Turning Darkness into Light

by Marie Brennan

  16 There’s a similar riddle in Akhia even today! If they’re analogous, then the answer is “a fool” or “an ignorant person,” i.e. someone who does not see regardless of whether their eyes are open or shut. There seems to be a theme developing, with each of the sisters ultimately defeated by their ignorance or blindness.—AC

  17 Scribal error?—K

  18 Hah! That’s why there are two gates! One for brothers, and one for sisters. What Ektabr did must be the equivalent of putting on a skirt and cosmetics—he dressed himself in drag, and now he’s introducing himself with the feminine form of his name and using the feminine endings for his verbs, so that he’ll go to the same part of the underworld as his missing sisters.—AC

  19 Is this why you said Draconean priests wear that band around their wings? Because Ektabr’s wings got broken?—CF

  But Imalkit’s wings were broken, too.—AC

  Both are very good points. I . . . am not sure. Rather, I can say that we do not remember the story of Ektabr, and so that is not consciously the reason for the margash, the band I described to you. But I have never been told why we wear it; the margash is simply a tradition. So I cannot rule out the possibility that yes, in the distant past that was the reason, and we have simply . . . forgotten it.—K

  20 Because now the markers of femininity have been removed.—K

  21 Imalkit? What about the Light of the World?—CF

  Samšin tried for that, and failed. Nahri tried for that, and failed. Imalkit tried for that, and failed. At least Ektabr is trying something else, rather than saying, “It’ll work this time, because I’m smarter!”—AC

  22 There’s nothing like this underworld in the modern Draconean religion, is there?—AC

  No. There is not.—K

  FOR THE ARCHIVES OF THE SANCTUARY OF WINGS

  written by Kudshayn, son of Ahheke, daughter of Iztam

  I raise my hand to the sun, giver of life. I touch my hand to the earth, protector of all. I spread my wings to the wind, always in motion. I close my wings to the underworld, where all things stop.

  Even writing such words makes the brush sit oddly in my hand. This is not how my ancient foremothers would have worshipped. I do not even know if they can be said to have worshipped the Endless Maw, the Crown of the Abyss. Perhaps to them, what I have just written would be blasphemy. Perhaps my failure to offer worship to the wind would be apostasy. Perhaps my understanding of the earth would be foolishness. Perhaps my reverence of the sun would be no better than a hatchling’s silly prating.

  For ages this has been our link to the past, the last strand to which we cling. We may have relinquished the territories we once held around the world; we may have lost all the power and wealth we once possessed. But we worship the gods of our foremothers, and so we are their kin.

  If that link breaks, what do we have left?

  Not one god lost, but two. The Ever-Moving, Source of Wind, and the Endless Maw, Crown of the Abyss—whether that latter was ever worshipped or not. When one of our people dies, we say they have gone to the sky. Is this a mutated remnant of the worship the Ever-Moving once received? Or some innovation with no basis in the past? Where are the spirits of my lost sisters: in the heavens, or beneath the earth?

  Blessed sun, take from me this uncertainty and doubt. You light the path forward, but I cannot see it yet.

  I take refuge in what I know, which is the patient reasoning of the mind. Teslit, studying Yelangese philosophy, has noticed similarity between our conception of the sun and the earth and their notions of yin and yang: the primal forces of action and passivity, light and darkness, warmth and cold. In Vidwatha they speak of three greater gods who hold the powers of creation, preservation, and destruction. But if there are four, what then?

  The cellar of Stokesley offers not only refuge from the warming days, but the dark shelter of the earth. There I meditated upon this question, and when I emerged, understanding came. Is this self-delusion, my imagination creating conviction where I have no proof? Or is this a gift from the glorious eye, inspiration linking my spirit to those of my foremothers?

