Turning Darkness into Light

by Marie Brennan

  No. The purpose of revealing the blood that has always been there.

  I cannot take pleasure in the wonders of that ancient civilization, celebrating the greatness our foremothers achieved. The accusations are true. We were not merely tyrants; we burned slaves for our triumph. Just as the Hadamists have always claimed.

  It does no good to say that we are different today. For those who hold our fate in the palm of their hand, the past is all they will see.

  It is all I can see.

  Forgive us. Forgive me.

  FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST

  3 Fructis

  Human sacrifice.

  All those fire-blackened pillars, all the arguments about whether some of the holes that pierce them were made to hold chains. All the ambiguous wall paintings and cryptic references in fragmented texts. The debate is over.

  That’s what Gleinleigh’s been waiting for us to find. A confession—no, a boast—that the Anevrai practiced human sacrifice. They burned people alive for the glory of their sun god, to prove they were the most powerful and beloved creatures in existence.

  It isn’t like human beings have never done the same thing. We have, in more than one part of the world, with fire and sharp knives and strangulation and drowning. But it doesn’t matter whether our own ancestors were just as bad sometimes. People will only care that this proves the Anevrai were monsters.

  And I helped prove it.

  I wish I had never come here.

  I wish I had never asked Kudshayn to come.

  FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST

  4 Fructis

  Lord Gleinleigh is due back at Stokesley tomorrow. If I were feeling paranoid, I’d swear he’s been calculating the exact day we were likely to finish, and planning his return so he can scoop up our notes and run off with them in triumph.

  Whether he has or not, it doesn’t matter. Kudshayn and I are out of time.

  I went to his refrigerated room today, even though it’s windowless and miserable and of course freezing, because he’s coping with enough already; he doesn’t need to be uncomfortably hot on top of everything else. I brought my coat and sat on one of the stools, and then we were both silent for a painfully long time, because neither of us wanted to speak.

  He looked awful. Draconeans don’t show it the way humans do when they haven’t been sleeping, with dark circles under their eyes and the like, but his scales were dull and he slumped like it was taking all the energy he had just to sit upright. I wanted to put my wings around him; I wanted to have wings I could put around him. Instead I sat close to him and wished I could do something that would set everything right.

  But I’d been thinking about it all night, and when I finally got up this morning it was clear to me that there is only one thing we could do to minimize the damage.

  “I refuse to let them use me like this,” I said at last. It wasn’t any of the dozen ways I’d thought about broaching the topic, but the words simply came out. “I’ve been Aaron Mornett’s patsy before; I won’t let him do that to me again. The same goes for Gleinleigh and Mrs. Kefford. I won’t play their game.”

  Kudshayn shifted on his seat. “What do you mean?”

  My stomach churned. I didn’t even eat breakfast this morning, that’s how tense I was, and normally my appetite can survive anything. “Gleinleigh wants to defame your people in the public eye right before the congress. But if that were all he wanted, then he could have published Mornett’s translation. He hired me, and then he hired you, because he wants us to lend weight to the whole thing. Mornett isn’t famous, and the people who do recognize his name mostly know he’s a Calderite and plagiarist. If he said the Anevrai practiced human sacrifice, people would question it—at least some of them would. But if it comes from us . . .” My hands knotted tight. “We can’t stop Gleinleigh from publishing whatever Mornett has. But we can stop him from using our own names and reputations.”

  Kudshayn’s wings stirred, then tucked in again. “We signed a contract with him.”

  “Damn the contract,” I said violently. “Let him sue me. I guarantee you my family will pay.”

  For all his worldly ways, Kudshayn still isn’t very familiar with human laws and courts and the ways they can be used to drag things out for years. He said, “But Gleinleigh has a right to publish what we’ve produced.”

  “He can’t publish it if we destroy our papers.”

  Kudshayn shot to his feet, wings unfurling. There isn’t space for them in that room; they hit the walls, bruisingly hard. “Audrey—”

  If I’d wanted to face him down, I would have stood and spread my arms, in imitation of his wings. Instead I kept them close by my sides and remained on the stool. “I walked right into their trap, Kudshayn, and I invited you into it, too. Because—because—”

  I went over this a hundred times in the night, trying to steel myself to do what was necessary. Forcing myself to say it still carved me apart. “Because I wanted to make my own name with this translation. I thought, if I do this, I’ll finally feel like I can live up to the reputation of my family—be worthy of my father, my mother, my grandfather, my grandmother. They’ve all done such amazing things, and what have I done?”

  Kudshayn was silent. I didn’t dare look up to see whether he was searching for a reply or waiting for me to be done. I said miserably, “I know I’m young; I know there are decades left for me to do something impressive. But there was this chance, right there in front of me, and I wanted to grab it. Only—” I had to try three times before the rest of it would come out. “Not if it hurts you. No amount of reputation and acclaim is worth doing that. I’d rather shred all the work we’ve done and never speak of it again than be the hand holding the blade that goes through your heart. So if you say the word, Kudshayn, I’ll do it. I’ll destroy all our copies, all our notes, and tell Gleinleigh he can go whistle for his tale.”

