Turning Darkness into Light

by Marie Brennan

  Nahri spread her wings and said, “We must find a new life, even if it requires sacrifice from us.”

  Samšin spread her wings and said, “We must find a new land, even if it lies far from here.”

  They looked to the north and saw only ice. They looked to the east and saw only barren soil. They looked to the west and saw only death. But in the sky above them the issur flew south, and Samšin said, “We must follow them, and hope they fly toward life.”

  They gathered the people together and told them to make ready for a journey. The people wailed in their grief; they did not want to leave behind the places of their ancestors, the sacred mountain where the Light of the World had brought them into being. But Imalkit told stories to lighten their spirits, and Nahri gave them comfort, and Samšin led them forth. They took all they owned, their spears and their grinding-stones, their baskets and their waterskins, their fire carried in hollow reeds, and they travelled to the south, following the path of the issur’s wings.

  Long days they journeyed; long nights they journeyed. They came to a plateau rich with fertile soil, and the people said, “Here we will stay, and make for ourselves a new home.” But the Source of Wind scoured the plateau with freezing gusts, and Imalkit said, “My fire and my shelters are not enough to keep us warm. We must continue onward.”

  Long days they journeyed; long nights they journeyed. They came to a valley rich with grain, and the people said, “Here we will live, and make for ourselves a new home.” But the Foundation of All shook the ground so that stones came down upon their heads, and Nahri said, “My grains and my fruits cannot survive in this place. We must continue onward.”

  Long days they journeyed; long nights they journeyed. They came to a mountain rich with clean water, and the people said, “Here we will halt, and make for ourselves a new home.” But the ridges of the mountains separated the people, and Samšin said, “My laws and my strength are not enough to keep us together. We must continue onward.”

  Long days they journeyed; long nights they journeyed. They came to the lands of the south, where the warmth of the Light of the World was strong. Here the waters were clean and the soil fruitful. Reeds flourished on the banks of the rivers, with forests of cedar on the slopes of the mountains.

  Imalkit turned over a stone and found copper within it. She said, “This place is good. I can make my home here.”

  Nahri cast seeds across the ground and saw them grow. She said, “This place is good. I can make my home here.”

  Samšin brought the people together and heard them speak in praise. She said, “This place is good. I can make my home here, and so can our mothers and our sisters, our brothers and our hatchlings. We will not forget the place of our hatching, the place where our foremothers made their home; it will live on in our songs and our memories, recorded in clay as Ektabr taught us. But the world has changed, and we cannot cling forever to the shell from which we came.”

  Together they gave praise to the Maker of Above and Below, praise to the Foundation of All and the Source of Wind, thanking them for the gift of this land. The Crown of the Abyss was appeased, and the people starved no more.

  Tablet XIII: “The Founding Tablet”

  translated by Audrey Camherst and Kudshayn

  The people had followed the issur to the south; in their journey they followed the path of wings to the south. Now the issur flocked in great numbers above the rivers and mountains of that land, and its abundance was not enough to support them all. The sky was filled with their roars as they fought, and those who had survived the starving time fell to their own sisters and brothers as they struggled over what remained.

  The āmu had also come to the south, following the herds of the beasts they hunted. Now they huddled in great numbers along the rivers and mountains of that land, and its abundance was not enough to support them all. The air was filled with their cries as they fought, and those who had survived the starving time fell to their own sisters and brothers as they struggled over what remained.

  The sisters looked at their own people. They said, “We are few in number, but the abundance of this land is not enough to support us and the āmu and the issur together. Are we to fight as they do? Will we kill our own sisters and brothers as we struggle over what remains? Will we become as the star demons and destroy everything in our hunger?”

  Imalkit went among the āmu. With her clever tricks she hid herself and listened to their words, until she understood them as well as she understood the speech of the people. She saw how they hunted the lesser beasts, how they did not dare to hunt the greater beasts. She spoke to them and showed them how to forge spears of metal, how to forge arrowheads of metal. Together they hunted the greater beasts, and there was enough for all.

  Nahri went among the issur. She laid out food for them; with patience she coaxed them to her hand. The issur quieted their roars and lay beneath her wing. She planted fields of grain to be food for the beasts of the land, the beasts of the sky; she trapped these beasts to be food for the issur, and fed them from her own hand. The issur ceased to fight, and there was enough for all.

  Samšin went among the people. She said to them, “The āmu and the issur have come here in search of life. Once they gave us their breath as a blessing; once they gave us their blood as a gift. Without them we would have no life. As the āmu share our eyes, as the issur share our wings, so we must share this place, and there will be enough for all.”

  Imalkit brought to Samšin the one called the Keeper of the Stone, who spoke for the āmu. Nahri brought to Samšin the one called the Highest, who led the issur. She said to them, “I am Samšin, sun-gold, hatched from a single shell, and these are my sisters, Nahri the water-green, Imalkit the sky-blue. Together we descended into the underworld to retrieve the Light of the World, and brought forth the gifts of civilization. If we cultivate the land there will be grain enough for the āmu; if we husband the beasts of the land there will be meat enough for the issur. Together we can deny the Endless Maw its triumph, so that it does not claim us before our time.”