  The Light of the World, Maker of Above and Below. The Ever-Moving, Source of Wind. The Ever-Standing, Foundation of All. The Endless Maw, Crown of the Abyss. If the last is, as the text has it, “the undoing of doing,” then it is destruction. If the earth is protector and guardian, as I have always known it to be, then it is preservation. If the sun is the active force, yang in Yelangese terms, the Maker of Above and Below, then it is creation. And if the wind is the mother of dragons, whose bodies mutate in response to their environments—a truth the Anevrai certainly knew—then it is change.

  Creation counterpoised with destruction. Preservation counterpoised with change. Our people, not only the children of the Light of the World, but also a balance of those latter two forces. Both the story I know and the one I have read agree on that point; they only differ in their account of which came first.

  What, then, of the khashetta Samšin encounters?

  Are they the children of the Endless Maw, as dragons are of the Ever-Moving and humans of the Ever-Standing? If we are the ideal balance of change and preservation, are they the imbalance? Or balance of a different sort?

  Did they ever exist?

  Do they exist today?

  I would say these questions are absurd. But fifty years ago, humans believed my own people to be mythical. How can I be certain the khashetta never lived—may not live still, somewhere deep within the earth, as yet unmet with some second Lady Trent?

  Such things must be the concern of others. My thoughts must be given to this translation, and to the gods we have lost.

  Whether we wish it or not, change will continue to come for my people. Source of Wind, help us meet it with grace.

  And whether we welcome it or not, destruction is inevitable—even if it is only of our old ways of living. Crown of the Abyss, help us give the past its proper rites, so that it will not haunt us in future days.

  FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST

  29 Graminis

  Dear Lord Gleinleigh: if you are reading this, I congratulate you on your determination. It can’t have been easy, finding someone both capable of reading Talungri and unethical enough to do so in my private diary. Unethical people are easy to come by, it seems, but the former should pose a challenge for your spies going forward.

  Cora, a spy! I can barely make myself write the words. Except it makes a hideous kind of sense, because now I know why Gleinleigh so unexpectedly suggested bringing Kudshayn here; he knew I was thinking about it, because I said as much in a letter to Papa, and Cora read that letter. And then it turns around and stops making sense again, because Gleinleigh is a Calderite, and why would one of them pretend to be in favour of such a thing? I can’t convince myself he was really in favour of it—that he is somehow reformed of his old ways—not when he’s been seen with Mrs. Kefford, not when Aaron Mornett was here, not when he has his ward reading my post in secret.

  I might never have known if I hadn’t noticed it was taking Cora far too long to return to the library. I’ve been keeping a list of other texts I’d like to consult in my large blue notebook, and I forgot to bring it downstairs today, so I asked Cora to go fetch it while Kudshayn and I tried to extract a few more readable signs from the damaged part of the next tablet. Then he got hot enough that his breathing started to get difficult, so he went down into the cellar, and then I realized Cora hadn’t come back yet. I assumed Mrs. Hilleck must have buttonholed her for some question of household management, so I went upstairs to fetch the notebook myself.

  And found Cora standing in the middle of my room, reading this diary.

  She couldn’t have looked more guilty if she tried. She dropped the diary on the floor and stood staring at me, while I tried to get the words “What do you think you’re doing?” out of my mouth. Before I could, she found her tongue, and started babbling:

  “It was blue! You told me to find your big blue notebook, and
I saw this first, and I thought, well, that’s blue, so I picked it up, and I knew it was too small, but I picked it up anyway, and when I opened it to be sure I had the wrong one I saw my name, and then I started reading—I know I shouldn’t have; I could tell it was a diary and diaries are private, but Uncle told me to read your letters—”

  “He told you to what?”

  Cora reddened and stood rigid, her shoulders up by her ears. “To read your letters. And to tell him if you told anyone anything about the tablets, or if you said anything unkind or suspicious about him.”

  I felt like someone had torn my skin off, exposing every nerve ending. “You’ve been spying on me.”

  “Not just you,” Cora said. “Kudshayn, too. Except he hasn’t been writing any letters, so I don’t think that counts—”

  My palm slapped the wall before I realized I was moving, silencing her. I had no patience just then for her hair-splitting. “All this time. You’ve pretended to be our friend, to be helping us—”

  “I was helping you—Uncle told me to—”

  “Damn your uncle!” It came out a shout. I wrestled my voice down with effort, because even then, I didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want to bring the entire household running to gawk. “And damn you, too. You’re a liar, Cora. You never told me he was a Calderite.”

