This was how Hastu the šiknas explained Peli’s dream for her.4
Peli was again sorely afraid. She said, “Advise me, wise Hastu, in how to prevent this evil from coming to pass. For I feel the egg taking shape within me already, and do not want it to hatch such horrors.”
“Go into the wilderness,” Hastu said, “into a barren place of stone, and lay your egg there. And when it is laid, take up a stone and crush the egg. Break its shell into eight pieces, nine pieces, ten pieces, and grind the pieces beneath your foot. Only then will we be safe.”
Peli went into the wilderness, into a barren place of stone, and she laid her egg there. It was an egg unlike any other, an egg of many colours, radiant and glorious. Looking at it, kind Peli could not believe that evil would come of it. Looking at it, tender-hearted Peli could not take up a stone. Looking at it, fearful Peli thought of what Hastu had said, and left the egg there in the wilderness, whole in shell, but alone. Grieving Peli left her egg and went back to Hastu, and she told him that she had done as he said.
Then Peli [???].5
1 The style shifts noticeably here.—AC
Yes. I will venture a guess, which is that this long text is, like your Scriptures, a compilation of smaller texts brought together to form a greater whole.—K Would you say this is scripture?—AC
At this stage I would not presume to evaluate that, especially since scripture is as much a matter of practice as the text itself. Whether the Anevrai venerated this tale in that sense, we cannot at this point judge.—K
2 The grammar indicates that this is an adjective, but I cannot decipher its meaning.—K
Me neither. The prefix is clearly duplicative, which in this case I think functions as an intensifier, but of all the inconvenient places to use a triconsonantal sign, with no other context! There’s some evidence that Ancient Draconean initial K mutated to G in Akhian, so if I squint very hard this might be saying that Hastu is humble, but . . . Well, if I can’t even convince myself, I can hardly convince anybody else.—AC
3 Maybe šiknas means “true friend”? Though in that case I have no idea what the root might be, nor why the scribe would use the more ordinary word for the fourth epithet here.—AC
If we assume metathesis, this could be the root that in Lashon becomes N-K-S.—K
Mirrors and duplication? How does that make any sense?—AC
Think of the various meanings for the Scirling word “reflection.” It could be a way of saying that Hastu reflects a great deal; that would fit with him being wise.—K
4 I suppose a “reflection” root might be a meta phorical commentary on the way he “reflects” Peli’s dream back at her, with interpretation.—AC
5 I can’t make anything out of these last lines. You?—AC
Not so far. Let me consider it.—K
FOR THE ARCHIVES OF THE SANCTUARY OF WINGS
written by Kudshayn, son of Ahheke, daughter of Iztam
I give thanks to the sun, wanderer of the world, guide and inspiration, for bringing me safely to the shores of this island, far to the east, far to the north. No place is unknown to you; no land is without your light. You who gazed upon my birth outside Sanctuary walls, watch over me here in this distant realm. You who have led me in my travels, show me the path now to wisdom and understanding. Here is an opportunity to shape the future, and I must be equal to the challenge. It is for my people that I undertake this task. For their sake I say, let your light shine upon the text; make its meaning plain.
I give thanks to the earth, shelter of us all, protector and guardian, for keeping me safe against the threat posed by those humans who see me only as a beast. Though water separates my home from this place, yet you are the same, the bedrock upon which we stand. It is your clay, your stone, your paper, your ink that records our present and our past. It is your embrace that preserves these things against the ravages of time. It is for this day that you have kept the words of the Anevrai, so that our ancestors may speak to us, a ghostly voice from the past. Help me consider their words in full, letting them enter my heart and emerge again for others to hear.
I give thanks to my foremothers, from the first to the last. I cup my wings before my mother, who gave me life before life outside the Sanctuary, so that I might come to this place on behalf of our brothers and our sisters. I cup my wings before the elders, mothers of us all, who chose me to study the ways of humans today and the people of the past, so that I might have the knowledge and skill necessary to represent us beyond the Sanctuary’s borders. I cup my wings before the foremothers of the ancient past, whose brothers scribed words that speak to us across the ages, across the fathomless gulf of the Downfall.
Eternal earth, protect the relics of our people against the cruelty and greed of malicious hearts. Hide them from the humans who would tear them from the earth and sell them for profit, filling their drawing rooms and libraries with objects they do not understand. Protect these tablets, which hold so much promise for our people; keep them safe from accident and from those hands which might seek to destroy them. Eternal sun, bring understanding to the hearts of all such people; help them see the value these relics hold for those of us who live today.
Help me understand that value. I gaze upon these tablets, treasures of the past, and know they are not mine. I share with those ancients my scales, my wings, my bones, my shell. I do not share the factors that shaped them, in body or in mind. The brother who marked these clay surfaces was born in a land that would kill me. For generations without counting my foremothers hid themselves away in the mountains, fearing the sight of humans, while his ancient foremothers ruled over the ancient foremothers of those self-same humans. Who am I to the Anevrai? I am no one. They did not know me, and despite the work of years, we are only beginning to know them. What claim do I have to this past? What claim does it have on me?
