It did not change anything in the immediate term, of course. We were still waiting for spring, and I must still prepare. Ruzt and I returned to our interrupted conversation the next day. I told her, “I thought the Anevrai were human, and had bred some special kind of dragon for their own use. When a man named Thu Phim-lat told me he found a strange body out there, I wanted to see for myself what kind it was.”
“A body of one of ours?” Ruzt said.
I described to her what we found in the col, how its bones had dissolved and its flesh frozen hard in the endless cold. “That was when we discovered that the Anevrai were not gods.” I laughed, this time with a wry smile. “Just before the mountain fell down.” We had not gotten around to establishing the word for “avalanche,” I think because it amused us both to go on using that phrase. I did not even know how to say it in Akhian, as the word is not often needed in the desert.
Then my perspective changed, yet again. When we dug that Draconean out of the snow, I had seen it as a specimen: the carcass of a mysterious creature, hailing from a species unknown to us. But if Ruzt had become a person to me … then the carcass was the sad remains of another person, one who froze to death in the icy heights of the mountains.
In a quiet voice, I asked, “Do you know who they were? The two we found.”
“I think so,” Ruzt said. “Years ago—when I was only a hatchling—the rains came terribly late. The land was so dry, and there were fires … worse on the other side of the mountains, I think. We could see the smoke from here. The elders decided that we should keep a closer watch on our borders for some time after that. Two of the guards were lost in a storm, not long before the sleep.”
“What were their names?”
My question clearly startled her, for her ruff twitched slightly. She said, “Seymel and Yaminet.”
Thu had found one in the valley; the five of us had uncovered the other. I did not think we would ever know which was which. “What do you ordinarily do with your dead? Do you bury them, or burn them, or…?”
Ruzt said, “They go to the sky.”
At first I took this for a euphemism, much as we might say that a late relative has gone to a better place. But while the Draconean religion is indeed very oriented toward the sky, she meant it in a somewhat more literal sense. It is their custom to leave the bodies of the deceased out in the open, where scavenging birds may consume their flesh and carry it into the heavens—with the bones, of course, falling to dust.
It was some comfort, then, to think that the Draconean who fell from the col met with something like the treatment his people would have wanted. The other, I feared, had vanished beneath the snow; he might never be found again.
My mental phrasing snagged against another thought in passing. “These guards who were lost. Were they female, or male?”
“Female,” Ruzt said, as if it were obvious. “None of our border watchers are male.”
So I still had not seen a male Draconean, even one frozen and squashed flat. They had begun to acquire a mythical status in my mind, as if they were a fiction invented by female Draconeans to explain where hatchlings came from.
Male Draconeans were real enough, naturally, and I met some in due course. But such thoughts led me to inquire about reproduction—for one cannot be a naturalist without losing a great deal of the delicacy one is expected to have in speaking of such matters.
“I am not asking where your eggs are,” I said hastily, thinking of Zam’s hostility. She was not so wary of me as she had been; but she still did not entirely trust me, and I wished to avoid provoking her. “But I am curious—am I right in thinking you must be very careful of the conditions in which the eggs are kept?”
This was a thing that had perplexed me since I compared the hatching grounds on Rahuahane to those in the Labyrinth of Drakes. Given the sensitivity of draconic eggs, how could the Anevrai have bred their own species in such disparate environments?
Part of the answer went a long way toward explaining why we had long mistaken firestone for an ordinary mineral. Underground chambers enjoy far more stable temperatures than those above; though Ruzt did not say so, I felt certain the Draconeans of the Sanctuary incubated their offspring inside the mountains, insulated from the killing cold of the outside. Whether they had one hatching ground or several, and whether any of them were in that temple carved into the side of Anshakkar, I did not ask.
But however deeply one burrows into a mountain, the Mrtyahaima was not the Broken Sea. My error, I eventually realized, lay in thinking of the Draconeans as a uniform species, bereft of variation. This is not true of humans, who vary a great deal across the world; why should it be true of Ruzt’s kind? Of course she had never seen her ancient kin, and had no proof of the ways in which island Draconeans had differed from those in the desert. But she agreed with me that such variation was quite likely, for she averred that too much warmth during incubation was “bad” for the resulting offspring. While cold in too great a degree killed them in the egg, heat might produce perfectly healthy hatchlings … who would then perish in their first hibernation.
My readers may also be wondering how they had maintained their hybrid nature, after countless generations cut off from all human contact. Many gruesome stories have circulated in answer to this question, all upon the theme of Dreadful Human Sacrifice: they kidnapped Tser-zhag and Nying and others from around their borders with which to feed their ravenous eggs; or they kept a stable of human slaves bred and slaughtered for that purpose. One especially unpleasant version of that latter said the last of their slaves died off not long before I arrived, and the entire scheme to use me as their ambassador came about because they needed to replenish their stock.
It is all nonsense, of course. The creation of the Draconeans before the dawn of their civilization may have required human blood—offered by ancient humans as part of their primitive rites—but once their population was established, they bred true. They had no need for special conditions to ensure a new generation of dragon-headed bipeds; they had only to protect their offspring against factors that might cause harmful mutation.