  So she spoke, and so it was. Some of the people went among the āmu and became known as the Saybakh, the order of iron, for the wondrous things they crafted. Some of the people went among the issur and became known as the Parzel, the order of quicksilver, for the changeable nature of the issur divided them into many kinds. Some of the people stayed at Samšin’s side and became known as the Takhbat, the order of the one who was sun-gold.

  These were the three roots of the great tree, the three foundation stones of the great temple, the three songs in praise of the Foundation of All, the Source of Wind, the Maker of Above and Below. In ancient times the land was watered by those three streams, and the fields flourished with life; in ancient times those three jewels shone in the crown of the queens, and all the peoples were at peace. Now mere gems fill the crown, the streams are choked with weeds, the foundation stones have cracked and sunk. Gone is the harmony of those blessed days, replaced by discord, like bells jangling out of tune. But we keep this memory of those hatched from a single shell, the four who afterward were three, who descended and rose again, turning darkness into light.

  TRUE DRACONEAN HISTORY REVEALED

  Publishers Announce Corrected Edition

  Joint Effort of Human and Draconean

  “We apologize for the confusion”

  Carrigdon and Rudge, publishers of the memoirs of Lady Trent, announced today that they have made arrangements to withdraw their intended publication of the ancient Draconean epic and replace it with a corrected edition. “We offer our sincere apologies to all our customers for the confusion,” Mr. Rudge said when issuing the announcement. “We were sorely misled by the Earl of Gleinleigh, who had substituted forged material for the epic’s true ending, and we are horrified by the role we nearly played in bringing his lies to the world. Rest assured that we will take steps to make certain no such hoax is perpetrated through our offices again.”

  The corrected edition, pr
epared at great haste by Lady Trent’s granddaughter Miss Audrey Camherst and the Draconean scholar Kudshayn, will include supplementary essays describing the forgery and the process by which it was arranged, as well as a personal reflection by Mr. Kudshayn on the significance of this affair for himself and his people.

  This edition will also carry a new title. Formerly known as The Draconeia (a name assigned to it by Lord Gleinleigh), it will now be issued under the title Turning Darkness Into Light. It will be available for sale on 13 Nebulis, only one week after the original intended date.

  OPENING SPEECH DELIVER ED AT THE FALCHESTER CONGRESS

  by Kudshayn, son of Ahheke, daughter of Iztam

  2 Gelis, 5662

  The future cannot be separated from the past.

  For my people—as for many humans in many eras around the world—writing is a sacred act. Our scribes are priests; I am known to you all as a scholar, but to my people as a member of a sacred brotherhood, for these two things are not separate in our eyes. And this belief comes down to us from ancient times, from the earliest days of the Draconean people, when they were known as the Anevrai.

  By now all of you have heard of the text Audrey Camherst and I have translated into Scirling under the title Turning Darkness Into Light. Some of you may even have read it. If so, you know that it concerns itself with the mythical beginnings of the world and of the Anevrai.

  You also know that a group of people sought to twist its message, for the purpose of influencing this very gathering.

  The future cannot be separated from the past. Although the tales of a civilization that fell thousands of years ago might seem like a mere historical curiosity for people living today, it is not so. They shape our understanding of that past, and through that, our understanding of ourselves. All around the world, societies speak of their “national epics,” the stories that are presumed to embody the true spirit of their people.

  The fact that no single text can hope to encompass such a thing is, in a sense, beside the point. What matters is that people have chosen to lift up such things as their banners: to say, look upon this and know us.

  Is Turning Darkness Into Light the national epic of the Draconean people?

  I came to Scirland hoping it would be. What I found was a story that confirmed some of my beliefs, challenged others, and shattered the foundations of a few. The people who fill its tablets are recognizable as my sisters and brothers, but here is no tale of bold queens ruling over splendid cities, the wonder of the ancient world. Instead it tells of a simple people, bereft of even the most basic technologies. And the world they inhabit—the cosmos that shapes their lives—is not mine.

  I said before that I am a priest. I was taught to venerate and offer prayers to two forces: the sun, the creative and active principle, and the earth, the passive and protective one.

  But my foremothers knew not two gods, but four.

  Ever since I translated those words—ever since I realized that my religion, the most powerful shaping force in my life, is not the religion of my ancestors—I have struggled with that knowledge. I looked upon these texts and felt kinship with the ancient scribe who wrote them; then I read his words and felt further from him than ever. How could I claim any connection with him and his sisters, when we differ in so great a respect?

  I am not here to deliver a theological lecture, particularly when most of my audience does not share my faith. Instead I will speak of philosophy, and the answer I have arrived at.

  The first of our missing deities is known as the Ever-Moving, the Source of Wind. I believe the force my foremothers gave that name to is the force of change, just as they called creation the Light of the World, the Maker of Above and Below, and they called preservation the Ever-Standing, the Foundation of All. And the second missing deity is the Endless Maw, the Crown of the Abyss: the force of destruction.

  We of the Sanctuary of Wings have lost those names, and the prayers once offered to them. But those two powers have not forgotten us. Through destruction we have come, we people whom you name Draconeans; the Downfall of our civilization was the greatest triumph of the Endless Maw. And we have changed.

