Turning Darkness into Light

by Marie Brennan

  So this will be the last letter you receive from me. Although there were lots of things I didn’t like about being at Murresby, writing to you reminds me of the things I did like, and then I’m sad that I will never see them again. If I am going to be properly grateful to Uncle, I need to stop thinking about what I can’t have anymore.

  And since I haven’t gotten any replies from you, I think it is likely that Mrs. Hilleck was wrong, and you only said to write because that is a thing people say when someone moves away. I apologize for troubling you with letters you didn’t want.

  I’m not very good at friends. But I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.

  Sincerely,

  Cora

  PRESENT DAY

  FOR THE ARCHIVES OF THE SANCTUARY OF WINGS

  written by Kudshayn, son of Ahheke, daughter of Iztam

  The questions of faith that consume me are no abstract philosophical matter. I see their implications at work all around me.

  Where once I would have interpreted the events I see only through my knowledge of the sun and the earth, they now take on additional dimensions, alternative understandings opening up before me. Is this the sun bringing me enlightenment, or is it the hand of the wind at work in my mind, in my heart, changing how I see? Is this rift between Audrey and Cora the work of the Endless Maw, the force of destruction?

  If so, then it seems fitting that I should pray to the earth, the Ever-Standing, the creator (perhaps) of humankind, to preserve the friendship between them, and not let it fall to bone dust.

  I believe their friendship is true—that Cora is sincere when she attributes her dishonesty to a sense of obedience to her uncle. She thinks in terms of rules, and the rules of friendship are unfamiliar to her, isolated as she has been at Stokesley. She knows them, but has never put them to such a test. And this test would be difficult for anyone.

  Though I may think of this in terms of theology, we cannot attribute all evil and ill-will to the power beneath the earth. Just as friendship is a human thing, so too is the earl’s malice. I believe it merits that name: he hides it well, but even before the dinner at Priorfield, I felt its presence. He does not like me. He brought me here only out of need, and while at first I thought that need was the understanding that one of my people should be a part of carrying this story into the light, now I am not certain.

  I said nothing to Audrey before, because it is tiresome for her to hear again and again that humans do not like me. She is more willing than I am to accept the surface pretense, the polite smiles and polite bows, without looking at what lies beneath. But I was not fair to her: she knows in her own way what it is to slide along the surface of a frozen lake, always aware that the solidity beneath your feet is just a mask for the icy water below.

  I pray for forgiveness. I should have spoken sooner; it might have prevented some of this harm.

  Bright mirror, shine your radiance into the depths of Lord Gleinleigh’s heart, so we may drag what lies there into the light. Dark stillness, do not let Audrey forget what she has shared with Cora; do not let her cast aside the proofs of sincerity and warmth. Keep them safe for her until she is ready to see them again.

  However many doubts I may have, I believe that in this case I am right to pray only to those two. Change may come, but the earth will hold what must be preserved. Destruction may threaten, but creation will follow.

  Though I have been mistaken on so many other matters, I hope that in this one I am not wrong.

  Tablet XI: “The Return Tablet”

  translated by Audrey Camherst and Kudshayn

  Nothing barred their way as they ascended. They came out through the gate made from the bones of issur, bound with strips of āmu skin. They came into the lands of the living once more, and the Light of the World returned to the sky. But the Crown of the Abyss had claim to it, and so it left the heavens every night. The Maker of Above and Below did not want the people to be without light in times of darkness, and so it took Ektabr’s ghost, his echo, his memory, the brother of the four, and set that in the sky as well, as a comfort and a reminder of what had been lost.

  The sisters went back to their people. They embraced Samšin with their wings; they embraced Nahri with their wings; they embraced Imalkit with their wings. They looked around, but they did not see Ektabr. Samšin said, “He remained in the underworld. The price of light was our brother.”

  Together they mourned Ektabr. They made offerings to the underworld, and recited prayers, and performed rites, in memory of Ektabr. This was the beginning of such things in the world.

  It was a time of many changes. Imalkit had created the shaping of metal, and because of her the people had tools of copper and bronze and iron in the days to come. She made for herself new wings, taking the place of those that had been broken by crawling through the underworld. Nahri had created the cultivation of plants, and because of her the people had wheat and barley and dates in the days to come. She made for herself and Imalkit healing poultices, mending the harm done to them by the fettra that guards the abyss. Samšin had created justice, and because of her the people had laws and punishments and righ teousness in the days to come. She made, not for herself but for all, a [. . .]

  All these things began on that day. And they began [. . .]

  [. . .] of the wild, beneath the leaves of the trees [. . .]

  [. . .]

  [. . .] at the heart of the people. In the underworld I passed through a chamber awash [. . .] in the underworld Nahri [. . .] passed by [. . .]

  [. . .] Hastu [. . .]

  [. . .] lands of the dead [. . .]

  [. . .]

  [. . .] our mother Peli [. . .]

  [. . .] defeated [. . .] of ignorance [. . .]

  [. . .] no longer the eyes that may be open [. . .] for who you are, šiknas [. . .]

  [. . .]

  [. . .]

  [. . .] to the Crown of the Abyss with [. . .]

  [. . .] people left [. . .]

  FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST

  4 Messis

  There’s no hope for it; the eleventh tablet is just too badly damaged. We might puzzle out another sign here and there over time, at least to the point of an educated guess, but we’ll never be able to tell what the whole thing says.

  (And I keep thinking, “But Cora has such good eyes; maybe she’ll be able to piece together a bit more.” Then I remember that she’s a spy and Gleinleigh is up to something and the only person here I can trust is Kudshayn. I’m not asking her for help.)

  We can tell it’s something about Hastu, at least in part; we’ve got his name, and we’ve got that word šiknas again. When I asked Kudshayn what he thought, he said, “This might be the point at which that epithet is bestowed on him.”

  To which I objected, “But the text has been using it all along.”

  “Yes, but why should that matter? The invocation references the siblings long before they appear; the same might be true for this, especially since it allows the scribe to give Hastu four uses of his name, once alone and then with three epithets. Surrendering precision for the sake of a poetic device is hardly unusual.”

  I felt like complaining that it might be poetic, but it was confusing—I think Cora has rubbed off on me. I was not about to tell Kudshayn that, though, because he mopes around being sad that I’m not talking to her anymore. (For someone who has often been on the receiving end of human untrustworthiness, he’s far more willing to forgive her than I am.) Instead I said, “I cannot shake the feeling that this section would explain that epithet. ‘For who you are, šiknas’—doesn’t that sound like they’re naming him somehow?”

  Kudshayn only shrugged. “I will look at the next section and see if there is anything of use.”

  But there isn’t. It’s clear even from a glance that the text continues on to something else entirely. Unless we stumble into a full repetition on some tablet in another collection, we’re out of luck—and I don’t think that’s likely.

  Unless . . .
wait.

  All these things began on that day. Writing, and metallurgy, and planting crops—and justice. I read something about this, I know I did. The cliff inscription from Ma’ale Tizafim? No, not that; it was a law code, but not what I’m thinking of. A narrative bit, only I can’t remember the details. Why can’t I remember them? Why does my memory have as many holes as that tablet?

  later

  THE BEGINNING OF JUSTICE!

  That was it. A fragment of tablet that told the story of “the first judgment spoken.” And the reason I can’t remember any more details is there weren’t any; the fragment is in the hands of a private collector. (Not Gleinleigh—someone else.) It’s never been properly studied and published, at least not that I remember; just a brief mention of it from somebody—Daniela Isaquez, I think—who was allowed to take a brief look at it. Where was that notice? In Studies in Ancient Jurisprudence no, that letter from Elias Eells. Two years ago, or thereabouts, because it was after I came back from the Broken Sea. Once I write to him—and I’ll take the letter to the post office myself this time, rather than trusting it to Cora to handle—I’ll know who has the fragment. Then we’ll find out which is stronger: Gleinleigh’s desire to control this information, or his desire to have the whole story of these tablets published. (I do still believe he wants them published, even if I don’t quite understand why.)

  Good God, it’s three in the morning. I can’t do anything about this right now; I should try to go back to sleep. It isn’t quite worth waking Kudshayn over.

  From: Marcus Fitzarthur, Lord Gleinleigh

  To: Audrey Camherst

  6 Messis

  8 Wenbury Square, Falchester

  Dear Miss Camherst,

  Even an amateur like myself could see that some of my tablets were badly damaged; I had no particular hope of you being able to read much out of them, and do not blame you for your failure to do so. The fault lies with the man I hired to conserve them, who clearly made some sort of error with that one, as it was not in so bad a state when I found it.

  But I confess I am not quite sure I follow what you mean about this fragmentary tablet in Mr. Lepperton’s collection: you are not claiming he somehow has the flakes that were knocked off the surface of this tablet, nor that he has a fragment from a copy of the same text, but rather that this is something entirely separate? And yet you believe it will shed light on my own tablets. In the same manner, perhaps, as studying the libretto of Eiskönigin would shed light on its source text, the Winterlied —would you say that is a fair comparison?

  If so, then this is a most unexpected development. Some of my delay in responding is because I met with Mr. Lepperton and offered him a substantial sum for his tablet, but I’m afraid the man bears me a grudge due to a bidding war over some statuary a few years back, and he turned me down flat. (In hindsight, it might have been wiser to have Dr. Cavall at the Tomphries approach him on your behalf.) I am not at all certain you will have any better luck, but I must concede that it would be advantageous to have at least a guess at what the damaged text says before the whole translation is published.

  That having been said, it is absurd for you to claim no forward progress can occur until this has been resolved. You have the rest of the tablets; surely they are enough to keep you occupied for quite some time. But I am sensible of your point that Mr. Lepperton is known to travel to Eiverheim in the summertime, and may not be available before long, so I suggest a compromise: you may come to Falchester and attempt to persuade him to grant you access to the tablet, while Kudshayn continues working at Stokesley. That way the translation does not halt entirely while you attempt to patch this hole.

  If that compromise is agreeable to you, then I will make arrangements for you to come here by train. I would of course like you to keep your visit as brief as possible; as you yourself have noted, the translation proceeds more quickly with more than one set of eyes on it, and I would not want this to delay it any more than necessary.

  I hope I need not remind you that our previous agreement remains in force. I have no doubt that many people here will want to know details of your work—your own family not least among them—but surely an honourable young woman such as yourself would not go back on her word, whatever my previous missteps may have been.

  Cordially,

  Marcus Fitzarthur

  Lord Gleinleigh

  FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST

  10 Messis

  Free air at last! Stokesley has become so claustrophobia-inducing since Cora’s confession; it was an unspeakable relief to see it receding into the distance and know that I will not have to go back for several days at least. If only it did not feel like I’m leaving Kudshayn to play hostage for my good behaviour in Falchester.

  I intend to behave . . . mostly. I haven’t even smuggled out the copies of our papers—though admittedly that’s in part because I haven’t had time to make copies of all of them. But I’m also worried that other people in Gleinleigh’s employ might go through my things and be looking especially for me to break my word now, so instead Kudshayn has been hiding our papers when he goes on his morning walks in the woods behind Stokesley.

  Paranoia? Perhaps. But I had rather give in to a little paranoia and later find out it wasn’t necessary than fail to take these precautions and regret it in the end.

  Anyway, I will keep my word to Gleinleigh insofar as I will not say anything to anyone about Samšin and Nahri and Imalkit and Ektabr, or the fact that the tablets describe the origins of various civilized technologies and practices. (What would happen if I did? I may know the sorts of ink-nosed people who would find that absolutely fascinating, but it isn’t as if I’d be giving away the secrets of dragonbone synthesis.) I did not, however, promise to keep my mouth shut about Gleinleigh himself, and I intend to ask for advice on that front from all the people closest to me.

  I have already done so a little, because of course everyone here at Clarton Square wanted to hear all about my work before the door had closed behind me. I reminded them that I am sworn to secrecy; Papa shrugged, Mama said that was absurd, and Lotte said she thought it all sounded wonderfully mysterious. I said, “There is mystery in prothetic anaptyxis and Early Draconean vowel harmony, but not the kind any sensible person would enjoy,” and she laughed. (I have missed Lotte! She is thriving here, as I knew she would. And she has several beaus, though I would bet my favourite pen I know which one she’ll choose.)

  But I waited until dinnertime to tell them what I’ve learned about Gleinleigh, and about Cora. Papa said, “He visited the offices of Carrigdon and Rudge recently—I presume he chose them because they’ve also been publishing Mother’s memoirs. So I doubt he lied about his intent to publish the translation. And it makes sense to do that before the congress, if he can. But profiting off the excitement over Draconeans coming here doesn’t sound like the kind of thing a dyed-in-the-wool Calderite would do.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to get ahead of Mrs. Kefford somehow,” Lotte said. “You should hear the stories people have told me—not about those two specifically, but that whole set. They’re all dreadful rivals, because they think of the artifacts and such as ways of keeping score, not as things with intellectual or scholarly value.”

  (I had to hide a grin when she said that. Lotte is the least scholarly of us, but she has inherited in full the Camherst/Trent disdain for people who put egotism ahead of the advancement of knowledge.)

  Then I thought about what she’d said. “Perhaps . . . I can certainly see him as that sort of man, and it would explain why he’s going to such lengths to make certain I don’t share anything. But in what world would I talk to someone like Mrs. Kefford?”

  “To influence her husband?” Lotte said. “He was recently named the Dissenting Speaker, so unless something changes between now and the congress, he’ll be at the head of the anti-Draconean vote.”

  I can’t blame my ignorance on being cooped up at Stokesley; I wouldn’t have paid attention to Synedrion politics
even if I were in Falchester. But if Gleinleigh thinks I could make a dent in Mr. Kefford’s bigotry, he has a higher opinion of my abilities than I do, and I said so.

  Mama said, “I am surprised he was willing to let you come here at all. For all he knows, you could be telling us the whole tale right now.”

  “He knows she’s too honourable for that,” Lotte said.

  I snorted. “Maybe—but I think it’s more an attempt to repair the damage Lady Plimmer caused. Not to mention Cora.”

  “Not her,” Lotte said stoutly. “From what you’ve said in your letters, I believe she meant it when she said she wouldn’t tell him. After all, she didn’t have to tell you that she’d read your diary and your letters. Why do that, and then go on telling her uncle everything?”

  “You don’t know Cora,” I said darkly. “Who can understand how she thinks?”

  Except I can, if I let myself. She is very fond of rules and routine, and Gleinleigh had set her a rule. But there are other rules, less explicit ones, about honesty and friendship, and she said herself that those were what motivated her to tell me. I just—

  I can’t deal with betrayal. Not from someone I thought was a friend. I’ve been through it before, and the thought that I’ve been foolish enough to let it happen again is . . . “unbearable” doesn’t come close to summing it up. I can’t even bring myself to admit this openly to my family, and they of all people would understand. But I suspect they can guess it anyway, because they know me so well.

  Enough of that. I have work to do; I should write to Mr. Lepperton so it can go out with the morning post (nobody reading my letters here!), and hope that he either doesn’t know I’m working for Gleinleigh, or doesn’t hold it against me. Even if he does, though, I think I can get around him. I didn’t tell Gleinleigh this, because I suspected he would do exactly what he did and try to get the tablet himself so I wouldn’t have to come to Falchester . . . but I have the perfect lever to move Lepperton onto my side.