Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(119)

The archivist coughed, a sound like crashing boulders. “And thus have we sullied our own nest. Only I am old and farsighted enough to see how the parts constitute the whole, to read the words etched into this mountainside. We Censors have enforced a species-wide amnesia, thinking to protect and preserve dragonkind, but it makes us vulnerable to flatterers and blind to lateral thinking. I may be the last dragon living who remembers the Great Mistake; those who overruled me by keeping this half-human alive are doing their best to repeat it.”

Eskar, who had been listening with interest, lowered her head submissively. “Teacher, what is this Great Mistake you mention? My memories from my time here were excised.”

“You wouldn’t remember it in any case; you would never have been told about it. I speak now only because it is clear that the Ardmagar intends to disband the Censors.” The archivist blinked his rheumy eyes, avoiding the Ardmagar’s gaze. “Nearly seven hundred years ago, my grandfather’s generation undertook a secret experiment. They captured human women and bred with them on purpose to see what would happen.”

My breath caught in my chest. Here was the experiment Orma had long wondered about. What’s more, its timing was roughly that of the Age of Saints. More corroboration for Orma’s theory about the Saints being half-dragons? “H-how many half-dragons did they breed?” I asked, my voice thin and small in the vast chamber.

“Four hundred twenty-one half-humans!” cried the archivist, testily correcting my terminology. Of course he knew the exact number; he was a dragon. I, alas, did not know how many Southlander Saints there were. One for every day of the year, at least.

That had been my sticking point with Uncle Orma’s thesis: interbreeding on such a scale had seemed unthinkable. If the Saints had been part of a deliberate draconic experiment, though, suddenly their existence made a lot more sense.

“Only the Ardmagar Tomba and his top generals knew about it,” the old archivist continued. “These half-humans had capabilities mere dragons did not. They were to be a race of weapon-creatures to wipe humanity out of the Southlands once and for all.

“Tomba and the others failed to consider that half-humans might take the humans’ side,” wheezed the archivist, his wings shaking with palsy. “They turned their minds against us, invented the martial art to fight us. War against humans was never the same again.”

That martial art was the dracomachia. I was convinced now beyond all doubts: Orma had been right.

The archivist snorted and spat on the floor again. “My grandfather bred three half-humans himself, and he helped found the Censors after dragonkind’s ignominious defeat. There was to be no more interbreeding. We Censors were charged with ensuring that the Great Mistake never happened again.”

“By suppressing all memory of it?” I cried.

“And by policing those undraconic inclinations that might lead someone like yourself to come into existence. Clearly we have failed in our mandate,” he snarled, his milky eyes squinting, as if that might help him see me. “I smell what you are, you thing. You also should have been eradicated. I would kill you right now, if not for Comonot and this fearsome female.”

“Do you hold my treaty to blame?” said Comonot, eyeing the older dragon warily.

The archivist flapped his spindly wings once, a species of shrug. “If our task had been to hold the plates of the world in place, we would have known it was doomed from the start. Perhaps our ideal, too, was futile. Some things you only see after the fact.”

He began coughing again and couldn’t seem to stop.

Eskar rushed to the archivist, knocked him onto his side, and jumped on top of him. “She’s trying to clear his airways by forcing his diaphragm to contract,” said Comonot at my shoulder. “Don’t be frightened. It’s very effective.”

I drew him away from the violence in the corner. “Ardmagar, I need to go home. I’ve learned that Jannoula—General Laedi, Experiment 723a—will be traveling to Goredd next. Could you warn the Queen? I haven’t been able to contact her because the quigs took my thnik.”

“Of course,” said Comonot, his gaze still drifting toward Eskar. “I’ll tell Queen Glisselda about Jannoula, and that you’re on your way.”

“Can you spare Eskar to fly me?”

Comonot drew back, giving himself a triple chin, and frowned. “Absolutely not. I need Eskar here. We have two more labs to capture on the way to the Kerama. The hatchlings can take you.”

I bowed. It would have to do. At least I’d be going home.

Comonot’s eyes had locked on Eskar again. She was still jumping on the archivist, even though he’d already coughed up a ball of yak skin and a small boulder. “Do you suppose,” said Comonot, leaning in confidentially, “Eskar would consent to be mated?”

I choked. The Ardmagar slapped me on the back. “I know about your uncle,” he said. “That gave me the idea. Eskar exemplifies what I want for our people: the reexamination of assumptions, the flexibility needed to choose unorthodox options.”


“She chose Orma,” I said throatily, still coughing.

“Nothing stops her from choosing me as well.” The old saarantras gave me a sly sidelong look. “Sometimes our reason will lead us to the same morality as your empathy and feeling, and sometimes it won’t. I find that …” His mouth formed not-quite words, waiting for his mind to catch up. “Exhilarating?” he offered at last.