This edition will also carry a new title. Formerly known as The Draconeia (a name assigned to it by Lord Gleinleigh), it will now be issued under the title Turning Darkness Into Light. It will be available for sale on 13 Nebulis, only one week after the original intended date.
OPENING SPEECH DELIVER ED AT THE FALCHESTER CONGRESS
by Kudshayn, son of Ahheke, daughter of Iztam
2 Gelis, 5662
The future cannot be separated from the past.
For my people—as for many humans in many eras around the world—writing is a sacred act. Our scribes are priests; I am known to you all as a scholar, but to my people as a member of a sacred brotherhood, for these two things are not separate in our eyes. And this belief comes down to us from ancient times, from the earliest days of the Draconean people, when they were known as the Anevrai.
By now all of you have heard of the text Audrey Camherst and I have translated into Scirling under the title Turning Darkness Into Light. Some of you may even have read it. If so, you know that it concerns itself with the mythical beginnings of the world and of the Anevrai.
You also know that a group of people sought to twist its message, for the purpose of influencing this very gathering.
The future cannot be separated from the past. Although the tales of a civilization that fell thousands of years ago might seem like a mere historical curiosity for people living today, it is not so. They shape our understanding of that past, and through that, our understanding of ourselves. All around the world, societies speak of their “national epics,” the stories that are presumed to embody the true spirit of their people.
The fact that no single text can hope to encompass such a thing is, in a sense, beside the point. What matters is that people have chosen to lift up such things as their banners: to say, look upon this and know us.
Is Turning Darkness Into Light the national epic of the Draconean people?
I came to Scirland hoping it would be. What I found was a story that confirmed some of my beliefs, challenged others, and shattered the foundations of a few. The people who fill its tablets are recognizable as my sisters and brothers, but here is no tale of bold queens ruling over splendid cities, the wonder of the ancient world. Instead it tells of a simple people, bereft of even the most basic technologies. And the world they inhabit—the cosmos that shapes their lives—is not mine.
I said before that I am a priest. I was taught to venerate and offer prayers to two forces: the sun, the creative and active principle, and the earth, the passive and protective one.
But my foremothers knew not two gods, but four.
Ever since I translated those words—ever since I realized that my religion, the most powerful shaping force in my life, is not the religion of my ancestors—I have struggled with that knowledge. I looked upon these texts and felt kinship with the ancient scribe who wrote them; then I read his words and felt further from him than ever. How could I claim any connection with him and his sisters, when we differ in so great a respect?
I am not here to deliver a theological lecture, particularly when most of my audience does not share my faith. Instead I will speak of philosophy, and the answer I have arrived at.
The first of our missing deities is known as the Ever-Moving, the Source of Wind. I believe the force my foremothers gave that name to is the force of change, just as they called creation the Light of the World, the Maker of Above and Below, and they called preservation the Ever-Standing, the Foundation of All. And the second missing deity is the Endless Maw, the Crown of the Abyss: the force of destruction.
We of the Sanctuary of Wings have lost those names, and the prayers once offered to them. But those two powers have not forgotten us. Through destruction we have come, we people whom you name Draconeans; the Downfall of our civilization was the greatest triumph of the Endless Maw. And we have changed.
How could we not?
The Anevrai themselves changed when Samšin, Nahri, Imalkit, and Ektabr descended into the underworld and re-emerged with the innovations of writing, metal-working, agriculture, and law. They changed again when they founded their ancient civilization. They changed during the ages of that civilization, when it sank into decadence, when it fell, when they fled from human wrath. We, their descendants, have likewise changed over these past decades, since we came into contact once more with the world outside our Sanctuary.
Change is necessary. Destruction is inevitable. We err only when we try to deny such forces their role in our lives.
I knew the Source of Wind and the Crown of the Abyss long before I knew their names. Now, being aware of them, I can say what I need to say.
Those who sought to use this tale against my people created a false ending for it—one that confirms the worst suspicions of your people, the worst fears of mine. Since their forgery was revealed, I have heard people say this proves that those suspicions and fears are likewise false: that the Anevrai never burned human beings alive in sacrifice.
But we do not know that for sure. We may never know—and if proof ever comes, it may come in the form of confirmation, showing that at least some of those fire-blackened pillars were used to immolate the helpless. Right now, we can only say with certainty that this story does not say such things. It ends, not with tyranny and violence, but with cooperation: with the three species of Anevrai, dragons, and human beings coming together in partnership so they all might survive. And it ends with a lament, that this harmony was in later times lost.
Some will call this idealistic. I do not deny it. I only deny those who claim that because it cannot be proved, the ideal is without meaning.
My ancient brother held this ideal so precious in his heart that he scribed its origins on tablets cored with gold. My foremothers venerated this ideal so highly that they laid those tablets for safekeeping in a temple. They may have had sisters and brothers who did not agree—but I make my alliance with those who chose harmony over war.
If you read the translation, know this: it is a work in progress. All such things are. Other scholars will come along, armed with a better comprehension of the language, other texts, the evidence of archaeology, and they will refine our words, or replace them entirely. We once thought that southern Anthiope was the homeland of my people; now we know it was their second home, as the Sanctuary we live in today is the third. We should not lament this alteration in our knowledge, but celebrate it. Our understanding should always change, always grow—even when that means the necessary destruction of what we knew before.
Because the ashes of that destruction are the soil from which new life springs. Forty years ago, none of us knew the things we know today: about dragons, about the Anevrai, about the Downfall, about each other. Today we stand together in this room, and we have a chance to create our future, built upon the foundation of the past.
Consider what story you want to tell. Consider what tale should embody the spirit of our age, when people look back on this time. Will it be the tale of domination that some today sought to write? Or will it be the harmony whose passing my ancient brother immortalized in clay and gold?
I pray to the Light of the World to give us wisdom. I pray to the Ever-Moving to guide our choices. I pray to the Ever-Standing to keep us safe. And I pray to the Crown of the Abyss to take this moment and lay it to rest, when the world moves on to whatever comes next.
FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST