4 Odd. I would expect the usual directional associations of the colours, but all of these are said to lie to the south, and black is omitted. Because Ektabr is dead? But that does not explain the focus on the south.—K
5 Didn’t they use to do things together? Now Samšin’s giving orders.—CF
Modern Draconean society is ruled by sister-groups at the local level, a council of elder females at the top. But in the past there seems to have been a single queen assisted by her sisters—or possibly some of them were termed “sisters” as a courtesy title, rather than hatching from the same clutch or other clutches of the same mother—so this may be the beginning of that.—K
It seems very unfair to Nahri and Imalkit.—CF
Politics and governance are rarely fair.—K
6 We know that Anevrai society at its height was separated by caste and rigidly governed by a system of etiquette; I suppose this is crediting those later developments to the mythical founder, as a method of legitimizing them. It suggests that this section of the text, at least, is a product of the classic period.—K
7 Unquestionably a volcanic eruption, then, and not a solar eclipse. At least in the symbolism of the myth—that does not guarantee any kind of factual truth behind it.—K
Especially since that’s not how you make a volcano erupt. Or at least I don’t think it is. How do you make a volcano erupt? Has anybody ever done it on purpose?—CF
Not that I know of.—K
FOR THE ARCHIVES OF THE SANCTUARY OF WINGS
written by Kudshayn, son of Ahheke, daughter of Iztam
For the first time in my life, I find myself wishing I had come from my shell female.
Ever since our re-emergence into the world of humans, one biological fact of our species—that eighty percent of our hatchlings are female—has dominated their perception of us. The presumed “kings” of ancient history have been revealed as queens, and human prejudices against the female sex have caused them to find that fact remarkable. Cartoonists use it as fodder for their jokes, and Hadamists as fuel for their hatred.
Now we have this tale: the origin of those queens. A chance at last to tell our own story, to give humanity an image of our foremothers that is neither the cruel tyrant of their Scriptures, nor the exaggerated figure of a newspaper cartoon.
Or so I once hoped.
But as I work, I can see the tyrant taking shape in Samšin. She who was once praised for her courage and leadership is hardening into a figure of authority and command, superior to even her own sisters. In other circumstances, this would merely be a matter of historical and philosophical interest . . . but it will have repercussions this winter, when the elders of the Sanctuary come to Falchester.
They will be the first females of my people most members of the congress have encountered—the first of my people altogether. And when those humans look at the elders, they will see what stories have conditioned them to see: Draconean queens. The tyrants of Scripture, reinforced by this tale. I already know from Lady Trent that human governments have assumed, again and again, that a single person must lead our land; the existence of the council confuses them. Had Samšin remained equal with Nahri and Imalkit, it might have gone some way toward helping humanity understand how we govern ourselves, because stories shape our perceptions more than we like to admit.
Had I been female, I might have done more to counteract those assumptions. But I am a priest, not a queen, and Teslit’s health prevents her from acting as my counterpart. She is more like Nahri than Samšin—but I fear that in the days to come, Nahri and Imalkit will be forgotten, and only Samšin remembered.
Radiant fire, help humans see beyond her. Help them see the elders as they truly are: sisters in heart if not in shell, chosen for their wisdom rather than their force, governing in cooperation rather than domination. Do not let this one tale shape our future as well as our past.
FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST
24 Messis
A fine, a written apology, and never setting foot on the grounds of the Selwright Hotel again: that is the price of my indiscretions. I’ve gotten off lightly, and Papa has made certain I know it.
I should go back to Stokesley. Gleinleigh is furious with me—he says it’s because of the delay, but I have to assume he also realizes I’m onto him, Mornett, and Mrs. Kefford. I can’t tell whether I would learn more by staying here, or by returning to work. The one thing I’m certain of is that this all has to do with the epic somehow. Simeon says Alan found nothing of use out in the Qajr, but maybe if I look more closely at the tablets I’ll understand how.
But the choice isn’t entirely mine to make. The scandal would fade out of the public eye more rapidly if I left town, but Lotte insists that I accompany her to the race at Chiston the day after tomorrow. She is determined to brazen the whole mess out; when Papa suggested that it might not be the best thing for me to show my face at the last great event of the Season, she swore up and down that she would not have the world thinking she has turned her back on me. I almost wish Gleinleigh would come here and try to demand my return, just so I could watch him lose an argument to my little sister. There’s no shifting Lotte when she’s like this—it’s all sails spread with a following wind.
My head is all in a muddle at this point. The truth is, I don’t want to go back and be cooped up in Stokesley again. Even the tablets are not the temptation they ought to be, because of . . .
All right. Lotte, if you are reading this, three things. First, you have broken your promise to stop sneaking looks at my diary, and I hope you’re ashamed of yourself. Second, I’m glad you’re keeping up your Talungri, rather than letting it rust. And third, you are utterly forbidden to tell Father what I did this afternoon, when I told him I was going for a walk to clear my head.
I did go for a walk—straight to the nearest streetcar stop, and then to the Selwright. I didn’t step over the property line, but I waited across the street at a very mediocre little café. And I think Mornett must have known that I would, because when he came out of the hotel about half an hour later, he spotted me immediately, and came over to talk to me.
I’d spent that half hour thinking about what to say to him. When he came within range, I didn’t waste time saying hello or anything foolish like that. I just asked him, point-blank: “Are you still friends with Zachary Hallman?”
And it worked. I caught him off guard; he wasn’t expecting the question and didn’t control his reaction as well as he might have. I saw . . . shock, naturally, but also guilt—and also, I think, disgust. As if he was horrified that I should ask him that.
Then he reddened, because of course anger was the next thing to come along. “Have you been reading my letters?”
He sounded a little bit afraid, too. He’d been approaching my table like he meant to sit down with me, but now he stood poised like he might run. I said, as icily as I could manage, “No. Unlike some people, I don’t stoop that low.” (I would have if he’d given me another thirty seconds that night, but Mornett doesn’t need to know that.) “I only saw it on your desk when I went to put the cylinder seal back. I thought you cut ties with Hallman years ago.”
“I did,” Mornett snapped. “It’s only—”
“Only what?” I said. I should have let him keep talking, because he might have given something away . . . but I’d spent the entire trip to the Selwright and that half hour in the café planning out what I would say, and it came out by reflex. “Only a scheme you cooked up with Gleinleigh?”
Mornett recoiled, and I pressed my advantage. “Did you put him in touch with Hallman? Somebody must have tipped the Hadamists to Kudshayn’s arrival. What was the plan—that Gleinleigh would heroically save the day and look like a great friend to Draconeans, instead of a Calderite? So terribly sorry that I made a hash of that by charging in.”
“And getting yourself hurt,” he said furiously.
“Very fine of you to care about me being hurt now,” I snapped.
He jerked as if I�
�d slapped him. “Are you talking about five years ago? Audrey, that was a misunderstanding—”
A misunderstanding! Sometimes I honestly think he believes that—believes the calculations for the draconic year were his own, or at least that he had the idea and I just did the maths. He can delude himself into anything.
I almost started that argument all over again, even though I know it will never go anywhere useful. But Mornett kept talking, saying, “Whatever you may think of me, Audrey, I have no desire to see you get your head bashed in with a brick. Hallman’s a contemptible ass; what redeeming characteristics he had when we were at school have been strangled by this religious mania of his. I wrote to him after that mess in Ventis because I wanted him to know that if he ever hurts you again, I will—”
“Will what?” I shot to my feet, knocking my coffee cup over when I hit the table. “Mr. Mornett. Get this through your dragonbone skull: you have absolutely no right to defend me. You are not my brother or my cousin, and you will never be my husband, whatever you may have thought five years ago. You are not even my friend. To this day you have not apologized for your intellectual dishonesty, and if you said the words I wouldn’t believe them, because I don’t think you recognize what you did wrong. Nor does the mere fact of not being as bad as Hallman make you a friend to the Draconeans. I have no use for you. My biggest mistake the other night wasn’t breaking into your room; it was ever thinking that you had anything of value to offer me. But I am done thinking that now.”
