‘Cindra,’ I say gently. ‘To record a new language would take me years.’
‘You need not record the whole thing. Not to begin with.’
Her tail sways as she moves towards an alcove in the wall and pulls out a huge stack of papers covered in thin, inky lines of written Cannair, scratched by a talon dipped in ink. ‘My writings on the Hebridean Wyverns,’ she says. ‘Our history, our traditions, our language. Patrick did not have this last time. You will not have to start with nothing, like he did. If you are able to translate merely a few of my writings, you will be making an English record of Cannair and of the wyvern way of life. This your Academy will accept, yes?’
I hesitate. It’s true that the Academy only requires a small translation sample in order to award a language what it callspre-emptive official status.
‘And in exchange, the wyverns will fight in your war.’
My heart leaps. I’m getting close to the information Hollingsworth wants, I’m sure of it. ‘Fight . . . how, exactly?’
The movement of Cindra’s tail is a blur until it cracks against the stone wall above me, bringing down a rain of shards. I cover my head with my hands as she snarls.
‘Do not trouble yourself with the fighting skills of the wyverns. I can assure you they are more than satisfactory.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ I say. ‘I have been told you have an advantage over other dragons. Something that makes you different.’
Her eyes narrow into cat-like slits. ‘Translate Cannair for us and you might just find out.’
I pore over Cindra’s writings for the rest of the day as I wait for the others to finish their various activities. The pages are too big for me to carry around, so she leaves them in our cave. They contain far more complicated descriptions of the wyvern practices than those Clawtail recorded in his own journal. Cindra dedicates a hundred pages to the waulking of the tweed, full of information I don’t understand. One section describes a young wyvern’s first hunt. The wyverns have words for things that simply don’t exist in English, like the very particular sensation the wind makes on the tertiary feathers of a wing, or an expression that refers to locating one’s prey in the air which, translated literally, becomesto taste a pulse on the back of a cloud. When I ask Aodahn to explain certain terms to me, he lacks the English vocabulary to translate exactly what they mean.
‘I have to talk to you,’ I tell the others as they trail into thesleeping cave that evening, exhaustion on their faces.
‘Can’t stop,’ Marquis mutters. ‘I have to attend a flying lesson.’
I sigh. ‘Then we’ll come with you.’
As we follow Marquis through the tunnels, I tell them what Cindra has proposed. ‘If we can’t find out exactly what Hollingsworth thinks is so special about the wyverns, then this could be the next best thing. At least, if Cindra can convince Abelio to let the wyverns fight with the rebels, we will have achieved something.’
‘But how are you going to translate an entire language?’ Serena says.
‘I’ll start with some basic translations,’ I reply. ‘Eventually there’ll be enough to get Cannair recognised officially, but in the meantime Cindra will ask the wyverns to ally with the rebels, and we’ll win this war.’ I feel a thrill of excitement. ‘English is the language that sets the narrative of the world. The more obscure languages rarely get to add their perspective. Translating Cannair would be giving the wyverns the opportunity to write back. Some translators never get a chance like this in their whole careers.’
‘But it won’t help us discoverhowthe wyverns are supposed to help us win this war,’ Atlas says bluntly.
I stop walking as Serena raises an eyebrow.
‘I asked Aodahn outright, Atlas. He didn’t know what I was talking about.’
‘What if they’re lying?’ Atlas says, his cheeks turning pink. ‘What if they know how to help us, but they don’t want to?’
‘Translating Cannair mightmakethem want to,’ I argue.
He doesn’t reply and I feel another pang of hurt. What hasgotten into him?
‘I think this is the flying cave,’ Marquis says.
When we enter the gloomy cavern, the one Aodahn calls Wuthering Heights, we’re standing on a narrow ledge. I press my back against the wall so as not to risk toppling over the edge just as we’re on the verge of progress. The vast space stretches out in front of us, a bottomless drop below and a ceiling so high that I think we must be directly beneath a hill. Ledges and perches jut out into the air and long vines snake across the walls, growing in the dark. The only moonlight comes from the small gaps in the rock, giving the cave a ghostly feel. It’s cold without a fire burning. I hear water rushing below us and the sound merges with the flapping of wings.
‘How can wyvernlings possibly learn to fly in the dark?’ Gideon says.
‘Wyverns have excellent eyesight, especially at night,’ Aodahn replies. I hadn’t noticed him standing at the far end of the ledge, watching Cindra and another wyvern lead a group of wyvernlings across a great slab of rock that juts out into the vast drop below us.
‘That’s more than can be said for the Bolgoriths,’ Marquis says, winking at me.
He’s right. It’s an advantage the wyverns have over our enemies. But it’s the only one I can think of.
‘Why are you attending a flying lesson, anyway?’ I whisper to Marquis.
