Turning Darkness into Light

by Marie Brennan

  I dabbed at my lips with my napkin and said, “With caution, Lady Plimmer. Some countries, Scirland included, have laws about the excavation and sale of Draconean antiquities, but those are by no means watertight. Reputable auction houses like Emmerson’s should provide what’s called a provenance, a document telling you the ownership history of anything they sell. You should be very suspicious of anything that says the object was acquired from a private collector in Gillae—that’s a red flag that it was stolen or illegally excavated.”

  “My goodness! I certainly would not want to associate myself with any criminal activities. Thank you so much for warning me, my dear, and for the recommendation to Emmerson’s. I had been thinking about approaching—what was his name, Marcus? That fellow you have bought things from. Dorrick or some such.”

  “Joseph Dorak?” I offered up, all innocence.

  I can hardly say I was surprised when Lady Plimmer confirmed the name. Dorak’s legitimate business is a fig leaf for the biggest antiquities smuggling enterprise in Scirland. No, the shock came a moment later, when Lady Plimmer said, “I must say, Marcus, your expedition to Akhia seems to have inspired you to turn over a new leaf. Why, I would have sworn the sun would rise in the west before you had a single kind word to say about Draconeans, much less allowed one to set foot in your house.”

  This time the silence felt like the instant between the firing of a gun, and the moment when the bullet strikes.

  Lord Gleinleigh cleared his throat. “Lady Plimmer, you must have misunderstood me—”

  “Oh, I can’t imagine that’s true. My eyesight is not what it once was, but my memory remains as sharp as ever. This was about five years ago, I think. Magister Ridson chastised you for collecting so many Draconean antiquities, and you said—”

  “What I said then has no bearing on the present moment,” Lord Gleinleigh said in the loud voice of a man who’s hoping to drown out the next words if he can’t cut them off entirely. “It is quite discourteous of you, Lady Plimmer, to bring up past unpleasantness like that, when it is clearly over and done with.”

  She apologized, while I sat there with that hot-and-cold feeling all over my skin, the way you do when you’ve just had a nasty jolt and don’t yet know what to do. What Lady Plimmer said . . . she didn’t use the word, but she as good as called him a Calderite.

  And Lotte saw him talking to Mrs. Kefford.

  And Aaron Mornett came to his house late that one night.

  I simply don’t know what to make of this. If Lord Gleinleigh really is a Calderite, why on earth would he recruit me to translate the tablets, instead of Mornett? I can’t persuade myself it’s because Mornett tried and failed. He’s capable of the work, and far more congenial to such views. Whereas I am as far from a Calderite as any human is likely to get, so I don’t see how involving me would suit Lord Gleinleigh at all.

  And more to the point, why would he suggest hiring a Draconean as well? Calderites think the ancient past is fascinating, but preferred when it was in the past, rather than being inconveniently present and alive and complaining about their ancestral ruins being looted to decorate places like Stokesley. The last thing they would ever do is invite a Draconean to come and lay claim to an important relic like this one.

  But then again . . . every time Lord Gleinleigh shows concern for Draconean sensibilities, it rings false. Or no, not false—that isn’t fair. Stiff, I should say. Unpracticed, at the very least. Which I chalked up to him being uneasy around a two-meter dragon-winged creature with a muzzle full of sharp teeth; most humans are, until they get used to it. But what if it’s because he was hiding something?

  I got an answer of sorts a little while later; I’m just not sure if I believe it. We couldn’t leave immediately after dinner without offending our hostess, but fortunately she doesn’t have turn-of-the-century notions about how people should entertain themselves at that point—or if she does, she doesn’t enforce them. Cora got drawn into conversation with a young lady named Miss Simpson, who I think is the closest thing she has to a friend in the neighbourhood, and I lost sight of Kudshayn. Imagine how delighted I wasn’t, then, when Lord Gleinleigh caught me almost immediately and drew me aside.

  Did I say he was stiff? I might have been forgiven for thinking he had a belaying pin stuffed up his backside. “Please forgive me, Miss Camherst,” he said, as if a dentist were extracting the words from his mouth one by one. “I confess that I have not always harboured generous attitudes toward the Draconean species, but you must not think that Kudshayn is at all unwelcome at Stokesley. I value very highly the work he is doing.”