And then I stormed away.
Lotte, I almost hope you are reading this, even though you promised not to, because then you will know all of this without me having to tell you. I don’t know if I could get the words out in person, not even with you. I don’t know how much of what I said to Mornett I actually meant. I still don’t trust him, and I think he did arrange the whole thing with Gleinleigh, because otherwise it’s too much of a coincidence that the Hadamists were there, that their leader was Mornett’s school friend, that Mornett came to Stokesley that night to shout at Gleinleigh.
But at the same time, it destroys me that he’s wasting a mind like his on the Mrs. Keffords of the world, on trying to assert human superiority over Draconeans, on passing other people’s work off as his own when he’s perfectly capable of great achievements without that. He would be a lovely human being, and not just in the physical sense, if he weren’t so determined to be un-lovely all the time.
No, I am not over him. I keep telling myself that I am, but it’s a lie. I don’t like him, but I keep reaching for the kind of peace that will make me be all right with not liking him, and it keeps escaping me.
I should never have gone to the auction.
From: Charlotte Camherst
To: Isabella, Lady Trent
27 Messis
#3 Clarton Square
Dear Grandmama,
I am so sorry for bothering you with this when I know the preparations for the congress have you flying all over the world, but I’m afraid I desperately need your advice—not for myself, but for Audrey.
By the time my letter reaches you I expect you’ll have heard about what happened with her and Aaron Mornett, sneaking into his hotel room and all. And you probably also heard about the riot and the Hadamists back in Ventis, when Audrey got her nose broken—from the newspapers if nowhere else. But there’s more going on than just that, which you probably don’t know anything about, unless Papa has mentioned it to you in his letters. Or Audrey, but she would have had to have done it while she was here in Falchester, because while she’s at Stokesley there’s someone reading her mail to make sure she doesn’t spill any details about what she’s doing, and oh, things have gotten so complicated. And some of it may be my fault, because I’m the one who insisted Audrey stay for the race at Chiston, instead of going back to work.
This is all out of order. I’m sorry.
Audrey thinks there is some kind of conspiracy going on between Lord Gleinleigh, Aaron Mornett, and Mrs. Kefford. She may be right; they’ve all been behaving very oddly, and we know they’ve talked to one another. (And to Zachary Hallman, that Hadamist stink.) That’s why she broke into Mornett’s room, because she wanted to know what they were up to.
I should have known it was more of the same when she showed up this morning for the race. She was covered from head to foot, with gloves and long sleeves and a long skirt and the most modest broad-brimmed hat you can imagine—and I know for a fact she doesn’t own anything like that get-up; she must have gone and bought it specially. At the time I thought it was just because she wanted to avoid gossip about her arrest. Let’s face it: she and I are hardly inconspicuous, and while swathing herself in fabric wasn’t exactly subtle (nor could it have been at all comfortable), it did at least mean she couldn’t be spotted from across the field. It seemed terribly unlike her to hide from the gossips like that, but I chalked it up to her being so rattled by Mornett.
Except this is Audrey. I should have known better.
We went to the racecourse. A few months ago it would have been thrilling for me, so many fine people in so many fine outfits, but after a whole Season of things like this, I have to admit that even I’m a bit worn down. I didn’t object at all when Audrey asked if I would mind her wandering about; I was content to sit with Mama and enjoy the sunshine. Audrey, I assumed, just didn’t want to stay in one place where it would be easy to spot her—we’d already had more than a few ladies whispering behind their fans at us.
But when they started the preliminary races and she didn’t come back, I got more and more worried. What if she was hiding somewhere, miserable because I’d dragged her out in public when she would rather have gone back to her tablets? Finally I told Mama I was going to go look for her and set off.
