by Brent Weeks
“It’s… cute?” I say.
I can’t take my eyes off it. The more I look, the more baffled I am.
“Cute, yes,” Lord Dariush says. “Fat and rather adorable, isn’t it?”
The abuse of talent is so outrageous, I can’t help wondering if it’s purposeful—perhaps Gollaïr, so certain that his own talents were being outstripped, had commissioned this piece simply to waste a few of Solarch’s days on earth.
Some great painters can dash off a masterpiece in a day. Other styles require a year or more. This has the hallmarks of the latter. The paint so thick it gives a depth to the image, the colors balanced not only against each other, but also within the image so as to guide the eye from one pleasing line to the next.
It is a lovely travesty.
It is as if the fastest racer entered the great hippodrome of Aslal for the final laps of the mountains-to-sea race that caps the novennial Philocteian Games, and as every tribe in Paria cheered, he started skipping, backward, even as the other runners caught him up and passed him by to take the laurel crown.
One might skip quickly, even backward. Such speed might astound, in its own witless way, but… why?
What a shame.
“What, uh, what is it?” I ask finally.
After a long moment, Lord Dariush says, “It’s a young dragon.”
“This… doesn’t look anything like…”
“In the highlands, our memories of dragons are rather different.”
Memories? “You’re… talking about a real animal?” I ask. “Something that gets translated ‘dragon’?”
I suddenly have no read on this man at all: one moment sly, clever, even brilliant, the next superstitious, foolish, and queer. If he’s actively delusional, I’ll have to leave, regardless. We’ve enough madness already in the Guile family line without me breeding more into it by marrying his daughter.
Lord Dariush is engrossed in his viewing. “Dragons are vulnerable in their youth, but then they spring up seemingly all at once, terrifying in their might. Cuddly, though, huh? Little round belly and all!”
He chuckles, then tears his eyes away from what is clearly his favorite possession of everything he’s shown me in the last week.
“What?” he asks suddenly, “Oh, a real animal? Oh, no. I mean, not to my knowledge. Maybe in the mists of time? But no, it’s uh, it’s uh, merely an important bit of our highland mythology. You see… hmmph. Do you know anything about scale-bearers? You know, serpents, lizards, geckos, the color-changers—some call them ‘reptiles’ now?”
“General knowledge,” I say. “I’ve certainly seen snakes and salamanders, of course, but nothing specialized.”
“Well, the sub-reds of Atash have studied them for centuries. Find them quite fascinating. They classify them as exotherms, whereas you and I and most animals are endotherms. We make heat internally; reptiles absorb it from their surroundings. If you believe heat to be a species of light, then animals who absorb it rather than give it off are rather suspect indeed. They are like little pits of darkness, light-devourers. Some say this is why men have always hated snakes.” He waves it away. “But that’s neither here nor there. My highland ancestors knew about exotherms and endotherms, and it’s a factor in the tale.”
“Go on,” I say. Now I’m actually interested. A little.
“We humans, we’re social. Sometimes we’re scolding squirrels, or monkeys shrieking and flinging excrement. At better times, loyal dogs or wolves hunting together to take down prey that none of us could face alone. Like other endotherms, we care about our pack, in our cases the family, the tribe, the satrapy, even the empire. We care deeply about our position within those groups. We are zoon politikon, social animals. There’s great strength in this, of course. A man alone in the wilderness will have trouble even surviving. We care for our sick, our elderly, and our children. But there’s waste and danger to living in society, too. We obsess over trivialities.
“Consider Sulak and Ben-sulak, towns that, if not separated by a river, would have long grown together into one single city. Today, in one, a man is mocked for darkening his eyebrows with kohl. Across the river, his twin is considered brutish for not doing so. The former is considered barbaric for growing his beard, the latter childish because he lacks one. We go along with things that make no sense. This year our cloaks are worn so short they no longer keep us warm. Next year they’ll be so long they’ll make it impossible to run.
“Reptiles stand at the antipodes from this. They care nothing for what their sisters love or their fathers hate. They seek out company only when it’s time to mate. There are some few men and women like this, of course, the broken ones, those born soulless, who possess neither empathy nor plans, nor can even be taught to feel much beyond their immediate fear, hunger, or lust. But most of us aren’t like that at all.”
Lord Dariush gestures to the painting. “See the fur? In our stories, the dragon is the wisest of all created beasts, for he has a dual nature: neither the blindnesses of the cold-blooded nor the weaknesses of the warm. Thus, we highlanders seek to emulate our ‘dragon.’ We discern when it is time to be a monkey of the tribe, and when it is time to be the cold lone serpent. Or whichsoever animals you will, given a particular circumstance.”
“How do you know when to be which?” I ask. “Does the monkey in you get to decide, or the snake?”
Lord Dariush gives me a long appraisal. “You see the crux of the question. Quickly, too.”
Was there, then, no answer? Or was it a stupid ‘We muddle through as best we can, with our shitty metaphors and backward culture’?
Lord Dariush waits a moment longer, then he says, “Intriguing. You see the crux of the matter, but not the heart of it. You are so very, very fast to see the weakness in a system, but slow to go further to seek a charitable interpretation for it.”
