I . . . actually rather like that.
I wonder why. I’m not sure if it’s because it’s the most accurate way to think of this or merely the most charitable, but I do have ‘cooler’ blood in my own veins than most men do.
By this account, that doesn’t condemn me as ‘reptilian.’ It makes me a bit of a dragon.
Much better. Much.
Lord Dariush goes on, though, musing now. “Sadly, the part of the myth that suggests that the whole of it is unreliable and infected by the old legends from the rest of the satrapies is that one day, they say, naturally, our Dragon, our very own Bringer of Fire will come.”
“Bringer of Fire?” I ask. “Not the Bringer of Light?”
“It’s a very clear distinction in our old tongue. But yes, clearly, that’s the idea it parallels, to the point that it’s become associated and confabulated and subsumed within the Lightbringer myths, like two lines of smoke from adjacent campfires, driven together by the winds of the Seven Satrapies’ shared history.” He sighs. “It’s a very seductive idea, though, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“A Lightbringer coming. Or a Bringer of Fire. A Luíseach. That your people’s ideal man or woman, whether warrior or trickster or hero of whatever stripe you value most, will come and kick everyone else’s asses?” He grinned as if to say, ‘Humans, huh?’
“He comes just in time to save the highlands, I suppose,” I ask, “like the Lightbringer and the Luíseach respectively? The mythoi really are catholic, aren’t they?”
He shakes his head. “No to the ‘saving.’ This is where things get interesting to me, because that’s different here. The Dragon won’t come in time to save us. He’ll be too late. He comes only to adjudge and avenge. So though our prophesied figure could actually be the same man as the Lightbringer, to us it won’t matter. Thus when we highland Atashians toast each other in seasons of danger, we say, ‘Here’s to not living in the time of the Dragon.’ ”
Seeking to counter his earlier impression of my lack of charity, I try some light flattery: “I guess when you know your hero isn’t going to come in time to save you, it does encourage self-reliance.” The highlanders are well-known for their prickly, stupidly independent spirit.
‘ Self-reliance’ is the kindest way I can think of to put it.
“That’s how we like it,” he says. Defensively.
I was trying to be nice.
“A people with calluses, indeed,” I say, expecting him to finish the old truism.
Felia shares her father’s love for translation and history, so from her letters I know it’s ‘a people with calluses.’ There was a famous sloppy old translation (famous among that oh-so-wide circle of Atashian historical translators) that called the ancient Atashians ‘a callused people, who all love what is dirty,’ which was taken as an indictment of their crudeness and lack of civilized virtues.
That renowned scholar’s apparent disdain for the Atashians colored several centuries of Chromeria scholarship. A more faithful translation—‘a people with calluses, unified, rejoicing in the soil’—implies instead a people near to their work and to the land, who loved their labors and abhorred class distinctions. It’s far more flattering.
But if I’d hoped to score any points with the reference, I’m disappointed. He misses it.
He says, “The gentlest people I know have callused hands. Would that I had more on my own. But I know no people more full of joy or love than mine are.”
I try to clarify, but he offers no opening, saying, “I attribute that joy and love at least partly to this: When you know that when the end comes, it will go poorly for your people, it encourages you to suck the marrow from the bones of life. Where other nations pile coin and stare greedily at what others hold, we long for the treasure of time and spend it as others spend gold. We sing and dance and play. We embrace and make love each day. We wrestle and we sport and we ride. Our children learn to hunt and mend, and to fight so they may have hearts of courage at the end, and might.”
The regular cadence of that tells me it likely comes from something else Atashian and probably renowned, but my studies haven’t been so deep.
Perhaps it’s another test I’ve failed.
If so, it’s an excuse for rejecting all suitors, not a test. Surely no one else could do better than I. Maybe no father wants to make it easy on a suitor.
I see now I was arrogant, though, too soon to believe that this man who’d amassed one of the largest treasures in the Seven Satrapies would be a fool. A bumpkin perhaps, perhaps a man somewhat dulled from the keen sharpness of his prime, but not a fool. And if he wishes to reject my courtship in order to slake his pride, he is well on his way.
“You said we need to get back for the fire dancers?” I prompt, giving up on the painting, and so much more besides. Why is Felia even allowing this? Subjecting me to a week of this horseshit? Is she that weak, or is she simply not interested in my bid for her hand? It seems she isn’t who she pretended to be in her letters at all. I expected more of her than this, else I’d not have wasted my time.
Grumpily, he says only, “Indeed. Ninharissi will be waiting for us.” He sets off with long strides, not looking to see if I’m following.
Ninharissi, not Felia. Again.
I go after him, but I can’t help but give one last look to the fat, round little dragonling hunched happily in a hairy, soft-scaled ball that is Oh So Important to these people.
Confounding. What a strange, primitive people.
If nothing changes my mind tonight, I’ll leave tomorrow. I can’t stand this family, their food, their idiot stories, their queer music, this rubbish they call art.
Lo, ye mortals! Behold the mighty Dragon!
Dragon, my ass. It’s risible. It doesn’t look anything like a dragon. It doesn’t look like a monkey-lizard or scorpion-dog or anything else ‘formidable.’ The ridiculous little fatty looks like a turtle-bear.
Chapter 34
“It started up here,” Ben-hadad said as all of the Mighty followed him out onto the rooftop garden dominated by the massive white oak heart tree. He gestured to the tree. “Tell me, what do trees need?”
“Can’t you just tell us your big discovery?” Winsen asked.
“No, no, look, this is not me being brilliant—this time, I mean. Just play along. What do trees need?” Ben asked.
“Soil,” Ferkudi said. “Hard to grow trees in the air.”
Ben opened his mouth, closed it, then allowed, “Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s true. But what else do they need?”
“Air?” Tisis asked.
“Well, sure, that too.”
“Water?” Big Leo asked.
“Enough! Light! Trees need light. They need leaves. They need leaves to get the light, to grow, to survive, right?”
Everyone shrugged or nodded noncommittally.
Ben-hadad was clearly frustrated that they weren’t the least intrigued. “Fine. Look at the tree. Look at where the branches are. More importantly, look at where they aren’t.”
Kip and Tisis were the only ones who appeared to be seriously trying to follow him.