If Audrey had really wanted to hide, she would have left the Royal Enclosure and gone somewhere else on the premises. I was prepared to chase her down anywhere, even if it meant missing the main race. But as it happened, no sooner did I go into the gallery under the viewing stands than I saw her up ahead, walking slowly but very steadily through the crowd.
Maybe it would have been better if I’d left her to it—I don’t know. I almost did. But I had fixed in my mind that I was going to apologize for making her come, and so I trotted to catch up with her.
When I caught her sleeve, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Then she said, “Lotte! What are you doing? Leave me alone.”
I would have taken that as hurtful, except that she was craning her neck while she said it. Foolishly, I said, “Are you looking for someone?”
“Following her, is more like,” Audrey said, and pulled free of my hand. “I saw her snarling at Gleinleigh earlier, but couldn’t get close enough to hear. And she’s been talking to various members of the Synedrion—I’ve been keeping track of whom, so I can figure out whether—” She stamped her foot in sudden frustration. “Blast! You’ve made me lose sight of her.”
I am terribly slow on the uptake. There may be scads of people in the Royal Enclosure on race day, because anyone who can get in is sure to do so—but how many of them would Audrey be trailing? Wrapped up in garments that make it as difficult as possible to recognize her?
When you limit it to women, the answer is “one.” But my mouth works faster than my brain, and so I said, “What? Lost sight of whom?”
And then I saw her, but not soon enough to warn Audrey.
“Me, I suspect,” said Mrs. Kefford, in that careless drawl of hers. “Miss Camherst. I thought I saw you flailing along behind me like a duckling. My dear, if you have something to say to me, don’t be shy; come up and say it in person.”
Of course she was flawlessly dressed, not in the latest fashions—she’s too old to carry those off without people whispering about mutton dressed up as lamb—but managing to look elegant rather than old-fashioned in her swan-bill corset. It would be so much easier to shrug off her nastiness if she didn’t always dress so smartly. And with Audrey standing there looking as dowdy as a sc
hoolmistress, I’m sure it only made things worse.
“My apologies, Mrs. Kefford,” I said hastily, trying to save the situation. “Audrey and I were just—”
“Spying on me?” she said, smiling faintly. “You’re really much better suited to skulking about at night, my dear. This is not your milieu.”
I went hot all over. Trust Mrs. Kefford to find a way to allude to Audrey’s break-in and scorn us for being half Utalu, all in one nasty sentence. But Audrey didn’t even turn a hair. She only said, “And neither are Draconean affairs yours, but you persist on poking your nose into them anyway. Lately it seems like everywhere I turn, I find your dirty fingerprints all around my work.”
She gave her high, mocking laugh, the one that sounds like crystal breaking. “My dirty fingerprints? I believe yours are the ones now on file with the Falchester police. You are the one invading people’s private affairs, Miss Camherst, not me: following them around, trying to listen in on their conversations, reading their letters . . .”
Audrey pounced on that. “You must have me confused with—”
I’m sure she was about to say “Lord Gleinleigh” or “Cora Fitzarthur.” I don’t know why she stopped herself, unless it’s because Cora promised not to tell her uncle she admitted to reading Audrey’s letters on his orders, and Audrey didn’t want to give that away if Cora hadn’t.
The problem is, stopping allowed Mrs. Kefford an opening. The whole conversation was like a tennis match, except with a bomb in place of a ball, and Audrey gave up a good volley when there were only a few seconds left on the fuse. Mrs. Kefford isn’t the kind of person to let something like that go to waste, and I knew, as she stepped in and laid a mock-friendly hand on Audrey’s arm, that the bomb was about to go off.
“You know,” she said, “you don’t need to invent conspiracies just so you have an excuse to see him. Aaron’s still quite smitten with you—as you are with him, clearly, going to his hotel room like that so late at night.”
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