In the end, Ana let Danat lead her back to her shelter, leaving Otah and his sister alone by the black and cooling kiln. The armsmen had prepared sleeping tents for them, but Idaan seemed content to sit up drinking watered wine in the cold night air, and Otah found himself pleased enough to join her.
"I don't suppose you'd care to explain to your poor idiot brother what happened today?" he said at length.
"You haven't put it together?" Idaan said. "This Vanjit creature has destroyed the only home Ana-cha had to go to. She's had to look long and hard at what her life could be in the place she's found herself, crippled in a foreign land, and it shook her."
"She's in love with Danat?"
"Of course she is," Idaan said. "It would have happened in half the time if you and her mother hadn't insisted on it. I think that's more frightening for her than the poet killing her nation."
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
"She's spent her life watching her mother linked with her father," Idaan said. "There are only so many years you can soak in the regrets of others before you start to think that all the world's that way."
"I had the impression that Farrer-cha loved his wife deeply," Otah said.
"And I had it that there's more than a husband to make a marriage," Idaan said. "It isn't her mother she fears being, it's Farrer-cha. She's afraid of having her love merely tolerated. I spent most of the day talking about Cehmai. I told her that if she really wanted to know what spending a life with Danat would be like, she should see what sort of man you were. If she wanted to know how Danat would see her, to find how you saw your wife."
Otah laughed, and he thought he saw the darkness around Idaan shift as if she had smiled.
"I'm sorry I didn't have the chance to know her," Idaan said. "She sounds like a good woman."
"She was," Otah said. "I miss her."
"I know you do," Idaan said. "And now Ana-cha knows it too."
"Does it matter?" Otah said. "All the hopes I had for building Galt and the Khaiem together are in rags around my knees. We're on a hunt for a girl who can ruin the world. What she's done to Galt, she could do to us. Or to all the world, if she wanted it. How do we plan for a marriage between Danat and Ana when it's just as likely that we'll all be starving and blind by Candles Night?"
"We're all born to die, Most High," Idaan said, the title sounding like an endearment in her voice. "Every love ends in parting or death. Every nation ends and every empire. Every baby born was going to die, given enough time. If being fated for destruction were enough to take the joy out of things, we'd slaughter children fresh from the womb. But we don't. We wrap them in warm cloth and we sing to them and feed them milk as if it might all go on forever."
"You make it sound like something you've done," Otah said.
Idaan made a sound he couldn't interpret, part grunt, part whimper.
"What is it?" he asked the darkness.
The silence lasted for the length of five long breaths together. When she spoke, her voice was low and rich with embarrassment.
"Lambs," she said.
"Lambs?"
"I used to wrap up the newborn lambs and keep them in the house. I even had Cehmai build them a crib that I could rock them in. After a few years, we had to switch to goats. I couldn't slaughter the lambs after all that, could I? By the end, I think we had sixty."
Otah didn't know whether to laugh or put his arms around the woman. The thought of the hard-hearted killer of his own father, his own brothers, cuddling a baby lamb was as absurd as it was sorrowful.
"Is it like this for everyone?" he asked softly. "Does every woman suffer this? Is the need to care for something that strong?"
"Strong? When it strikes, yes. But everyone? No," Idaan said. "Of course not. As it happened, it struck me. I assume Maati's students all feel strongly enough about it to risk their lives. But not every woman needs a child, and, thank the gods, the madness sometimes passes. It did for me."
"You wouldn't be a mother now? If it were possible, you wouldn't choose to?"
"Gods, no. I'd have been terrible at it. But I miss them," Idaan said. "I miss my little lambs. And that brings us back to Ana-cha, doesn't it?"
Otah took a pose that asked clarification.
"Who am I," Idaan asked, "to say that falling in love is ridiculous just because it's doomed?"
22
The weeks spent at the school had let Maati forget the ways in which the world broadened when he was traveling, and also the ways in which it narrowed when he was traveling with company. Living in the same walls, the same gardens, and surrounded as he had been by only a few deeply familiar faces had begun to grate on him before they left, but there had still been a way to find a moment to steal away. On the road, all of them together, the chances for private conversation were few and precious.