  Her jaw clenched hard. “You never asked. I would have told you if you asked, though you would have had to explain, because I didn’t understand the word ‘Calderite’ until I read your diary.”

  “I’m supposed to believe that?” My body creaked with the strain as I stalked toward her. “You aren’t my friend, Cora. Friends don’t spy on each other—don’t work behind each other’s backs for their own profit.”

  She stood her ground, hands bunching into fists. “I’m not profiting! I’m just doing what Uncle told me to. But him telling me to spy on you wasn’t honest, and—”

  “And if I hadn’t caught you red-handed,” I spat, “would you have confessed any of this to me?”

  Cora’s mouth worked, but nothing came out.

  I don’t remember what I said after that. I know that it turned back into shouting, and the maids did come running after all, but by the time they got there I was shoving Cora out of my room and slamming the door; I have no idea what she told them. Kudshayn showed up not long after that and sat with me while I gasped the whole thing out to him, breathing even worse than he was, because all I could think about was the personal things I’ve said in my letters, to Lotte, to Papa, to Mama, and the even more personal things I’ve said in my diary. Things Cora has read, and told Gleinleigh about.

  Once I calmed down, Kudshayn went to talk to Cora. I think he hoped it would all turn out to be some kind of misunderstanding. But it isn’t, and he spent the rest of the day down in the cellar—I think he was praying. Because the earth is where you go when you need to be protected.

  I don’t feel safe anywhere here anymore, below ground or above. Stokesley feels like a trap now, and I can’t even write to anyone for help, because Cora can swear all she like that she’s going to stop reading my post and lie to her uncle, telling him that I’m not saying anything interesting, but I don’t believe her. I can’t. Because I trusted her, and this is what I got.

  Twice now. Twice I’ve been s

  I’ve told her to go away. She still lives here, of course, but I’m damned if I’m going to let her work with us anymore. Kudshayn and I can manage just fine on our own.

  TEN YEARS PREVIOUSLY

  From: Cora Fitzarthur

  To: Miranda Brell

  Dear Miranda,

  Before I went away you said I must write to you. I don’t know whether you meant that sincerely, or whether you only said that because it’s the sort of thing people are expected to say when someone goes to live somewhere else. I asked Mrs. Hilleck, the housekeeper here, and she said that of course you meant it. But I’m not sure how she can know that when she has never met you. When I said that to her, she got angry with me and said that only ungrateful little girls don’t write when someone has asked them to. I don’t want to be ungrateful, so I will write you this letter, and if you didn’t actually want me to then you can tear it up or burn it or whatever you like.

  Stokesley is a very grand house, much grander than mine the one I used to live in. It is not in the town itself, which is called Lower Stoke; it is a little way out into the countryside, with lots of fields and a little wood nearby, and it has some gardens that are very nice. The barn is falling down because Uncle does not like to ride and doesn’t keep any horses, so he says he will tear that down and build a greenhouse instead. I looked up what a greenhouse is, and it is a building made of glass so you can grow flowers even in the winter. That sounds nice, too, though I doubt Uncle cares very much about flowers.

  Is this a good letter? I cannot tell. I have only ever written short thank-you notes, and those only when Mama made me. Uncle has a very good library, so I looked in it for examples of letters, but the only ones he has are from hundreds of years ago. They are written with very bad spelling and lots of words I do not know. I don’t think I should use them for examples. Rebecca, who is one of the maids here, said there are novels full of wonderful letters where people pour their hearts out to each other, but Uncle doesn’t have any novels in his library—maybe that means it isn’t as good as I thought? Rebecca says she will borrow one from the circulating library in Upper Stoke when she has her next day off. But I’m not sure whether I am supposed to pour my heart out to you, or whether you want me to. It sounds painful, the way Rebecca describes it.

