Kylara tucked the dictionary underneath her elbow. “I’ll make sure to let Yalmay know,” she said, “although, she might want to bring her boyfriend, is that okay?”

Multhamurra laughed. He had an odd way of doing it, throwing his whole head back and smiling, but not making much sound. “When I said, ‘anyone else who might be interested can come’, I didn’t mean anyone who might be interested and who I already vetted and approved of. I meant anyone. Plus, I don’t know many people here. Just Wawiriya, Pemulabee, and some of the kids. I’d be limiting myself.”

“Well, her boyfriend is Joontah, Wawiriya’s grandson,” Kylara said, “so you have already heard of him.” And just because she felt weird about Wawiriya not mentioning Janeyca at all during the conversation, she added, “he’s also got a twin sister, she might come too.” Although it would be extraordinarily unlikely of her to.

Kylara briefly wondered if she should mention that Joontah was not a Wanderer like his grandmother was, but the magsman had already met Julya and seen that she was human. Plus, it was fairly common for Wanderers to have human children, even if they weren’t adopted like Janeyca and Joontah were. She didn’t think Multhamurra would bat an eye.

“It’s all good with me,” he said. Then he froze. “The book’s in Common. I didn’t even think–your sister–she does speak it, right? I assumed she did, considering she wants to go to Warrung one day and you seem decent at it.”

“She does,” Kylara confirmed.

He breathed a visible sigh of relief, “Oh, good. I don’t have anything in Koulan so I’d be at a loss if she didn’t. Koulan unfortunately isn’t the most popular language to write in.”

Kylara nodded. Really, it was only them and a few neighbouring countries that spoke it. They were in a pretty isolated area of the Network.

“The Koulan section in the University library might get two or three books added to its stacks a year,” Multhamurra continued, “mostly novelty translations or local histories, but nothing like this.” He pointed at the cover.

“So this is a good one then?” Kylara asked. She had assumed as much, but she really knew nothing about languages, and unlike with warding, she was not afraid to let her lack of knowledge show. She usually tuned Yalmay out whenever she got too in the weeds of the subject anyway. It just wasn’t her thing.

“Depends on how you define ‘good,’ I suppose. Unbiased? No. Current and up to date? Also no. But it has the breadth and depth of research you don’t often find in the more modern stuff, which I enjoy. It was written back when this stuff was first becoming popular, about two hundred years ago. It was intended as an introductory manual.”

“So this stuff–etymology and all that–is relatively recent then?” Kylara said.

“Recent?” He looking at her a bit oddly, “Not even Wanderers consider two hundred years recent. Why do you?”

“I mean, for an academic pursuit,” Kylara clarified. “It just seems like language is, well, something someone would have thought to study before then. Yalmay always goes on and on about how cool it is that Common has been spoken for thousands of years.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always assumed it was older than warding.”

And by warding standards, two hundred was positively modern. The oldest of her textbooks was nearly seven hundred years old. The newest was four hundred.

“Even for academics, who are somewhat slow paced on the best of days, two hundred years is a lot.” Multhamurra said, then paused. “Wait,” he said, walking back to the bookshelf and pulling out another book. “Is this yours?” he asked, showing her the title. His hands were not steady enough for Kylara to read it, but she recognised the book anyway. It was Southvale Lectures in the Study of Constructing Complex Objects, the newest (and least helpful) of her warding textbooks.

“That’s mine,” she said.

“Published in 488,” he said without opening the book. “Of course you think two hundred is recent if this is what you’re reading,” his voice lowered slightly, “dear gods, what has Wawiriya been teaching you?” he muttered to himself.

Kylara bit her lip. Insulting Wawiriya’s teaching? That was not an insult she would let some rude stranger give lightly.

“She’s been teaching me from what we have,” Kylara said. “It was my mother’s duty to teach me. She didn’t, so Wawiriya stepped up. She didn’t have to do anything but she did. She saved us from disaster.”

“Hm?” Multhamurra looked up, distracted. “Sure she did.”

What was it between the two of them? She still had not figured out what kind of history they had together. It was the oddest combination of trust, distance, and disapproval.

“And it’s not like books on warding are common,” she added. “There’s too few of us.”

All of her warding books had been written back when there was enough warders to sustain a thriving community. Now there were a fraction of how many there once were. Most lineages had disappeared centuries ago, so books were hard to come by.

You could theoretically study warding without having the ability yourself, but the incentive was gone. Kylara was sure that there were still teams of researchers developing the theories in big cities, but they either kept their findings secretive or didn’t bother to put them on the trading lines.

“I’m sorry,” Multhamurra said after a moment. “I didn’t mean to imply Wawiriya was a bad teacher. I’m sure she was a fine teacher. But the fact remains that this,” he held up the book, “is not good reading material. We’ll have to fix that.”

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“We?” Kylara ventured.

Was he offering to teach her warding?

What?

She could not even make a simple barrier ward anymore. It was an absurd thing to do.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Multhamurra said instead of answering. At Kylara’s look, he clarified, “Before.”

“You have?” Kylara asked. She had completely forgotten what they had been talking about.

“About it being recent.”

“Ah.” Back to linguistics, then. Fun.

“It is, in a way. Or at least, the subject of etymology began because of what one might call a very modern mindset.” He walked over to the tapestry and examined it, fingers inlaced casually behind his back.