  The soft sound above me was Kudshayn folding his wings. No need to keep them outstretched in the cold, because there wasn’t any confrontation. Whatever he decided, I would do it. The choice was his, not mine—because the epic belongs to the Draconean people, not mine.

  I sat in the freezing air and waited.

  Then his hands came down and wrapped around my wrists, tugging gently. I let him bring me to my feet, then followed as he opened the door and led me out into the bright, hot air.

  The cave is where you go to think things through, to contemplate your options. Decisions get made under the sun.

  Out in the garden, Kudshayn turned to face me, holding both my hands in his own. It was a blazing, muggy day, the kind that brings sweat out all over me; I could hear his breathing strain almost immediately. I didn’t want him to stay out there any longer than he had to, so I forced myself to raise my eyes. He still looked tired—but also at peace, for the first time in weeks.

  When he spoke, it was in his own language. “Audrey. I know how much this work means to you, and how much it must hurt you to talk of destroying it. That you are willing to do so . . . that is a gift whose value I will remember forever.”

  Sweat beaded on my skin, but inside I was a block of ice.

  He closed his eyes and tipped his face up to the sun. Then he said, “We will publish the translation.”

  All the breath went out of me. I mouthed what?—there was no air to give it voice.

  Kudshayn gripped my hands hard. “Sooner or later, the truth will come out. Hiding from it will not save us; this ghost from my people’s past will haunt us until we lay it to rest.”

  “But the ghost doesn’t have to come out now,” I protested. “Not when the governments of the world are about to decide your people’s future.”

  He shrugged sadly. “I wish it could have been otherwise. But in the end . . . this is part of our past, whether we are proud to admit it or not. Whatever our place is to be in the world, it must be a place we can claim with honesty, not one we slip into on the basis of a lie.”

  I could barely find any words.
I spent hours last night imagining different ways this conversation might go, a dozen different variations—but none of them went like this, with Kudshayn arguing in favour of walking into the trap. “It isn’t a lie! It’s just—”

  “A lie of omission, instead of commission?” His breath rasped in and out. “That kind of manipulation, that dishonesty . . . it is the sort of thing they would do.”

  Gleinleigh. Mornett. Mrs. Kefford and all the other Calderites. Hadamists like Zachary Hallman. Picking and choosing their history to support the tale they want to tell, one where humans deserve to have everything and the Draconeans get nothing except what we give them. Making this story public will serve their ends—but concealing it would be using their methods.

  “Damn it,” I said. The words came out thick, and I realized I had teared up. “Why do we have to be the ethical ones?”

  “Because Samšin promised the world justice,” he said softly. “And even if she brought cruelty in the end, that does not make her promise any less worthy.”

  This isn’t justice. Justice would be Gleinleigh and Mornett and Mrs. Kefford failing in their plans and being driven from the public sphere. Justice would be the Draconeans having their own nation, a true sanctuary for their people.

  Maybe that latter can still happen. They have Grandmama and Grandpapa on their side, and all the human allies those two can bring to bear. They have allies of their own, especially in Yelang.

  But I don’t hold out much hope.

  DRACONEAN HISTORY REVEALED

  Lord Gleinleigh’s Tablets Scheduled for Publication

  Lady Trent’s Granddaughter, Translator

  “Fit to stand among the epics of the world”

  Carrigdon and Rudge, publishers of the memoirs of Lady Trent, announced today that they will soon be printing a translation of the tablets discovered by Marcus Fitzarthur, Lord Gleinleigh, in the Qajr region of Akhia. Although less than a year has passed since they were brought to Scirling shores, all the world has been champing at the bit to see what tale they have to tell.

  The translation is the work of Lady Trent’s granddaughter Miss Audrey Camherst and a Draconean scholar named Kudshayn. The two of them have worked night and day at Lord Gleinleigh’s estate of Stokesley to satisfy the public’s curiosity, producing in mere months what ordinarily would have been the work of years. When asked for comment, Lord Gleinleigh praised the skill of the translators, who are renowned in their field as some of the foremost authorities on ancient Draconean texts. “I have the utmost confidence in their work, which is both precise and accessible to a popular audience,” he said. Miss Camherst and her Draconean assistant could not be reached for comment.

  Carrigdon and Rudge will be issuing the translation, under the title The Draconeia, in both a fine leather-bound edition and a paper-bound edition for the general market. Interested readers may pre-order either version now; the title will become available for sale on 6 Nebulis.

  YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED

  to attend a reception

  at the Tomphries Museum

  in honour of those individuals

  whose generous contributions

  to the museum’s collections

  have enriched our knowledge

  of the past

  The reception will be held

  on the evening of

  the first of Acinis

  at 7 o’clock

  in the Whitsea Salon

  Refreshments provided

  with music and dancing

  RSVP

  FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST

  1 Acinis

  I should be getting dressed, but I’m so nervous I can’t even look at my frock, much less put it on.

  If only I could have found some graceful way to insist on taking the train into Falchester, instead of riding in Gleinleigh’s motorcar. But he would never let me take the tablet crate onto a train, and I can only imagine what would have happened if Kudshayn came with me. So into the car it was, and the trip took half again as long as it should have because Gleinleigh made a point of telling his driver to go very carefully lest the tablets get bounced around too much. I wound up feigning carsickness to avoid making any kind of small talk—and it isn’t even a lie, really, though it’s nerves that has my stomach all twisted up, not the motion.

