Petre blinked and brought himself out of his own reverie. “Well, as with most things, the elves viewed the past as a weapon, a tool to be wielded when needed, and disposed of when it became prudent to do so. They were entirely willing to report mistruths about history, particularly political history, when it was convenient for them—their own meticulously passed-down histories will often record these instances of prevarication with a sense of pride and admiration, an attempt to show themselves as being wiser and more cunning than their enemies. Nevertheless, they showed a bizarre dedication to ensuring their own histories were well-documented and sourced with eyewitness accounts when available. So, in some ways, they cared a great deal about the past, and even seemed to have a great reverence for it in their private histories; but in other ways, they showed a great potential for contempt of the truth of history when it served them to do so, particularly in political and military matters.”
“You make them seem like snakes.”
“You’re not the first to have called them such in their long stretch of time involved in the affairs of mortals, and likely not the last. Still, a prolonged study of them is a fascinating exercise, for what it can teach us not only of these mysterious would-be conquerors, but of philosophy, and of history. If we were half as committed to ideas like truth and honesty as the elves were committed to their opposites, the world would be a different place entirely by now. But in the elves we see only ourselves, turned toward our most unpleasant and self-serving interests. We’re not that far removed from them, and that should be concerning in the extreme.”
Skate crossed her arms. “I’m not like them.”
“We all are, in some way or another. You’ve never wanted to make someone else suffer?”
Skate thought of Kite, and she winced.
“You’ve never cheated or lied in order to get what you wanted?”
She looked to the floor and frowned.
“This is a reflection of us all, Skate. The worst of us are no different from the elves in that sense, while even the best of us are at least tempted toward such behavior on a near-daily basis. Even the holiest priest has had to resist the urge to politick, to mislead, to steal.
“It’s not all bad news, though. I think there’s something redeemable in even the worst of us, and I’m not sure that wasn’t true of the elves. They themselves noticed this in their description of the various kingdoms of men: some, they praised for their cunning and wiliness; while others, they chided and mocked for their ‘weakness,’ which is how they described things like kindness and honesty. But they made sure to note even in their praises of vicious neighbors that these humans cared for someone, be it a mate or a parent or a friend. The elves viewed such relationships as folly. That’s what I mean by our not being far-removed from them: there are those among us who would agree with the assessments of the long-gone conquering creators of magic.” His eyes became sad. “And I’m afraid they may have had a point when it came to rulership. The fall of a kingdom is a terrible thing. It leads to death and destruction for the common folk as well as the king.”
She considered that for a moment. “I don’t like it. They’re wrong. I’ll think of why later, but I know they’re wrong.”
“Maybe. And aren’t we lucky we get to talk about it? That, more than anything, might be what differentiates even the worst of us from the elves of old. I don’t know if they had any such choice in their behavior. Their texts are universal in this ethos; it may not have even been a discussion they could have in these terms. This is one of those times when in theory, I’d love to meet an elf to ask such questions; but practically, that would be a nightmare because their return to the world would not be something to look forward to.”
“Better leave the question unanswered in that case.” Skate smiled and said, “Well, that’s enough history for me.” She picked up her reading from another table. “I’m going to go work on this some more.” She was almost out of the room when an idea struck her. She returned to Petre. “Is this one true?” she asked, tapping the heavy cover of The Last Dragon of the Lost Brink Islands.
“Every history is true in some sense, just as every history is a lie. It’s not a work of fiction, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Skate nodded, satisfied with the answer, and went to her own room. Petre’s eyes dissolved in his blue fog. She sat on her bed and put the book in her lap. She found herself unable to focus, however; she read the same sentence three times before realizing she was doing so, and couldn’t even remember what the line said. She rubbed her eyes and tried again, this time reading aloud, her rhythm and speed much improved over the preceding weeks.
“‘The first dragon to live…therein had come from afar, likely from the coast of Brebully.’ Where is Brebully?” she muttered to herself. She set the book to the side and went to the desk, where she took out her slate. She took the chalk and wrote the name of the location at the top left corner to remind herself to ask about it later. She paused and reflected on what she had just done. I can write. I can read. At least a little. She moved to the bottom of the slate and wrote out the whole alphabet, curving around to the right side of the writing surface when she ran out of room. In the top right corner, she wrote her name. She underlined it, and then wrote it again. “I can write my name,” she said aloud, relishing the sound of the words and even more the truth behind them. “I am Skate, and I can write my name.” She was whispering now, as if uttering something secret, or else something holy and deserving reverence. “I can read stories about dragons, and I can find out where Brebully is, and I don’t care if the stories are lies or not, because I can read and I can write my name.” She was struck by an impulse to write something on the slate, and knew she had to write it, because writing something changed it, and made it permanent, even if she or someone else erased it. In all capital letters, as compactly as she could to still keep the letters legible, she wrote:
I AM SKATE.
I HAV MAD MY CHOIS.
The letters were clear and neat, in the rigid adherence to form and tidiness only found among the barely literate. She thought it the most beautiful set of words she’d ever seen, because they were hers, and she could read them.
A drop appeared on the slate, distorting the words, the white smudging into a swirl. She wiped her eyes, then wiped the slate clean, except for “Brebully” in the corner. She set it back in the drawer, taking a moment to trace her fingers along the unseen AB within.
Skate got back in the bed and continued reading, silently now. Hours later, after eating and drinking and talking and reading again, when she finally fell asleep, the book was open a few pages later, and the ghost of a smile remained on her face in unconsciousness. The snow continued to fall in lazy flurries through the night.
Chapter 25
In which a domestic dispute occurs, an unwelcome thief appears, and a toad knocks over a bookcase.
Skate shot straight up in bed, wiping the spider webs out of her mouth. It took her a moment to realize it was her own hair she was struggling with, made wet by her open mouth during the night. With a grunt of disgust, she wiped the offending hairs away more fully and jumped out of the bed.