  It obviously cost his pride a great deal to say that, but I could only give him so much credit for it, especially when he said “the Draconean species” rather than “the Draconean people.” And even more so when he went on to say, “You know that I would have faced down those Hadamists for his sake, that day at the airfield, if matters had not taken such a violent turn.”

  My hackles immediately went up. I haven’t forgotten that he tried to get between me and Hallman . . . but why point to that as proof of good intentions, when nothing much came of it? Unless the entire reason Gleinleigh stepped forward in the first place, or rather tried to, was because he wanted to show off how friendly he is toward Draconeans. Gleinleigh doesn’t strike me as the heroic type; I think he would have crumpled like wet paper the moment something went wrong. But even the attempt would have made him look good.

  I managed not to say any of that, and I hope it didn’t show on my face. I said, “Thank you, Lord Gleinleigh—but I’m not the one you should be taking pains to reassure. Or have you already spoken to Kudshayn?” (I knew he had not, because he came to me straightaway.)

  “I have not,” he said, even more stiffly, “but I will. Assuming you can tell me where—”

  His unfinished question was cut short by a rattling crash from elsewhere in the house. We all stampeded to see what had caused it, and discovered that Miss Simpson’s friend Miss Ashworth was the reason Kudshayn had gone missing. They were in the ballroom, and a whole line of chairs that had been set along the wall were now strewn across the floor.

  Kudshayn apologized profusely to Lady Plimmer as soon as she appeared, while Miss Ashworth, failing to suppress giggles, tried to restore the chairs to order. “What happened?” Lady Plimmer asked—I have never heard two words sound so much like two blocks of ice.

  “I was trying to teach him to dance!” the irrepressible Miss Ashworth said.

  Kudshayn’s bows were reverting to Yelangese style the more of them he made. “I am afraid that I lost my balance. In my attempt to restore it, I—ah—”

  He had spread his wings, because that’s what Draconeans do when they’re off-balance. Miss Ashworth tried to urge him to do it again—safely away from the chairs—but at that point Lord Gleinleigh had had enough, and he got us all out the door in a tick, rudeness be damned.

  So now I am back at Stokesley. I’m pretty sure Gleinleigh still hasn’t spoken to Kudshayn, and he said he’s leaving for town again tomorrow. Which he tried to sell as him clearing out so we could have some nice quiet time to work, but it’s hard not to read that as him running away from the awkwardness.

  There’s certainly enough to run away from. He may claim to be a reformed Calderite, but now I am looking at everything he’s done since I came here and seeing it in a new, much less pleasant light. His insistence that we not share any information outside this house . . . I don’t know what purpose that might serve, apart from the obvious one of making it a grander reveal when we publish our translation, but if he wants secrecy, then I want insurance. I think I shall make copies of all our work, just to be on the safe side.

  * * *

  (And oh, Lady Plimmer. No one so concerned for propriety and courtesy could possibly have done that on accident. The old battle-axe may talk sweetly, but she sharpened her knives for Gleinleigh a long time ago, and she wanted me and Kudshayn to know just whose house we’ve been living in.)
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  Tablet VII: “The Samšin Tablet”

  translated by Audrey Camherst and Kudshayn

  Hastu spoke, wise Hastu, clear-sighted Hastu, Hastu the šiknas. He said, “This was foreseen in a dream long ago, before your hatching. The river of Ektabr has drowned the sun; the stone of Imalkit has crushed the sun; the grasses of Nahri have ensnared the sun; the mountain of Samšin has devoured the sun. The Light of the World is in the underworld now, and unless one of you goes to retrieve it, we will be caught in darkness forever.”1

  The people were outraged to hear that the four were responsible. They took up their stones; they took up their clubs. But they could not bear to strike those upon whom they had depended for so long.

  Samšin said, “If the Light of the World is in the underworld, we must certainly retrieve it. All four of us should go.”