When I said something about this to Ruzt, though, I met with an odd reaction. It took me some time to find out why. Finally I asked her, “How do you believe your kind came to be?”
“How do you think your kind came to be?” she countered. I think she meant this partly as a challenge, for my questions had nettled her; but she also meant it as a way of ensuring she understood what I was asking.
It had the effect of making me realize the question was more complicated than I had thought. “We have many different stories to answer that,” I said at last. “Religions around the world each tell their own—that the first humans were carved out of trees, that we were made from the body of a sacrificed god, that a bear became human after many long trials. The religion I was taught as a child says the first man was made from dirt, and the first woman from his rib. But people like me—scientists—” I used the Akhian word; it had no parallel in her tongue. “They have established that we descend from apes. Do you know apes? Or monkeys?”
She did not, as there were none in the Sanctuary or its surroundings. “They are very like humans,” I said, for lack of any better description. “Much as mews are somewhat like you—though the differences there are much greater.”
Ruzt accepted this, as if it were only natural. “Of course mews are like us. But your scientists are wrong. You do not descend from apes.”
I could not restrain my eyebrows from shooting upward. “Oh? Where do we come from? And how do you know such things, when you have never spoken to a human before me?”
“Like mews, you descend from us,” Ruzt said. “Draconeans were born of the sky: the sun’s heat made wind, and the wind took solid form as four sisters, and the scales they shed became the mountains. The weight of the mountains dragged the sisters down, and they wept to lose their flight, which made the waters of the world. When they bathed for the first time, new creatures were
made: the water of their mouths made the first brother, the water of their fronts made humans, and the water of their backs made dragons. We usually say mews, but I think it means the other kinds of dragons as well.”
This tale astonished me enough that I was rendered temporarily mute. It had a certain poetic logic to it: the back, which featured both wings and larger, more prominent scales, was more obviously draconic, while the front, which had a more human configuration, bore a stronger resemblance to my own species. And her comment about the weight of the mountains dragging the sisters down almost sounded like a mythic explanation of gravity. As origin stories went, I quite liked it.
But not only was it scientifically inaccurate, it was not the tale I had seen depicted on the wall of an ancient Draconean temple.
“That is why you were the subjects of the Anevrai,” Ruzt said, clearly reading my hesitation and disbelief. “Because you came from us.”
One of the benefits of limited fluency is that one is forced to stop and consider one’s words before speaking them. “The Anevrai told a different tale,” I said at last. “I have been in an ancient hatching ground, one left untouched since the Downfall. It depicted a dragon egg being bathed in blood to create a Draconean. And my own research supports the notion: changes in the environment of an egg can provoke all manner of mutations, many of them detrimental, but some successful—such as a dragon-human hybrid.”
(Rendering that argument into her tongue took approximately eight times as long as it appears here.)
“But where did dragons come from, if not from us?” Ruzt was obviously skeptical.
“That is a very good question, and one I would like to answer. From some kind of reptilian relative, clearly—but when and how your unique mutability arose, I cannot say.”
We argued a great deal over this in subsequent days. I was not surprised that Ruzt might have difficulty accepting the theory of evolution; she had never dreamt of such a thing before I spoke of it, and it was not well accepted when first introduced among humans, either. (Indeed, there are some who do not accept it today, despite an ever-growing body of evidence in support.) Challenging someone’s deeply held beliefs is a difficult thing to do, for it threatens to tear away the foundations upon which they have always stood.
I think Ruzt would have dismissed my words out of hand were it not for the fact that I could cite Anevrai artwork to support my point. It was peculiar for me to realize that her forebears were almost as mythical to her as they were to me—though it should have been obvious that thousands of years, a cataclysm, and continual flight into ever more remote parts of the globe would not leave a culture unchanged. I had seen more of the remains left behind by her ancestors than she had. But however mistily they might be recalled, the Anevrai were a name to conjure with: if they had believed they came from the influence of human blood on dragon eggs, then perhaps it might be true.
(I had an unfortunate suspicion, as I debated this point with her, that my scientific query might wind up sparking a religious schism. Faiths have broken into warring camps over far less.)
You must not think, however, that we spent the remainder of the winter discussing ancient history and theology, or the finer scientific points of Draconean nature. By far the larger portion of our time was devoted to planning for what would happen when the others awoke.
Recalling with no little trepidation my past experiences in other lands, I made a point of inquiring as to the political arrangements of the Sanctuary. I discovered that each cluster of villages is led by a sister-group—by which I mean a set of female Draconeans, sometimes as few as two or as many as five, but usually three or four—hatched from the same clutch. (Daughters hatched from the same mother in other clutches are also considered sisters, but in a lesser degree; the Draconeans use a separate word for that relationship.) These leaders are joined by a single male, elected from among his brethren to advise them and govern certain aspects of society.