  I do not know what else to say, so I will end here. If you do not want me writing to you after all, then send me a note to say so. Otherwise I will write again.

  Sincerely,

  Cora

  Dear Miranda,

  I have not gotten a note from you asking me not to send you letters, so here is another one.

  Rebecca (the maid) keeps telling me I may cry on her shoulder if I wish. I do not wish. I am fairly sure Mrs. Hilleck thinks I am an ungrateful brat because I’m not sobbing over Mama and Papa, but just because I am not sobbing doesn’t mean I’m not sad. The truth is that I am sad all the time, from the moment I wake up until I go to sleep, and probably in my sleep, too, except I don’t remember my dreams. It simply doesn’t seem right that I will never see them again. It is one thing when people get killed because they have done something stupid, like fighting in a war or travelling to a foreign country, but they were on a train from Falchester. People ride the train from Falchester all the time and don’t die. It isn’t their fault that something went wrong with the track and the train derailed and killed them. Why should they be dead for something that isn’t their fault? That isn’t fair!

  I said that to Magister Ridson, who oversees the Assembly-House down in Lower Stoke, and he gave me a very long lecture about God and fairness and bad things happening to good people. I think he meant it to help me, but it didn’t. But writing a letter to you may help. It is sort of like crying on your shoulder, only without you getting snot and tears all over you, and you don’t have to feel awkward or embarrassed if you’d rather be doing something else. You can put this letter down and read it later, or tear it up. I won’t know.

  When I left school in Murresby I told you that I hoped I would be able to come back. I don’t know if I will. No one here seems to know what is going to become of me now that Mama and Papa are gone. Uncle is not even here right now, so I cannot ask him. He has gone off to the Continent, which I am told he does a lot. So it is only me and the servants, and although you know I do not like large groups of people, it turns out I can still get lonely if I am left to myself for long enough.

  I am sorry if this letter is depressing to read. Next time I will try to do better.

  Sincerely,

  Cora

  Dear Miranda,

  I will not be able to come back to Murresby.

  Uncle is back now from the Continent. He seemed almost
surprised to see me still here at Stokesley; I think he had quite forgotten that he had me brought here. He telephoned Mr. Thumree, his solicitor, and had Mr. Thumree come here, and then he (I mean Uncle) and Mr. Thumree and Mrs. Hilleck all went into a room and shut the door, and Rebecca the maid told me I wasn’t allowed to eavesdrop.

  When they were done they opened the door and Mrs. Hil leck told me to go in, then left me alone with Uncle and Mr. Thumree. He (I mean Mr. Thumree) then gave me a long, boring speech I didn’t really understand about Papa’s finances. All I really took from it was that Papa apparently owed a lot of people a lot of money—more money than he actually had, because he was very foolish with some of his investments. Which Mr. Thumree said was very bad of him, because the money for those investments had been loaned to him by Uncle, so that it was not fair of him to then lose it in speculations.

  But I did understand what it all means. I have no inheritance. There is no money to take care of me, much less send me back to school.

  I asked him what is going to become of me. Uncle spoke up then and said he could hardly throw his niece out onto the streets, so I am welcome to stay at Stokesley. He has never married, so there is no wife to take care of his household; Mrs. Hilleck does all that work, but I can assist her, because it is better for there to be someone watching the servants to make sure they don’t try to cheat their lord. I don’t know how to run a household, but Mr. Thumree said it is a great deal like accountancy, and you know I am good at things like figures and making lists.

  After that Mrs. Hilleck took me to Assembly and had Magister Ridson talk to me. He explained that it is very good of Uncle to take me in when Papa was so careless as to not make provisions for my future, and that I can thank him by being as obedient as if I were his own daughter. I told him I was not always obedient to Papa, and Magister Ridson got very stern and said I would have to do better than before. Were it not for Uncle I would not even have a roof over my head, so I mustn’t complain about not going back to school, but be grateful that he has taken me in, and must do everything I can to repay him for his generosity.