  But Hastu said, “No, because if all four of you are lost, then the people will be without protection. Only one will go, and the other three will stay to keep the horrors of the darkness at bay.”

  Samšin was the bravest of the four, and the strongest. She said, “Then I will go, if you will show me where the gate of the underworld stands.”

  The people wailed at her words, but their fear of losing the sun was greater than their fear of losing Samšin. Her sisters and her brother said, “If you must go by yourself, you will not go alone.” They gave her gifts: Nahri gave her food for her journey, Imalkit gave her a torch to light the way, and Ektabr gave her a prayer.

  Hastu led Samšin to a ravine deeper than any other. Ten leagues, eleven leagues, twelve leagues deep was this abyss; it stretched to the depths of the earth. He left her there. With her food and her torch and her prayer she descended.

  She came to the gate of the underworld. It was made from the bones of issur,2 bound with strips of āmu skin. Samšin knocked at it, and the lizma,3 the gatekeeper of the underworld, answered. The khashetta4 said, “What living creature seeks to enter the underworld, and why?”

  She answered him with her wings spread. “I am Samšin, sun-gold, hatched from a single shell. I have come to retrieve the Light of the World.”

  “You may enter,” the gatekeeper said, “but you may not return.” It opened the gate for her. Samšin entered the underworld.

  She came into a chamber filled with broken eggshells. All around her she heard the thin cries of hatchlings, but she saw nothing alive. It was the place of hatchlings who die in the egg, because they cannot survive the place they are laid. She saw in front of her a many-coloured shell like the one her clutch had come from. She said, “We should not have lived to hatch. But we did, and I must find the Light of the World.”

  She continued on to a chamber stained with blood. All around her she heard the screams of people being torn apart, but she saw nothing alive. It was the place of people killed by the beasts of the world. She felt over her the shadow of the issur5 she found in the desert, the issur that had bent its head to her hand. She said, “It should have killed me that day. But it did not, and I must find the Light of the World.”

  She continued on to a chamber awash in salt water like the sea. All around her she heard the wailing of people, but she saw nothing alive. It was the place of those who have been undone by those they trusted. She felt a chill in her heart. She said, “I am still alive; my sisters are still alive; my brother is still alive. And I must find the Light of the World.”

  She came to the fettra that guards the deepest abyss. The khashetta6 snarled at her, but she offered it the food Nahri had given her. It ate the food and was quiet.

  Beyond the fettra was a tunnel. Imalkit’s torch lit the way. It became a tunnel too small for her to spread her wings. It became a tunnel too small for her to stand. Samšin crawled through and found herself in the presence of the Endless Maw,7 the Crown of the Abyss. It had the Maker of Above and Below in a cage.

  Samšin offered it the prayer Ektabr had taught her. She said, “I am Samšin, the sun-gold, hatched from a single shell. I have come to retrieve the Light of the World.”

  “You have entered,” the Crown of the Abyss said, “but you may not return. A cavern may give up what it has eaten, the sea may give up what it has drowned, a forest may give up what it has trapped, but the underworld does not give up anything it takes.”

  Bold Samšin lifted her mace, saying, “My people need the Light of the World. Without it they starve; without it they wander in darkness. Without the Maker of Above and Below, the star demons prey upon them from the sky. For their sake, I cannot accept what you say.”

  The Crown of the Abyss sent its many-legged khashetta8 against Samšin. They were the ones that bite at the heels of cowards; against brave Samšin they could do nothing. She swept them aside, four struck down with each swing of her arm. The khashetta scurried back into their holes.

  The Crown of the Abyss sent its poisonous khashetta against Samšin. They were the ones that sting the eyes of the greedy; against noble Samšin they could do nothing. She ground them underfoot, four crushed with each step she took. The khashetta skittered back into their holes.

  The Crown of the Abyss sent its clinging khashetta against Samšin. They were the ones that feed on the blood of the slothful; against fierce Samšin they could do nothing. She tore them apart with her teeth, four torn to shreds with each bite. The khashetta slithered back into their holes.

