled by sister-groups at the local level, a council of elder females at the top. But in the past there seems to have been a single queen assisted by her sisters—or possibly some of them were termed “sisters” as a courtesy title, rather than hatching from the same clutch or other clutches of the same mother—so this may be the beginning of that.—K
It seems very unfair to Nahri and Imalkit.—CF
Politics and governance are rarely fair.—K
6 We know that Anevrai society at its height was separated by caste and rigidly governed by a system of etiquette; I suppose this is crediting those later developments to the mythical founder, as a method of legitimizing them. It suggests that this section of the text, at least, is a product of the classic period.—K
7 Unquestionably a volcanic eruption, then, and not a solar eclipse. At least in the symbolism of the myth—that does not guarantee any kind of factual truth behind it.—K
Especially since that’s not how you make a volcano erupt. Or at least I don’t think it is. How do you make a volcano erupt? Has anybody ever done it on purpose?—CF
Not that I know of.—K
FOR THE ARCHIVES OF THE SANCTUARY OF WINGS
written by Kudshayn, son of Ahheke, daughter of Iztam
For the first time in my life, I find myself wishing I had come from my shell female.
Ever since our re-emergence into the world of humans, one biological fact of our species—that eighty percent of our hatchlings are female—has dominated their perception of us. The presumed “kings” of ancient history have been revealed as queens, and human prejudices against the female sex have caused them to find that fact remarkable. Cartoonists use it as fodder for their jokes, and Hadamists as fuel for their hatred.
Now we have this tale: the origin of those queens. A chance at last to tell our own story, to give humanity an image of our foremothers that is neither the cruel tyrant of their Scriptures, nor the exaggerated figure of a newspaper cartoon.
Or so I once hoped.
But as I work, I can see the tyrant taking shape in Samšin. She who was once praised for her courage and leadership is hardening into a figure of authority and command, superior to even her own sisters. In other circumstances, this would merely be a matter of historical and philosophical interest . . . but it will have repercussions this winter, when the elders of the Sanctuary come to Falchester.
They will be the first females of my people most members of the congress have encountered—the first of my people altogether. And when those humans look at the elders, they will see what stories have conditioned them to see: Draconean queens. The tyrants of Scripture, reinforced by this tale. I already know from Lady Trent that human governments have assumed, again and again, that a single person must lead our land; the existence of the council confuses them. Had Samšin remained equal with Nahri and Imalkit, it might have gone some way toward helping humanity understand how we govern ourselves, because stories shape our perceptions more than we like to admit.
Had I been female, I might have done more to counteract those assumptions. But I am a priest, not a queen, and Teslit’s health prevents her from acting as my counterpart. She is more like Nahri than Samšin—but I fear that in the days to come, Nahri and Imalkit will be forgotten, and only Samšin remembered.
Radiant fire, help humans see beyond her. Help them see the elders as they truly are: sisters in heart if not in shell, chosen for their wisdom rather than their force, governing in cooperation rather than domination. Do not let this one tale shape our future as well as our past.
FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST
24 Messis
A fine, a written apology, and never setting foot on the grounds of the Selwright Hotel again: that is the price of my indiscretions. I’ve gotten off lightly, and Papa has made certain I know it.
I should go back to Stokesley. Gleinleigh is furious with me—he says it’s because of the delay, but I have to assume he also realizes I’m onto him, Mornett, and Mrs. Kefford. I can’t tell whether I would learn more by staying here, or by returning to work. The one thing I’m certain of is that this all has to do with the epic somehow. Simeon says Alan found nothing of use out in the Qajr, but maybe if I look more closely at the tablets I’ll understand how.
But the choice isn’t entirely mine to make. The scandal would fade out of the public eye more rapidly if I left town, but Lotte insists that I accompany her to the race at Chiston the day after tomorrow. She is determined to brazen the whole mess out; when Papa suggested that it might not be the best thing for me to show my face at the last great event of the Season, she swore up and down that she would not have the world thinking she has turned her back on me. I almost wish Gleinleigh would come here and try to demand my return, just so I could watch him lose an argument to my little sister. There’s no shifting Lotte when she’s like this—it’s all sails spread with a following wind.
My head is all in a muddle at this point. The truth is, I don’t want to go back and be cooped up in Stokesley again. Even the tablets are not the temptation they ought to be, because of . . .
All right. Lotte, if you are reading this, three things. First, you have broken your promise to stop sneaking looks at my diary, and I hope you’re ashamed of yourself. Second, I’m glad you’re keeping up your Talungri, rather than letting it rust. And third, you are utterly forbidden to tell Father what I did this afternoon, when I told him I was going for a walk to clear my head.
I did go for a walk—straight to the nearest streetcar stop, and then to the Selwright. I didn’t step over the property line, but I waited across the street at a very mediocre little café. And I think Mornett must have known that I would, because when he came out of the hotel about half an hour later, he spotted me immediately, and came over to talk to me.
I’d spent that half hour thinking about what to say to him. When he came within range, I didn’t waste time saying hello or anything foolish like that. I just asked him, point-blank: “Are you still friends with Zachary Hallman?”
And it worked. I caught him off guard; he wasn’t expecting the question and didn’t control his reaction as well as he might have. I saw . . . shock, naturally, but also guilt—and also, I think, disgust. As if he was horrified that I should ask him that.
Then he reddened, because of course anger was the next thing to come along. “Have you been reading my letters?”
He sounded a little bit afraid, too. He’d been approaching my table like he meant to sit down with me, but now he stood poised like he might run. I said, as icily as I could manage, “No. Unlike some people, I don’t stoop that low.” (I would have if he’d given me another thirty seconds that night, but Mornett doesn’t need to know that.) “I only saw it on your desk when I went to put the cylinder seal back. I thought you cut ties with Hallman years ago.”
“I did,” Mornett snapped. “It’s only—”