  How many times have I gone to this silly gala? Every year I’ve been old enough and in the country for it, I think, because Simeon always wants moral support. He hates these things, but the museum makes him be there, because they need to keep their wealthy benefactors happy, and those people like getting the glad hand from curators. Of course some of those benefactors are perfectly lovely people . . . but he can’t spend his entire evening in a corner talking only to the ones he likes. The rest of the time he has to make trivial conversation with snobs, ignoramuses, people who don’t realize they’re ignoramuses, people whose heads are full of very wrong things they Know to Be True, and people like Mrs. Kefford, who donate money to the Tomphries because they like having the heads of major public institutions in their pocket.

  I shouldn’t have written her name. I was starting to calm myself down, and now I’ve undone it all.

  The process of loaning the tablets to the Tomphries has begun. We deposited them this afternoon in the museum’s storage annex, which Simeon is using as a staging ground for shifting everything to Estwin Hall. Much of the Draconean collection has already been installed there, but they still need to move out Arnoldson’s Nichaean statuary before they can put in the rest of the cabinets and display cases; until that’s done, the remainder lives in the annex, on the street behind the main building.

  You would think Cora wouldn’t find this very impressive, having grown up with her uncle’s thieving magpie ways, but I think she was knocked sideways by the sight of a properly organized collection. Everything in the annex is neatly labeled, and Simeon being who he is, a little challenge like swapping the entire Draconean exhibit with the entire ancient Nichaean one is no excuse not to put things on shelves in an orderly and logical fashion. He made space for the tablets we brought, even though I would have sworn there was no space to be had, and then went to work buttering up Lord Gleinleigh.

  “I intend to have an entire cabinet showcasing the evolution of Draconean writing,” he said, “though I’m still working on selecting the right samples—I can scarcely get into my office, the tablets are stacked so high. Of course yours will have pride of place as an example of a very early style.”

  “I hope they will be well guarded,” Gleinleigh said sententiously.

  “Of course, my lord,” Simeon said—he didn’t even choke on the courtesy, which I’ve had trouble with lately. “The main building has the very latest in burglar alarms, and even here, we have a watchman on duty at all times.” He gestured around at the packed shelves. “Most of these artifacts have value only to scholars, but thieves often break such things in their pursuit of gold and jewels. We will not risk any harm coming to any of the objects under our care.”

  (Visions of cat-burglary did dance through my head, I must admit. But if I were going to steal the tablets and hide them away for a decade or two, I should have done it while they were at Stokesley, where it would have been easy. No, Kudshayn is right, and we must follow through with our plan. We need the tablets as evidence, and they’re as safe in Tomphries keeping as anywhere else.)

  Then Simeon surprised me by turning and addressing me. “We have an addition to the exhibit,” he said, “which we’ll be placing at the northern end of the hall. Arnoldson complained to high heaven, naturally, whining about having to move that sculpture of the Kymatian Ophiotaurus, just because it weighs more than fifteen thousand kilograms—but I persuaded Pinfell that if we are going to have an exhibit in honour of the congress, it would be incomplete without anything from Lady Trent.”

  He led us further into the room, to a set of shelves containing crates with labels like preserved meteor dragon skeleton and dental sets from assorted draconic
breeds, and glass jars full of biological specimens in formaldehyde. I recognized the handwriting on the labels; it is what Grandmama calls her “public hand,” the very careful script she uses when she needs someone other than herself to be able to read the result.

  I think Simeon meant for it to reassure me, by showing me something I would find familiar and pleasant. But it only made me think of Grandmama’s letter and what she said about not being pointlessly reckless. Am I doing the right thing?

  This is certainly far less reckless than some of my recent escapades. I won’t be endangering life or limb tonight—only walking up to Dr. Pinfell and reminding him of the Tomphries’ pledge not to purchase or accept any artifacts bought on the black market. We can’t quite prove that Gleinleigh staged the cache, but the documents Cora nicked from her uncle’s office certainly suggest it. And if Hormizd Rouhani writes back to us with the interior dimensions of the tablet chest in that Seghayan temple, we might even be able to prove that’s where our tablets came from, if they fit inside. I might be wrong about that last bit, but the inscription from Lady Plimmer’s sun disc mentioning the Foundation of All gave me a hunch—and if I’m right, then we have a chain of evidence linking a looted temple to the most notorious illegal antiquities dealer in Scirland to Gleinleigh and Kefford to the Tomphries.

  A thin chain, mind you, with a couple of links replaced by string. But Simeon thinks it will be enough. Not to convict Lord Gleinleigh or Mrs. Kefford of buying smuggled artifacts—it would never hold up in court, not against people with titles and wealth to protect them, and even if it did the only punishment would be a fine—but we can at least disgrace them a little bit. Make Dr. Pinfell refuse the loan, so the tablets aren’t put on public display in Scirland’s foremost museum, reminding everyone that the Anevrai used to burn people alive.