That brought him upright, his eyes open. I’m sure he thought it was bravado. But I was perfectly sincere: in that moment, I realized there was only one place he could put them and trust that his secret would be safe. Or at least, only one place he would think of.
I went to the door of the cell and called for the warden to come let me out. While I waited, I turned to face Aaron one last time. He was staring at me, wide-eyed. Frustrated that his attempt to bargain had failed, uncertain whether I had guessed correctly . . . and hoping that I had. That I understood him well enough to know.
“I hope I see you again someday,” I said. “Not soon. Years from now. When you’ve had time to think about all of this. I hope I hear about the work you’ve done in the interim—not even grand work, some tremendous discovery that makes you as famous as you want to be, but the simple bricks that build the temple of our understanding. I hope you come to understand what it is you claim to love so much, the good as well as the bad. I hope you learn to live with the Draconeans. Because if that happens . . . you will finally be the man I once thought you were.”
The warden unlocked the door then, letting me escape before Aaron could respond—if he was even going to. I don’t know whether it’s possible that he might reform, but I know that if he does, it won’t be an overnight event. At least now I can put him . . . not from my mind; it would be a lie to say I will never think about him again. But from my attention.
Once we have found what he hid, of course. I have just heard Kudshayn come in downstairs; it is time for us to go find the true ending of the story.
later
I had all kinds of lies, threats, and other forms of leverage I could have used against the doorman, but in the end I wound up not trying any of them. I just said, “This is Kudshayn, a scholar and a friend. I believe some property has been hidden here that belongs to his people. Can you tell me when the last time was that Aaron Mornett visited the premises?”
That was all. Nothing about how my father and mother and grandfather and grandmother are all Fellows, how they’d hear of it if he refused me entrance—much less a bogus story about being asked to bring Kudshayn for a tour. I just verified that Aaron had been there on the afternoon of the second, the day after the fire; then I asked if we could search the library, and the doorman let us into the Colloquium. Even though neither of us had any right to be there.
I’m fairly certain this is how Grandmama gets away with things. She’s just so convinced of what she’s doing that she convinces other people, too, like a planetary body with its own gravity.
Mind you, the library was a guess. I was fairly sure Aaron would have hidden the ending at the Colloquium; neither Gleinleigh nor Mrs. Kefford could get in the door, and it’s one of the few places he feels at home. (Though not for long—I imagine they’re going to revoke his Fellowship because of the forgery.) But he could have chosen any one of the thousand nooks and crannies that place has to offer. I went to the library because of what he’d said about it being insurance against me. That ought to have meant he would hide it somewhere I’d never think to look . . . but I had a hunch he’d done the opposite.
That day five years ago is pretty well engraved in my memory. The aisle I was standing in when we met is nowhere significant; it holds back volumes of the Proceedings of the Annual Meeting of the Philosophers’ Colloquium. I’d simply been wandering, enjoying the ambiance of the library. In hindsight, I think Aaron must have seen me and followed, expressly to strike up a conversation—otherwise he had no reason to be there at all.
But that is why it makes for a good hiding place. Nobody particularly cares what got said at the annual meeting ninety-three years ago.
Kudshayn and I peered at and between the shelves while the doorman watched, mystified. Then my fingers touched a volume on a top shelf and it slid back. “Kudshayn,” I said, keeping my voice low out of reflexive respect for the library. “You’re taller than I am.”
The entire row of bound volumes on that shelf stood a little closer to the edge than their fellows down below—as if making room for something behind. Kudshayn lifted them down carefully and I piled them in a neat stack on the floor. Then he lunged with one hand to catch something unseen, which tried to fall flat when the books in front of it were removed.
With all the care one might show to a newborn infant, he brought down a small packet of cloth, tied with brown string. I cradled it in my hands as Kudshayn undid the string and folded back the outer wrapping, revealing paper inside. Of course Aaron would know to be careful: the cloth’s fibers might get caught in the clay. Paper was cleaner.
Inside the packet were two tablets, side by side. And we’d stared at their brothers often enough to know at a glance that they matched.
Kudshayn turned one of the tablets over, studying it. “Eleven,” I said, pointing at one upper corner. He flipped it again, and we looked at the bottom of the second column. “Thirteen,” he said. The other tablet had a twelve on one side, and at the end of the other . . .
No number at all. Just a phrase I recognized, from that night in early Pluvis when I sat up late to read the invocation. I met Kudshayn’s gaze, and he nodded.
We have the ending, in its entirety.
Now to find out what it says.
Tablet XII: “The Starvation Tablet”
translated by Audrey Camherst and Kudshayn
After darkness, after descent, after loss, after return, the three came together, the three called Samšin, Nahri, and Imalkit, the three called the leaders of the people.
They looked around at the world. The hunger of the star demons had ravaged it, as locusts ravage a field. Everywhere things were dead. Everywhere the creatures of the sky and land and waters starved, save those that feed on the flesh of the dead. Those who broke their shells and spread their wings found nothing to eat except the sorrowful cries of their mothers. Warmth had gone out of the air; life had gone out of the earth. The Light of the World reigned in the sky once more, but the Ever-Standing and the Ever-Moving were weakened by their long grief.
The sisters said to each other, “How are we to live? Our people are tired and weak. They lack the strength to till the fields as Nahri has taught them; they lack the will to shape metal as Imalkit has taught them; they lack the hope to follow the precepts Samšin has set for them. If we stay as we are, we fear our people will come to an end. We cannot send our people down to meet the Crown of the Abyss, to follow that path before their time.”
Imalkit spread her wings and said, “We must find a new way, even if its cost is high.”
Nahri spread her wings and said, “We must find a new life, even if it requires sacrifice from us.”
Samšin spread her wings and said, “We must find a new land, even if it lies far from here.”
They looked to the north and saw only ice. They looked to the east and saw only barren soil. They looked to the west and saw only death. But in the sky above them the issur flew south, and Samšin said, “We must follow them, and hope they fly toward life.”
They gathered the people together and told them to make ready for a journey. The people wailed in their grief; they did not want to leave behind the places of their ancestors, the sacred mountain where the Light of the World had brought them into being. But Imalkit told stories to lighten their spirits, and Nahri gave them comfort, and Samšin led them forth. They took all they owned, their spears and their grinding-stones, their baskets and their waterskins, their fire carried in hollow reeds, and they travelled to the south, following the path of the issur’s wings.