Since the andat had spoken, he hadn't found himself alone with Eiah, or at least not so clearly so that he would risk speaking. He didn't want either of the Kaes or Irit to know what had happened. He was afraid that they would say something where Vanjit could hear them. He was afraid that Vanjit would find out what the andat had said and take some terrible action in her fear and in her own defense.
He was afraid because he was afraid, and he was half-certain that Vanjit knew he was.
They reached the lands surrounding the river sooner than he would have wanted; if the long days and nights on the road had kept him in close quarters with the others, the days ahead sharing a boat would be worse. He had to find a way to talk with Eiah before that, and the prospect of his lessening time made him anxious.
Cold and snow hadn't reached the river valley yet. It was as if their journey were moving backward in time. The leaves here clung to the trees, some of them with the gold and red and yellow still struggling to push out the last hints of green. As they approached the water, farms and low towns clustered closer and closer. The roads and paths began to cling to irrigation channels, and other travelers-most merely local, but some from the great cities-appeared more and more often. Maati sat at the front of the cart, his robes wrapped close around him, staring ahead and trying not to put himself anywhere that the andat could catch his eye.
He was, in fact, so preoccupied with the politics and dangers within his small party that he didn't see the Galts until his horses were almost upon them.
Three men, none of them older than thirty summers, sat at the side of the road. They wore filthy robes that had once been red or orange. The tallest had a leather satchel over his shoulder. They had stepped a few feet off the path at the sound of hooves, and the tall grass made them seem like apparitions from a children's epic. Their eyes were blue, the pupils gray. None of them had shaved in recent memory. Their gaunt faces turned to the road from habit. There was no expression in them, not even hunger. Maati didn't realize he had slowed the horses until he heard Eiah call out from the cart's bed behind him. At her word, he stopped. Large Kae and Irit, taking their turns on horseback, reined in. Vanjit and Small Kae moved to the side of the cart. Maati risked a glance at Clarity-of-Sight, but it was still and silent.
"Who are you?" Eiah demanded in their language. "What are your names?"
The Galtic apparitions shifted, blinking their empty eyes in confusion. The tall one with the satchel recovered first.
"I'm Jase Hanin," he said, speaking too loudly. "These are my brothers. It isn't plague. Whatever took our eyes, miss, it wasn't plague. We aren't a danger."
Eiah muttered something that Maati couldn't make out, then shifted a crate in the back. When he turned to look, she had her physician's satchel on her hip and was preparing to drop down to the road. Vanjit, seeing this as well, grabbed Eiah's sleeve.
"Don't," Vanjit said. The word was as much command as plea.
"I'll be fine," Eiah said. Vanjit's grip tightened on the cloth, and Maati saw their eyes lock.
"Vanjit-cha," Maati said. "It's all right. Let her go."
The poet looked back at him, anger in her gaze, but sh
e did as he'd said. Eiah slipped down to the ground and walked toward the surprised Galts.
"You're a long way from anyplace," Eiah said.
"We were out in the low towns," the tall one said. "Something happened. We've been trying to get back to Saraykeht. Our mother's there, you see. Only it seems like we're put on the wrong path or stolen from as often as we're helped."
He tried what had once been a winning smile. Maati tied the reins to the cart and lowered himself to the road as well.
"Your mother?" Eiah said.
"Yes, miss," the Galt said.
"Well," she said, her voice cool. "At least you weren't a band of those charming liars out selling the promise of women in the low towns. What's in the satchel?"
The Galt looked chagrined and desperate, but he didn't lie.
"Names of men, miss. The ones who wanted wives from Galt."
"I thought as much," Eiah said.
"Don't help them," Vanjit said. She'd climbed to the front of the cart, but hadn't taken up the reins. From the way she held her body, Maati guessed it was a matter of time before she did. He saw the andat's black eyes peering over the cart at him and looked away. Eiah might as well not have heard her.
