It sounds horrible to say, but it was easier for me to think about how the epic could be turned against the Draconeans than about how it had hurt me. I got up and hugged Kudshayn, wishing I had wings to wrap around him, but he was busy thinking. “The creation tale could be read as offensive,” he said, “if we assume the āmu are indeed human beings—and I think we must. But I do not think the revelation that the Anevrai believed humans to be failed precursors to their own species will shock people to any great degree.”
“No,” I agreed. “If there is something truly awful in this story . . .”
“Then we have yet to come to it,” he said.
The worms. Imalkit blaming the loss of the sun on the creatures to the south, and Samšin declaring war against them. That alone is an unpleasant reminder that the Anevrai conquered the world and subjugated humanity, but if the tale goes into any detail . . . wars are rarely pretty.
We only have two tablets to go. I knew what Kudshayn would say before he even opened his mouth.
“We have to read to the end.”
It’s that, or go shake Aaron Mornett until the truth falls out of him. Which a part of me wants to do anyway, except I don’t think the truth is anywhere inside that man. It dies when it comes near him.
There’s an ancient proverb, found in a fragmentary wisdom text that was one of the first Draconean tablets translated, whose meaning people have been arguing about ever since. Its literal translation is “From knowledge, a sapling; from fruit, life; from the heart, an idea; from wisdom, strength.” I think it’s meant to say that knowledge in time gives rise to wisdom and strength—and now that I reflect, it may even be an oblique reference to our four siblings, Samšin and Imalkit and Nahri and Ektabr.
Like those four, we’ve been blind to the viper at our bosom. But now that we see it for what it is—now that we have the knowledge we lacked—maybe we can find our way through to wisdom and strength.
I nodded at Kudshayn, then brushed myself off and marched back to my seat at the table. Cora stood for a moment, wringing her hands, before turning toward the door.
But there aren’t any doubts in my mind anymore. She didn’t have to bring us that catalogue. She didn’t have to point out that she recognized some of the tablets—a mistake on Gleinleigh’s part, when he assembled his “cache”? Or was he so determined to inflate it to an impressive size that he added in things he shouldn’t have, never realizing his own niece would spot them in the set? Either way, he never should have let me send the tablets to the Carters . . . but that is the kind of error a man like him would make. He isn’t a philologist or an archaeologist; he’s just a treasure-hunter, with no sense of the true value such things hold. No wonder Mrs. Kefford was so angry with him at Chiston.
Cora, on the other hand, is a different matter.
“Where are you going?” I said before she could leave. “We started this together. You deserve to see the end.”
Tablet XIII: “The War Tablet”
translated by Audrey Camherst and Kudshayn
Now all the people were brought together to prepare. Imalkit taught others the art of working metal, of crafting stronger heads for arrows and spears, of forging heavy axes, of hammering sharp swords. They cut down the trees with her axes to feed the fires of crafting, and the forges burned night and day, until their smoke nearly blotted out the Light of the World.
Imalkit did not rest there. She bent her clever mind to imagining; in dreams she sought new ideas. She made scales of metal, stronger than the scales of nature, and sewed these to garments of hide so the people would be safe from the weapons of the enemy. She made bows that needed four warriors to draw them, which hurled their shafts farther than the eye could see. She made cunning traps to catch and crush those who would come against the people. By these means were the people prepared.
Nahri taught others the art of tilling the ground, of planting seeds, of irrigation, of making the earth bear fruit on command. They burned out the trees to make fields for planting, and the people laboured night and day.
She did not rest there. She turned her generous mind to planning; in dreams she sought new ideas. She ground the seeds of the earth into powder and from these made flat cakes the warriors could carry with them. She put the fruits of the earth into jars of gilkha so they would not rot. She smoked the flesh of animals so that it became dry and would keep during a journey. By these means were the people prepared.
Samšin sought among the people for others to follow her lead. She searched among the people of the north, the people of the west, the people of the east. She [. . .] who would follow her into death.
She did not rest there. She turned her strong mind to thinking; in dreams she sought new ideas. She found three to follow her: Takhbat, Parzel, and Saybakh.1 With them she went into the wilderness. They hunted gazelles and slaughtered many, laying their meat out to the sky, as bait to the issur. Then Samšin and the three hid among the rocks.
Soon the sky grew dark as night with the wings of the issur. They descended to the ground and ate of the meat. Samšin had an herb; Imalkit had found an herb; Nahri had grown an herb for Samšin. She had placed this herb within the meat. The issur ate of the meat and grew slow and tired.
From the rocks came Samšin and her three. In their hands they had coils of strong rope. They threw these about the heads of the issur and pulled them tight. The issur fought against the ropes; their fury was like the fury of storms. But the herb they had eaten made them slow and tired, and they bent their heads to the strength of Samšin and her three.
Samšin did not rest there. Takbhat fashioned bridles for the heads of the issur, so they could be guided. Parzel fashioned saddles for the backs of the issur, so they could be mounted. Saybakh fashioned whips for the hides of the issur, so they could be controlled. Samšin climbed into the saddle of the largest. She took the bridle in one hand; she took the whip in the other. Into the sky they went, like a tongue of flame rising from the ground. The issur fought against the rider. Four times it twisted, five times it turned, six times it tried to throw the rider, but Samšin struck it with the whip and it ceased to fight. The three followed her lead. They were the first to know true flight, the first to subjugate the issur to their will.2
The forces of the people were ten thousand strong.3 When they marched, the sound of their steps shook the ground. When they camped, the light of their fires made the night as day. When they brandished their weapons, it was as if death itself had turned its face to the south. And above them in the sky flew Samšin and her three.
To the south they went, into the land of the worms. They [. . .] the grass, across the rivers, across the sands, to the foot of the mountain which had consumed the Light of the World.
They came as the wind, as the lightning, as the storm, as the wrath of the sky itself. Like thunder they rolled across the land, and the āmu cowered in their holes. Their weapons were as feathers against the defenses of the people; their shields were as dried leaves against the weapons of the people; their courage was as mist against the fury of the people; their armies were as nothing against the beloved of the sky.
The āmu sent out their strongest to fight, but the people tore them to pieces and flung those pieces to the jackals. The āmu sent out their bravest to defend, but the people cut them down like grass before the blade. The āmu sent out their swiftest to flee, but the people chased them to the ends of the earth and slew them there. The āmu sent their leaders to the mountain, to the cave where they had wrought their sin. Samšin and her three followed them there, and the wings of the issur covered the mouth of the cave, blotting out the light.