But when it comes to the Sanctuary as a whole, it is the opinion of the Draconeans that allowing a sister-group to rule together would be inadvisable, on account of the strength of the familial bond. They instead have a council of elder females, most of whom are advanced enough in years that their clutchmates have gone to the sky. This council likewise has a single male adviser; he is drawn from the ranks of the elected representatives, but wins his more elevated place through a strenuous competition against his peers.
This council was the governing body to which Ruzt intended to present me, for they were the only ones who could make decisions for the entire Sanctuary. When I heard this, I muttered to myself, “I hope I do not cause any of those venerable ladies to drop dead of an apoplexy.”
As I have said, it was my habit there to speak Akhian when not attempting Draconean, because of the greater odds that Ruzt might comprehend a little of what I said. “Venerable” and “apoplexy” were much too arcane for that, but the word “dead” would certainly have come through; she gave me a sharp look. I waved it away. “Tell me how to behave so I will neither scare them nor give offense.”
We had debates over that, too—or rather, Ruzt debated with Kahhe and Zam, for on that subject I was wholly uninformed. We shaped plans and discarded them, sometimes thrice a day. We more than once lamented the entire enterprise, and wished we had never embarked upon it—though in my case not seriously, as that would mean either that I had died in the snow, or that I had never come to the Mrtyahaima. I still did not know the full cost of that latter decision … but I could not, without proof of tragedy, bring myself to regret it.
But that did not mean the road ahead would be an easy one. As the days lengthened and grew imperceptibly warmer, my thoughts turned to the world outside the Sanctuary of Wings—a world that was not ready in the slightest to meet the surviving descendants of their ancient rulers.
Late at night, when the sisters were asleep, I lay in my nest of yak-wool blankets and stared at the embers of the fire, wrestling with an impossible question.
How could I keep them all from being killed?
FIFTEEN
The Draconeans awake—Meeting the elders—Back into the Sanctuary—The opposition registers a protest
The seasons would not slow their turning for my sake. Spring came at its own pace, heedless of my readiness or lack thereof; I counted down the days until the Draconeans awoke with far more trepidation than had attended my first wedding. After all, it was only my own future which would be secured by that day. What happened in the Sanctuary of Wings would affect a great many more people than myself.
My countdown was quite literal, for the day of waking was set. The temple had its own caretakers—I was fortunate in the extreme not to have encountered them—and at dawn on that day, they would go into the hibernation hall and throw open the shutters I had seen. The hall being aligned with the rising of the sun at that time of year, the great quantity of light thus admitted would act as a wake-up call, disturbing the sleep of the Draconeans enough that the ringing of an enormous gong at the back of the hall would rouse them. They would file downstairs, enjoy a great feast prepared by the other caretakers, and then return to their home villages.
“It takes forever,” Kahhe said with feeling, when I inquired about the process. “The stairs are so narrow. And if you are at the back of the crowd, all the best food is gone by the time you get downstairs.”
I appreciated her perspective, for it humanized the Draconeans for me—if that word is not inappropriate in this context. By then I was accustomed to thinking of my three hostesses in such terms, but I suspected I might lose hold of that thought when I was surrounded by a mob that was angry, frightened, or both.
At dawn on the day of waking, I went outside one last time, tipping my face up to the thin spring sun. We had agreed that it was best not to surprise a group of sleepy Draconeans with an unexpected human; rather we would allow them a few days to resume their normal lives before the sisters presented me. But that meant I would be confined to the house for the i
ntervening time, and I was not looking forward to the wait.
In fact it was every bit as bad as I had feared. Although the weather had improved enough for the Draconeans to wake, it was still quite cold outside; one could reasonably expect that I would be glad of a reason to take refuge in the warmth of the sisters’ house. After so much time spent out-of-doors, however, my enforced seclusion was positively suffocating. I missed the fresh air, and I missed the sunlight even more, weak though it still was.
My fretfulness grew with the onset of noise outside. Each village had a local ceremony to mark the return from hibernation; I did not dare peer out the exterior door to watch Imsali’s, but the sound of drums, flutes, and singing came through regardless. Draconeans chattered as they went to and fro, asking what had happened to the yak barn, and the sounds produced both yearning and fear in me. Yearning because I had gone for such a long time with no company apart from the sisters—I was overwhelmed by a surge of loneliness and homesickness. My habit had been to keep such things at bay by focusing upon the challenges before me … but waiting in the house, listening to the community outside, I missed my own with a longing so profound it was almost a physical pain. And thinking of the challenges that remained was no help, for that only brought on the fear.
I had more than enough fears to keep me occupied. Fear that someone would come inside, looking for one of the sisters, and I would not hide myself in time. Fear that Ruzt’s optimism was misplaced, and her fellows would tear me limb from limb on sight: I have faced danger many a time, but it is always the most frightening to me when it comes from thinking, rational creatures.
Above all loomed the fear that I would fail the sisters who had saved my life. I would not win over their kin; or I would succeed there, and fail among my own kind.
I had agreed to three days’ wait, but a part of me would gladly have run out the door and flung myself before the Draconeans with no warning whatsoever, simply to end the unbearable tension.
Within the Sanctuary of Wings Page 19