That stings. “Was this a test I’ve just failed?” Bugger your art, old man.
“Yes to the failure. No to the test. Tests are designed. This was inadvertent. Another slippage of your mask, I think.”
“Putting one’s best foot forward is hardly the same—”
Another slippage?
Dariush interrupts. “Hold that thought. I know you won’t forget it. Back to the dragon, if you would, and my silly, backward tales.”
“I never—!” I protest.
“No. You didn’t. I withdraw that last.” Dariush clears his throat. “The part that decides which nature to indulge or to express, the weak faculty that stands at the fulcrum between the dog and the serpent? That faculty is exactly what makes us human. Here in the highlands, we believe we are not zoon politikon. We are zoon kritikon, the animal that judges.”
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.
The others seemed to be enjoying tormenting him a little. Ben’s intellect was a wonderful addition to the team, but his arrogance about it—even if it was earned—sometimes piqued resentment.
“Not even you, commander?” Ben asked.
Cruxer was standing with arms folded, patiently waiting for the punchline. “You’re the resident genius, Ben. I’m sure you’re going to give us something worthwhile, but there’s really no need for me to duplicate your work, is there? So speed it up, huh? I’ve got nunks who need training.”
“The branches grow naturally,” Kip said, “but the smaller branches and leaves are only allowed in certain quadrants. By design, surely. A trade-off between not blocking the mirror’s signals and allowing the tree to get enough light to stay alive, right?”
“Almost!” Ben-hadad said. “I mean, yes, as far as it goes. See here?” He pointed to a plaque mounted on a rock near the trunk. “I can’t read the words, but I was able to figure out that these symbols are numbers. They’re coordinates, and once I realized that, I was able to take a known—the Great Mirror at Ru, actually, and—”
Cruxer cleared his throat.
“Right,” Ben-hadad said. “Not important. But it was pretty ingenious how I—”
“I’m sure it was,” Kip said quickly.
Ben-hadad got the point. Kip could see him mentally skipping ahead, with some reluctance.
“Anyway, these coordinates are ancient cities: and the leaves on this tree don’t grow in the line of sight between them! These smaller numbers are towns and lookouts within Blood Forest. So by cross-referencing, we can find those places now. Maybe some have mirrors still. We can build our scouting web.”
“That is great news,” Kip said. But it doesn’t really merit gathering all the Mighty, does it? “Great work.”
“That’s it?” Winsen asked, unimpressed.
“That’s not enough?” Ben-hadad asked. He looked from face to face.
“I hate to side with Winsen on anything,” Tisis said, throwing him a wink. He beamed. Oddly, he’d started becoming a big fan of Tisis recently, and she’d decided to cement that, if only because he was such an asshole if
he didn’t like you. She went on—“But I kind of expected more of a man of your towering intellect, Ben-hadad.”
Kip looked at her. Siding with Winsen but then still giving a backhanded compliment to his perennial antagonist? Nicely done!
“And you’d be right to do so,” Ben-hadad said triumphantly. “Because I calculated the angles the mirror would have to move to in order to send or receive signals from every one of these coordinates.”
“When did you do this?” Cruxer asked.
“While Kip was chatting with the Keeper and we were all just standing around.”
He’d done all this… in his head. Holy shit, Ben. If I get you killed, all of history is gonna hate me.
“Almost there,” Ben-hadad said. “None of these coordinates require an angle of less than minus five degrees. Look at where the leaves aren’t!”
“Huh?” Big Leo asked. “I’m still kind of reeling from all the trap stuff Breaker just told us. Can you pretend I’m dumber than you know I really am?”
Ferkudi said, “He means the mirror can point down. The tree has been grown specifically so the mirror can aim much lower than that.”
Kip cracked his neck to one side, thinking. “But the tree’s ancient. What if this is just an accident of its growth? Like, they had to prune it or whatever, and because of that some branches grew lower because they cut off all the higher branches?”
“I thought about that, and by—well, it doesn’t matter how—I figured out it wasn’t that. Any of you see the empty iron frames on Greenwall?” Ben-hadad asked.
“To hold burning pitch or whatever?” Kip asked.
“I sent servants looking in the old storerooms, and do you know what they found?”
“I know you’re going to tell us,” Cruxer said sternly. “And quickly.”
“Mirrors,” Ben-hadad said. “The Great Mirror can aim down, but in each sector there are branches growing that, if you pointed the mirror down, would get in the way. Those branches would cast big shadows.”
“Okay…” Ferkudi said.
“The mirrors on the wall are mounted precisely so they can reflect the Great Mirror’s light into those places that would otherwise be in shadow. Guys, every ancient city that could afford one built a Great Mirror. The scholars have always thought it was pure cultural dick-waving, you know, look how rich and important we are. Now we know they enabled communication—eventually—but not everyone would’ve had chi drafters. They’ve always been rare, and short-lived, and the ancient cities were hostile to drafters not of their kingdom’s color. Yet they insisted on building the Greater and the Lesser Mirrors. Here, with the filters I found, you can point a beam of any color light you wish, anywhere, even right at the base of your own wall. Why?”