  How could we not?

  The Anevrai themselves changed when Samšin, Nahri, Imalkit, and Ektabr descended into the underworld and re-emerged with the innovations of writing, metal-working, agriculture, and law. They changed again when they founded their ancient civilization. They changed during the ages of that civilization, when it sank into decadence, when it fell, when they fled from human wrath. We, their descendants, have likewise changed over these past decades, since we came into contact once more with the world outside our Sanctuary.

  Change is necessary. Destruction is inevitable. We err only when we try to deny such forces their role in our lives.

  I knew the Source of Wind and the Crown of the Abyss long before I knew their names. Now, being aware of them, I can say what I need to say.

  Those who sought to use this tale against my people created a false ending for it—one that confirms the worst suspicions of your people, the worst fears of mine. Since their forgery was revealed, I have heard people say this proves that those suspicions and fears are likewise false: that the Anevrai never burned human beings alive in sacrifice.

  But we do not know that for sure. We may never know—and if proof ever comes, it may come in the form of confirmation, showing that at least some of those fire-blackened pillars were used to immolate the helpless. Right now, we can only say with certainty that this story does not say such things. It ends, not with tyranny and violence, but with cooperation: with the three species of Anevrai, dragons, and human beings coming together in partnership so they all might survive. And it ends with a lament, that this harmony was in later times lost.

  Some will call this idealistic. I do not deny it. I only deny those who claim that because it cannot be proved, the ideal is without meaning.

  My ancient brother held this ideal so precious in his heart that he scribed its origins on tablets cored with gold. My foremothers venerated this ideal so highly that they laid those tablets for safekeeping in a temple. They may have had sisters and brothers who did not agree—but I make my alliance with those who chose harmony over war.

  If you read the translation, know this: it is a work in progress. All such things are. Other scholars will come along, armed with a better comprehension of the language, other texts, the evidence of archaeology, and they will refine our words, or replace them entirely. We once thought that southern Anthiope was the homeland of my people; now we know it was their second home, as the Sanctuary we live in today is the third. We should not lament this alteration in our knowledge, but celebrate it. Our understanding should always change, always grow—even when that means the necessary destruction of what we knew before.

  Because the ashes of that destruction are the soil from which new life springs. Forty years ago, none of us knew the things we know today: about dragons, about the Anevrai, about the Downfall, about each other. Today we stand together in this room, and we have a chance to create our future, built upon the foundation of the past.

  Consider what story you want to tell. Consider what tale should embody the spirit of our age, when people look back on this time. Will it be the tale of domination that some today sought to write? Or will it be the harmony whose passing my ancient brother immortalized in clay and gold?

  I pray to the Light of the World to give us wisdom. I pray to the Ever-Moving to guide our choices. I pray to the Ever-Standing to keep us safe. And I pray to the Crown of the Abyss to take this moment and lay it to rest, when the world moves on to whatever comes next.

  FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST

  20 Nivis

  I still think it was a little absurd for them to schedule a grand ball for the end of the congress. Whichever way the vote went, there were always going to be some people celebrating and some fuming; Simeon told me that the entire thing had been designed for fewer guests than were invited, because the organi
zers assumed that a certain percentage were going to stay away. It was only a question of which side that percentage would come from.

  Would I have attended, if the vote had gone the other way? Maybe—for a few minutes, at least, before I got thrown out for telling certain distinguished gentlemen exactly what I thought of them. But I didn’t have to, sun be praised; instead I got to go and dance in the delightful knowledge that the Sanctuary of Wings is free.

  I almost wrote “safe.” It won’t be that easy, of course. The bomb the Hadamists threw at what they thought was the elders’ motorcar last week won’t be the last shot fired in this little war, because accusations like “demon” and “infidel” don’t go away on account of a vote. They might even get worse. If the Sanctuary had not gained its independence, though, that would only have cemented the impression that Kudshayn’s people don’t stand on an equal footing with the rest of us. The vote was the big leap; now it’s just a long series of little steps, and hopefully most of them will be forward. The Seghayan government is talking about gifting the tablets to the Sanctuary once we’ve repatriated them, which I consider an encouraging sign.

  (I will try to resist the urge to send thank-you notes to Mrs. Kefford and Lord Gleinleigh. We made utterly shameless use of their scheme—or rather its failure—and while I won’t say things would have gone the other way without that, they certainly did hand us quite a lot of sticks to beat their allies with.)

  The grand ball was utterly lovely. Not that I spent much of it dancing, of course; instead I was out on the terrace, which in the normal way of things would never have been used with the weather so cold. But that was entirely to the elders’ liking, so palace staff were on hand with furry cloaks and hand warmers for the humans who wanted to go out and speak with them. And it was far more congenial than meeting with them in refrigerated rooms, like the diplomats kept having to do during the congress, the elders being not as hardy as Kudshayn. The stars were like diamonds, and we spent a good half hour making up outrageous stories about star demons. (I do hope we find more texts that describe them; they sound fascinating, and would provide me with endless fodder for teasing Mama and her astronomer friends.)