"We were going to do the right thing with them, miss," the tall man said. "There's a man in Acton putting together women who want to come over. We had an arrangement with him. All the money's been taken, but we still have the lists. God's word, we're going to keep our end of the thing, if we can just get back to Saraykeht."
"You stole from them," Eiah said, pulling a leather waterskin from her satchel. "They stole back from you. Seems to me that leaves you even. Here, drink from this. It's not only water, so don't take more than a couple of swallows, any of you."
"Eiah-kya," Irit said. Her voice was high and anxious, but she didn't say more than the name. Large Kae's mount whickered and sidestepped, sensing something uneasing in its rider's posture. Eiah might as easily have been alone.
"These ... put out your hand. These are lengths of silver. I've put a notch in each of them, so you'll know if someone's trying to switch them. It's enough to pay for a passage to Saraykeht. The road you're following now, it will be about another day's walk to the river. Maybe longer. Call it two."
"Thank you, miss," one of the other two said.
"I don't suppose we could ride on the back of your cart?" the tall man said, hope in his smile.
"No," Maati said. There was a limit to what Vanjit would allow, and he wasn't ready for that confrontation. "We've spent too long at this. Eiah."
Without a word, without meeting his gaze, Eiah turned back, climbed into the cart, and went back to the wax writing tablets she'd spent her morning over. Maati climbed back up into the cart and started them back down the road, Vanjit at his side.
"She shouldn't have done that," Vanjit murmured. Soft as the words were, he knew Eiah would hear them.
"There's no harm in it," Maati said. "Let it pass."
Vanjit frowned, but let the subject go. She spent the rest of the day beside him, as if guarding him from Eiah. For her part, Eiah might have been alone with her tablets. Even when the rest of them sang to pass the time, she kept to her work, steady and focused. When the conversation turned to whether they should keep riding after sunset in hopes of reaching the river, she spoke for stopping on the road. She didn't want Maati to be tired any more than was needed. Large Kae sided with her for the horses' sake.
The women made a small camp, dividing the night into watches since they were so near the road. Vanjit sharpened their sight in the evenings but insisted on returning them to normal when dawn came. She, of course, didn't have a turn at watch. Neither did Maati. Instead, he watched the moon as it hung in the tree branches, listened to the low call of owls, and drank the noxious tea. Vanjit, Irit, and Small Kae lay in the bed of the cart, their robes wrapped tightly around them. The andat sat beside its poet, as still as a stone. Eiah and Large Kae had taken the first watch, and were sitting with their backs to the fire to keep their unnaturally sharp eyes well-adapted to the darkness.
You have to kill her, it had said, and when Maati had reared back, his fragile heart racing, the andat had only looked at him. Its childish eyes had seemed older, like something ancient wearing the mask of a baby. It had nodded to itself and then turned and crawled awkwardly away. The message had been delivered. The rest, it seemed to imply, was Maati's.
He looked at the bowl of dark tea in his hands. The warmth of it was almost gone. Small bits of leaf and root shifted in the depths. An idea occurred to him. Not, perhaps, a brilliant one, but they would reach the river and hire a boat in the morning. It was a risk worth taking.
"Eiah-kya," he said softly. "Something's odd with this tea. Could you...?"
Eiah looked over at him. She looked old in the dim light of moon and fire. She came to the tree where he sat. Large Kae's gaze followed her. The sleepers in the cart didn't stir, but the andat's eyes were on him. Maati held out the bowl, and Eiah sipped from it.
"We need to speak," Maati said under his breath. "The others can't know."
"It seems fine. Give me your wrists," Eiah said in a conversational tone. Then, softly, "What's happened?"
"It's the andat. Blindness. It spoke to me. It told me to kill Vanjit-cha. This is all its doing."
Eiah switched to compare pulses in both wrists, her eyes closed as if she were concentrating.
"How do you mean?" she whispered.