Dark stillness, give me patience. Bright mirror, give me wisdom. Open my eyes and my heart; let me receive the words of the past and consider their meaning today. Help me to record my own work with honesty and care, a memory to be kept in the archives of the Sanctuary. May what I do here become a blessing for our people, a star to guide us as we walk into a future whose terrain no one can see.
FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST
24 Ventis
Heavens, is that really the date? I’ve been noting it down in each day’s entry, but not really paying attention to what I was writing. Most of my diary entries lately are so short anyway, because after a day spent beating my head against my translation efforts, the last thing I want to do is spend yet more time writing.
That makes it sound like things are going very badly. Really they aren’t—except for that blasted final sentence in the second column of the obverse side of the third tablet, the one we’re calling the “Dream Tablet.” I can’t make wing nor tail of it, and neither can Kudshayn. Should we be reading those characters syllabically? Logographically? As determinatives? How should they be grouped? What on earth are we supposed to do with that first triconsonantal sign? Is Peli’s name actually in there, and therefore this is explaining what happened to her, or is it saying something about the egg, and why did Peli’s blasted name have to be etymologically related to the word for “egg”? Were the Anevrai out to confuse future translators? And while I’m at it, is the first character in the third line gil or suk, and why couldn’t the scribe have been less careless in pressing his stylus down? I wasted all today on it, long after I know I should have gone on to something else (and Kudshayn had); Grandpapa has countless stories about running into something he can’t translate, and then discovering that a later bit of the text made it clear as glass. But I have too much Camherst stubbornness in me, I think—or is that Hendemore stubbornness? Or Adiaratou stubbornness . . . I have so many to choose from, really, who can tell.
Cora wanted to know what we were stuck on, so I showed her and explained the difficulty. She immediately said, “Maybe it’s a mistake. I know I often catch errors in my own writing. Tha
t’s why I proofread my notebook every night before I sleep.”
“It’s possible,” I admitted. “But Grandpapa always says that the first principle of copying a text is, assume the scribe wasn’t drunk. Mistakes do happen, but they’re less common than we want to believe, and if we go around correcting presumed ‘errors’ all over the place, we’re likely to make a mess of the whole thing.”
“So how do you know when you’ve found a real mistake?”
“Mostly we don’t,” I said sourly.
Which only confused Cora, so Kudshayn intervened from the other side of the table. “This is the kind of thing scholars argue over. Even if everyone agrees there is an error, there may be different ideas as to how it should be corrected. If the issue is something simple like a flawed character in a familiar name, then it is easy enough. But if there is no obvious proof of what the character ought to be, people may never settle on a single reading.”
I had been rubbing my face while he spoke, as if that would make the sentence come clear. Now I laughed. “It’s the worst with late texts—things written after the Downfall. You had scribes, human ones, who weren’t properly educated in the writing system, and they made mistakes all over the place. Grandpapa was led astray for years by an error in the Cataract Stone, because the scribe who carved it swapped lu for ma and vice versa.”
“I don’t know how you read any of this,” Cora said, her jaw settling in a familiar mulish line. She still has not forgiven the Draconean language for its complicated orthography.
And yet she has become a very good copyist. Not a quick one by any means; she takes three times as long as I would. But that’s because she’s diligent to a fault. When she isn’t sure of something, she makes separate sketches of the different ways she might draw it, and then brings both versions and the original clay to us for a ruling. I’ve set her to work on the other tablets—because of course there were all manner of things in Lord Gleinleigh’s cache, of which the tablets, our precious story, are only one part. And not even the largest part, though certainly the largest continuous text. The rest will have to be studied eventually, and for now it gives Cora excellent practice.
Actually, that gives me a thought. (Maybe even a useful one.) Lord Gleinleigh is at home for once; I should talk to him while I have the chance.
later
Well, that’s one possibility ruled out.
I’ve been wondering if the earl had approached Aaron Mornett about working on the rest of the cache. It would certainly enrage him, being given what amounts to my leavings (not to mention Kudshayn’s), which might account for the argument.
But as near as I can tell, Lord Gleinleigh has given the other tablets absolutely no thought at all. He may have surprised Simeon with his eagerness to have the main text translated, but when it comes to everything else, he’s still very much in the habit of hoarding. I didn’t want him to think my inquiry was suspicious, though, so I badgered him until he agreed to make arrangements for the others to be studied, at least, and fully translated if they seem to warrant it.
Not by me, of course, nor by Kudshayn; we’re far too busy. And Cora, though a good copyist, is years away from being much of a translator. I suggested the Carter siblings—and not only did he agree, he said he’d have the tablets shipped to them! Secrecy apparently applies only to the epic, and not to ancient tax records. (Which I can hardly argue with.)
Mind you, he may have given in just to get me out of his study and back to what I ought to be doing. Kudshayn and I have been leathering away and making good progress, especially now that we’re into what I suspect is the main body of the text. I’m sure all the genealogical and locational material in the second tablet will be terribly informative later, when we have a chance to talk to a geographer and try to figure out whether any of the places described can be found in the real world. But as a story? Well, it’s about as interesting as the Book of Gepanim, with all of its “begats.” Peli is much more appealing, even if I’m worried something dreadful may have happened to her in those lines we can’t translate.