“It started as a bit of a fad, really. Back then, there was this idea that modern language–or what they considered modern at the time–was diseased. The young people, with all their slang and their exaggerations and their simple words–they weren’t using language as it was intended. Meanings were being eroded, words were losing precision, and the entire thing was an irredeemable souped-up mess.” He turned back to her. “Story of the generations, right? A tale as old as time.”

Kylara nodded. She knew the feeling. As the youngest person on the council, it had taken her a while to realise that it wasn’t just her lack of experience that set her apart–it was the way she talked too. The elders spoke differently from her. They were more formal, more old fashioned, more polite. Kylara sometimes adopted their phrasings to fit in better.

“But there was another idea at the time,” Multhamurra continued, “and that one really got the scholars in a pother. See, they believed that not only did words reflect culture, but they shaped it as well.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, looking trouble. “A not unreasonable theory, especially given the political situation of the time, but definitely a bit of a troublesome one.” He looked at her. “Can you guess why?”

“This was Warrung?” Kylara asked.

“It was.”

Kylara thought for a second. “They call their language Common,” she said.

“You call it Common too,” Multhamurra said, “what’s your point?”

“No,” Kylara said, “I mean, it’s always been called that. Yalmay told me this. Even before it became widespread, that was its name. It’s always been its name. And no culture names their language Common if they don’t think it’s superior to others.”

“A common theme,” Multhamurra said with a cheeky smile, “Most names are a bit self-centric when you get down to it. I mean, Koulan comes from what? The Koulkun people? Do you know what that translates to, originally?”

Kylara shook her head.

“It means people. A group of people who literally named themselves the people. What about all the other people, eh? Almost all endonyms are like that.” He grabbed the arm of his chair and pulled it out, then sat down. “But I get your point, and you’re right. Warrung did think it was the centre of the world. Their language was the best, their culture was the best, some went so far as to think their very intellect was the best.”

They still think that, Kylara thought. And the worst thing about it was that fact it couldn’t even be argued. Where else was going to claim to be the centre of the world and not be laughed at?

“Now, if you tie language to culture, and culture to intellect, what happens?”

“They thought modern language was diseased,” Kylara realised.

Multhamurra looked at her. “For if language had the power to shape and condition the mind–”

“–it also had the power to destroy it.” Kylara finished.

“Right,” Multhamurra said. “It wasn’t just about intellectual pursuit for them. Language changing was considered a threat. They thought the longer they waited–the longer that the young people destroyed their precious speech, the more their culture would deteriorate. Some thought it was changing their very minds. And what do people do when they’re unhappy with the present? They idealise the past. Perfect role model really, the past can’t get all shouty at you for getting it wrong.”

Multhamurra sounded suddenly weary, and picked at something on one of his fingernails. Kylara briefly wondered if he was bored. He had been the one to start the conversation, after all. He tilted his head and smiled, as if remembering a private joke. “Well, usually it can’t,” he smiled.

“So that’s how you ended up with the discipline of etymology,” he said, more energetically than before. “You had this movement to look into the past, back when words said what they meant and meant what they said. Back when things were clear and unmuddied and true.” He recited the list slightly sarcastically, as if it were a humorous children’s rhyme. “And thus, the study of etymology. All because some foolish scholar hated the young.” Multhamurra tapped the book again. “There’s thousands of books on etymology, so I suppose we should be grateful for their ignorance.”

“I didn’t realise it was so popular,” Kylara said. Yalmay would be so excited when she told her.

“Oh, there’s a whole floor in the library dedicated to this at the University,” Multhamurra said.

“How many classes do they have on this?”

“Classes?” Multhamurra’s posture tensed. “Um, one, I suppose. It’s been a while since I’ve checked.”

“One?” Kylara asked, confused. “I thought you said it was popular.”

“Well,” he ran his fingers through his tangled hair, “it was. Very popular. It just… isn’t anymore.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, somewhat unfortunately. “Maybe they had discovered all that they could.”

Kylara frowned. That only made partial sense. Even if you discovered all there was about Common, you could move on to other languages. Multhamurra had already said there was practically nothing about Koulan in the University libraries.

“Or maybe…” he said, more seriously than before, “they reached an impasse.”

Something about the way he said it sent shivers down Kylara’s spine. She gripped the book in her hands. The leather was warm.

“What kind of impasse?” she asked.

Multhamurra sighed. “There was a group of scholars who took things a step further. Too far, if you ask some. You won’t find texts on what they had written in any library on the Network. Believe me, I’ve looked.”

“Why not?”

“Remember what I said about the past? About how it was purer than the present?” Kylara nodded.

“Well, it was true. Too true.”

“What do you mean, too true?” Kylara frowned.

“Well remember what I said about Kadigal and Curralie being related?”

“Yeah.”

“They come from the same root. So do Aeyiya, Quayling, Koulan, et cetera. So the scholars went a step further. They believed that if you traced any language back far enough, they would all be one. The single precursor that existed long before any of the great city-states or kingdoms. The one the great ancestors spoke.”

“That seems reasonable.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Very reasonable. The problem is that sometimes, when you look for something, you find it.”

The room turned silent.

“The great ancestors?” Kylara asked. She frowned.

“Yes.”

What could possibly be so dangerous about historical linguistics, of all things? What echoes could be traced that far back?

“They wanted to find the true names of the gods,” Kylara suddenly realised.

“And they found them,” Multhamurra said darkly. “A few of them even went a bit mad from it.”