  Then the Crown of the Abyss sent its swift khashetta against Samšin. They were the ones that shriek in the ears of the ignorant, tormenting them with all the things they do not know. Against these khashetta she had no defense. Samšin swung her mace; she struck out with her claws. Her blows passed through the khashetta as if they were mist. They shrieked in her ears, and she ceased to fight. The Crown of the Abyss turned Samšin to stone and set her to one side, and there she stayed.

  Tablet VIII: “The Nahri Tablet”

  translated by Audrey Camherst and Kudshayn

  In the world of the living, the people waited, but Samšin did not return. The star demons drew closer, because the warrior, the brave one, the leader of the people, was not there.

  Hastu spoke, wise Hastu, clear-sighted Hastu, Hastu the šiknas. He said, “This was foreseen in a dream long ago, before your hatching. The river of Ektabr has drowned the sun; the stone of Imalkit has crushed the sun; the grasses of Nahri have ensnared the sun. The Light of the World is in the underworld now, and unless one of you goes to retrieve it, we will be caught in darkness forever.”

  The people were outraged to hear that the three were responsible. They took up their stones; they took up their clubs. But they could not bear to strike those upon whom they had depended for so long.

  Nahri was the kindest of the four, and the most generous. She said, “Then I will go, if you will show me where the gate of the underworld stands.”

  The people wailed at her words, but their fear of losing the sun was greater than their fear of losing Nahri. Her sister and her brother said, “If you must go by yourself, you will not go alone.” They gave her gifts: Imalkit gave her a torch to light the way, and Ektabr gave her a prayer.

  Hastu led Nahri to a ravine deeper than any other. Ten leagues, eleven leagues, twelve leagues deep was this abyss; it stretched to the depths of the earth. He left her there. With her torch and her prayer she descended.

  She came to the gate of the underworld. It was made from the bones of issur, bound with strips of āmu skin. Nahri knocked at it, and the lizma, the gatekeeper of the underworld, answered. The khashetta said, “What living creature seeks to enter the underworld, and why?”

  She answered him with her wings spread. “I am Nahri, water-green, hatched from a single shell. I have come to retrieve the Light of the World.”

  “You may enter,” the gatekeeper said, “but you may not return.” It opened the gate for her. Nahri entered the underworld.

  She became lost in a labyrinth of stones, the place that traps those who have not shown generosity to their sisters and their brothers.9 All around her sh
e heard the pleas of those people, begging for charity, but she saw nothing alive. Nahri said, “I have nothing to give you, but I will care for your kin when I return, after I have retrieved the Light of the World.” The voices told her the way out.

  She continued on, and found herself lost in a labyrinth of bones, the place that traps those who have not shown kindness to their sisters and their brothers. All around her she heard the pleas of those people, begging for mercy, but she saw nothing alive. Nahri said, “There is nothing I can do for you now, but I will do kind deeds in your name, after I have retrieved the Light of the World.” The voices told her the way out.

  She continued on, and found herself lost in a labyrinth of rotting flesh,10 the place that traps those who have not been given proper rites by their sisters and their brothers. All around her she heard the pleas of those people, begging for rest, but she saw nothing alive. Nahri said, “I have nothing I can do for you now, but I will make offerings11 on your behalf in days to come, after I have retrieved the Light of the World.” The voices told her the way out.

  She came to the fettra that guards the deepest abyss. The khashetta snarled at her, but she had no food12 to give it. The fettra tore at her arms; it tore at her legs. Nahri escaped it, bleeding.

  Beyond the fettra was a tunnel. Imalkit’s torch lit the way. It became a tunnel too small for her to spread her wings. It became a tunnel too small for her to stand. Nahri crawled through and found herself in the presence of the Endless Maw, the Crown of the Abyss. It had the Maker of Above and Below in a cage.

  Nahri offered it the prayer Ektabr had taught her. She said, “I am Nahri, water-green, hatched from a single shell. I have come to retrieve the Light of the World.”

  “You have entered,” the Crown of the Abyss said, “but you may not return. A cavern may give up what it has eaten, the sea may give up what it has drowned, a forest may give up what it has trapped, but the underworld does not give up anything it takes.”