Honestly, if this were any other text, I would be perfectly happy to publish it with a lot of question marks around the problematic bits and some footnotes explaining that I’m not sure how to read it. Well, not perfectly happy; it would always niggle at me. I could live with it, though.
But in this case? I could never show my face in public again. Everyone is expecting so much from us, and this silence Lord Gleinleigh has imposed is only building it up—which is exactly as he intends, I’m sure. I don’t even know if I could bring myself to write to Grandpapa for help, pretending for a moment that the earl would let me. And I can see the look Grandpapa would give me if I admitted that, yet here we are: I feel like Kudshayn and I simply have to do this ourselves.
I’m beginning to think there will be no choice except to grind through it the hard way, writing out every single combination of how to read each character, and then different groupings thereof, until I’ve found every possible coherent interpretation. I said as much earlier today, and Cora immediately began calculating exactly how many combinations there would be (she would get along splendidly with Great-Aunt Natalie). I told her I didn’t want to hear the number; it would only discourage me.
Really, that isn’t the math that matters. If Kudshayn and I are to keep on the schedule I promised Lord Gleinleigh, I can’t afford to bog down on this for a week. We should move on; maybe something later will make it clear.
Tablet IV: “The Hatching Tablet”
translated by Audrey Camherst and Kudshayn
Then came the hatching time, the hard time, when the shell shook and cracked. It cracked not in one place, not in a single place, but in three, as three egg-teeth broke the shell at once. Away fell the shards of the many-coloured egg, and three hatchlings stretched their wings. Three sisters had broken the shell they shared, and in their midst was their brother.
Samšin was the largest, her scales sun-gold.
Nahri was the second, her scales water-green.
Imalkit was the third, her scales sky-blue.
Ektabr was the brother, his scales night-black.1
One hatchling was abandoned, two hatchlings were deserted, three hatchlings had been left in the wilderness by their mother. Four hatchlings were together, having only each other. They stretched their wings, and the Ever-Moving dried them. They stepped free of the shell, and the Ever-Standing supported them. They lifted their faces to the sky, and the Light of the World gave them its blessing.
In the wilderness they grew. Their well-fed cousins grew slowly, years from the egg to eggs of their own, but the four who lived in the wastelands grew quickly, one year from the egg until they were full-grown.
They were wild creatures, more like animals than like people. They crawled on all fours instead of walking upright. They ate their food raw. They had no speech, for between themselves they needed none. They knew only the Source of Wind, the Foundation of All, the Maker of Above and Below, and for these three they had no names.
Word came to the people of strange monsters in the wilderness, creatures that looked like people but had no understanding. Word came to Hastu of these four. Wise Hastu, clear-sighted Hastu, Hastu the šiknas2 gathered hunters together and said, “I do not know whether these are people who have fallen to the ways of beasts or beasts that have come to look like people, but I fear they are a threat to us all.” He sent the hunters to scour the wilderness for the four.
The hunters searched without success. Brave Samšin saw them coming and realized that she and her siblings must hide. Patient Nahri knew the land, and knew where they would not be found. Clever Imalkit lay stones atop one another to form a barrier, and placed dry branches in front of it so they would not be seen. Quiet Ektabr prayed in his mind to the Ever-Moving for the people to move onward, to the Ever-Standing to keep them concealed, to the Light of the World to keep them safe. And they were not found.
A second time Hastu sent out the hunters, a third tim
e he directed them, a fourth time they went into the wilderness. They went and searched, and a hunter named Tayyit found the four. The sun reflected off their scales; she saw the gold, the green, the blue, the black. She came to where they hid.
Tayyit offered them meat that had been cooked in a fire. She offered them fruit that had been picked from a tree. The siblings ate the food and marveled at it. Without words they consulted; without speech they agreed. They went with Tayyit back to where she dwelt.
In one year they had grown from the egg to full size; in one moon they learned speech. They lost their bestial ways and became people.
In these days there were no temples, no priesthoods, no sanctuaries, no shrines. The ways of the people were kept by the eldest brothers.3 They counted the days, counted the seasons, counted the years, counted when the time had come for a hatchling to become a fledge.
Tayyit went to Hastu and said, “How should we count the ages of these four? They hatched less than two years ago, but they are fully grown. Now that they have learned speech, should they join the circles? Or must they wait for many years more?”
“I have counted the days,” Hastu said, “and only a few have passed. Whatever their size, they are not ready to join the circles.”
The siblings were learning the ways of the people. Samšin was a great hunter, and Nahri patient for finding food. Imalkit crafted spears and snares. Ektabr bound up the wounds of those who were hurt.
Others came to Hastu, saying, “Surely the time has come for these four to join the circles. So long as they remain hatchlings, we cannot benefit from their skills.”
But wary Hastu said, “Not even three years have passed since their hatching. The time has not yet come.”
Brave Samšin made a plan. She said to her siblings, “Let us prove to Hastu that we are ready. Let us show him the breadth of our wings.”
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