"The babe was always clinging to Ashti Beg. It made Ashti-cha feel that it cared for her. Vanjit grew jealous. The conflict between them was the andat's doing. Now that it thinks we're frightened of it, it's trying to use me as well. It's Stone-Made-Soft encouraging Cehmai-cha into distracting conflicts. It's Seedless again."
Eiah put down his wrists, pressing her fingertips against his palms with the air of a buyer at a market.
"Does it matter?" Eiah murmured. "Say that the andat has been manipulating us all. What does that change?"
Eiah put down his hands. Her smile was thin and humorless. Something scurried in the bushes, small and fast. A mouse, perhaps.
"Is all well?" Large Kae called from the fire. In the cart, someone moaned and stirred.
"Fine," Maati said. "We're fine. Only adjusting something." Then, quietly, "I doubt it changes anything. Vanjit's more likely to side with Clarity-of-Sight than with us. If it is scheming against her-and, really, I can't see why it wouldn't be-it's better placed to get what it wants. It is her. It knows what she needs and what she fears."
"You think she wants to die?" Eiah asked.
"I think she wants to stop hurting. Binding the andat was supposed to stop the pain. Having a babe was supposed to. Revenge on the Galts. Now here she is with everything she wanted, and she still hurts."
Maati shrugged. Eiah took a pose of agreement and of sorrow.
"If she weren't a poet, I'd pity her," Eiah said. "But she is, and so she frightens me."
"Maati-kya?" Vanjit's voice came from the darkness over Eiah's shoulder. It was high and anxious. "What's the matter with Maati-kvo?"
"Nothing," Eiah said, turning back. Vanjit was sitting up, her hair wild, her eyes wide. The andat was clutched to her breast. Eiah took a reassuring pose. "Everything's fine."
Poet and andat looked at Maati with expressions of distrust so alike they were eerie.
THE RIVER QIIT HAD ITS SOURCE FAR NORTH OF UTANI. RAINS FROM THE mountain ranges that divided the cities of the Khaiem from the Westlands flowed east into the wide flats, gathered together, and carved their way south. Utani, the ruins of Udun, and then far to the south, the wide, silted delta just east of Saraykeht.
At its widest, the river was nearly half a mile across, but that was farther south. Here, at the low town squatting on the riverfront, the water was less than half that, its surface smooth and shining as silver. Eight thin streets crossed one another at unpredictable angles. Dogs and chickens negotiated their peace in bark and squawk, tooth and beak as Maati drove past. Two way
houses offered rest. Another teahouse was painted in characters that made it clear there were no beds for hire there, and grudgingly offered fresh noodles and old wine. The air smelled rich with decay and new growth, the cold water and the dust of the road. There should have been children in the streets, calling, begging, playing games both innocent and cruel.
Maati drew the cart to a halt in the yard of the wayhouse nearest the riverfront itself. Large Kae dismounted and went in to negotiate for a room. After the incident with the andat, the agreement was that someone would always be in a private room with the shutters closed and the door bolted, watching the andat. If all went as he intended it, they would be on the river well before nightfall, but still ...
Vanjit's scowl had deepened through the day. Twice more they had passed men and women with pale skin and blind eyes. Two were begging at the side of the road, another was being led on the end of a rope by an old woman. Eiah had not insisted on stopping to offer them aid. Happily, there were no Galtic faces at the wayhouse. Vanjit paused in the main room, her hand on Maati's shoulder. The andat was in her other arm, concealed by a blanket and as still as death.
"Maati-kvo," she said. "I'm worried. Eiah has been so strange since we left the school, don't you think? All the hours she's spent writing on those tablets. I don't think it's good for her."
"I'm sure she's fine," Maati said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
"And giving silver to those Galts," Vanjit said, her voice creeping higher. "I don't know what she means by that. Do you?"
Large Kae came in from a dark corridor and motioned them to follow. Maati almost had to pull Vanjit to get her attention. She glared at Large Kae's back as they walked.
"It seems to me," Vanjit continued, "that Eiah is forgetting who are her allies and who are her enemies. I know you love her, Maati-kvo, but you can't let that blind you. You can't ignore the truth."