Meta-Conversations: Deprecated

It’s hard for Farren to sound aghast but he does now when he finds me smugly crossing out the ‘z’ letter. “What are you doing??”

“This sound is deprecated!” I say cheerfully. “There are almost no words with this sound in it, and the only one I’ve noticed is a family name that’s probably me mishearing a ‘z’ sound when it’s certainly an ‘s’.”

“One of our most important words uses this sound!” Farren says. “And we do not pronounce hhaza ‘hhasa’.” He shudders delicately. “Just because you think we don’t use the sound doesn’t mean we don’t use it. And in this case, the issue isn’t that it’s a rare sound—which admittedly, it is—but rather that it does not begin words.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Next you’re going to tell me that ‘q’ and ‘k’ don’t sound the same.”

“They don’t,” Farren said. 

“But!” I exclaim, “But you told me that I could use either letter to write the words that use those sounds!”

“And it is so,” Farren said. “But it’s not perfectly observed, that rule.” My expression remains unchanged. His becomes long-suffering, and with a sigh he deflates onto a stool across from me. “Sounds do change. And letters too—I’m sorry, aunerai, but it’s true. You are looking for the one true way and I can only tell you that while our language changes slowly, you are attempting it right now, all at once, and that means you must encompass thousands of years of those changes. This is the lineage of our language, and it is as richly storied as any other part of our cultural heritage. You cannot simplify it for your convenience.”

There’s no arguing that. If it’s a real language, it must have generations of accumulated errors, additions, and wobbles. “So how can you tell from listening when something is said with the ‘q’ sound?” I ask. “You mentioned it in Black Blossom, when Thirukedi gave you the Qevellen name.” I pause. “I guess if anyone’s going to preserve antique accents, it’s Thirukedi.”

“Just so. And it is said… ‘Kherishdar’,” Farren says, and the first consonant sounds like a purr.

Startled, I say, “That must be why I wrote it as ‘kh’ rather than q.”

“I suppose,” Farren says. “I don’t know what aunerai letters you use for your sounds, still. Not well. It seems as whimsical—more whimsical sometimes—than how we match our sounds to our letters. But yes, the sound written as ‘q’ is said thus: Kherishdar, maqeve, tevrethiq, qet.”

“But not everyone pronounces it that way,” I say.

“No. We rush through the sounds sometimes,” Farren says. “When the ‘kh’ sound falls in a place where it would be awkward to say, it is smoothed. And context makes it clear which word we’re using.” He pauses. “At least, that is how it is now. But Haraa tells me that there is evidence that such pronunciation changes have happened, and then reversed themselves.”

“Does she say why?” I asked, mystified.

“Naturally, because Thirukedi still speaks thus,” Farren said. “And we take our cues from Him.”

“It’s a pretty sound,” I say, because it is. Like purring. I suppose it also sounds like growling, or choking, depending on your associations, but I like it, and I like how it balances the ‘hh’ sound that goes in words like… well. Hhaza. Come to think of it, the ‘hh’ and ‘h’ are phonemes, too—sounds that make words different based on them, the way the vowel sound in ‘heat’ and ‘hit’ make those two words mean different things. And then, thinking about it, I add, “I hope my readers don’t mind how randomly I’ve transliterated your words into our alphabet. I don’t think I’ve used ‘kh’ anywhere else, except in the word Kherishdar.”

“Well,” Farren says complacently, setting up a fresh piece of paper, “if you are to make any word singular in spelling, Kherishdar is an excellent choice.”