Shadow and Betrayal

  The cohort didn’t speak, didn’t look up, only leaned harder onto the dry, rough shafts of their spades. Otah shook his head and spat.

  The sun had risen a hand and a half, and they had only completed two plots. As the day warmed, the boys shed their top robes, leaving them folded on the ground. There were still six plots to go. Otah paced behind the line, scowling. Time was running short.

  ‘Tahi-kvo wants this done by midday!’ Otah shouted. ‘If you disappoint him, I’ll see all of you beaten.’

  They struggled to complete the task, but by the time they reached the end of the fourth plot, it was clear that it wouldn’t happen. Otah gave stern orders that they should continue, then stalked off to find Tahi-kvo.

  The teacher was overseeing a cohort that had been set to clean the kitchens. The lacquered rod whirred impatiently. Otah took a pose of apology before him.

  ‘Tahi-kvo, the third cohort will not be able to turn the soil in the west gardens by midday. They are weak and stupid.’

  Tahi-kvo considered him, his expression unreadable. Otah felt his face growing warm with embarrassment. At last, Tahi-kvo took a formal pose of acceptance.

  ‘It will wait for another day, then,’ he said. ‘When they have had their meal, take them back out and let them finish the task.’

  Otah took a pose of gratitude until Tahi-kvo turned his attention back to the cohort he was leading, then Otah turned and walked back out to the gardens. The third cohort had slacked in his absence, but began to work furiously as Otah came near. He stepped into the half-turned plot and stared at them.

  ‘You have cost me an afternoon with Milah-kvo,’ Otah said, his voice low, but angry enough to carry. None of the boys would meet his gaze, guilty as dogs. He turned to the nearest boy - a thin boy with a spade in his hand. ‘You. Give me that.’

  The boy looked panicked, but held out the spade. Otah took it and thrust it down into the fresh soil. The blade sank only half way. Otah’s shoulders curled in rage. The boy took a pose of apology, but Otah didn’t acknowledge it.

  ‘You’re meant to turn the soil! Turn it! Are you too stupid to understand that?’

  ‘Otah-kvo, I’m sorry. It’s only—’

  ‘If you can’t do it like a man, you can do it as a worm. Get on your knees.’

  The boy’s expression was uncomprehending.

  ‘Get on your knees!’ Otah shouted, leaning into the boy’s face. Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes, but he did as he was told. Otah picked up a clod of dirt and handed it to him. ‘Eat it.’

  The boy looked at the clod in his hand, then up at Otah. Then, weeping until his shoulders shook, he raised the dirt to his mouth and ate. The others in the cohort were standing in a circle, watching silently. The boy’s mouth worked, mud on his lips.

  ‘All of it!’ Otah said.

  The boy took another mouthful, then collapsed, sobbing, to the ground. Otah spat in disgust and turned to the others.

  ‘Get to work!’

  They scampered back to their places, small arms and legs working furiously with the vigor of fear. The mud-lipped boy sat weeping into his hands. Otah took the spade to him and pushed the blade into the ground at his side.

  ‘Well?’ Otah demanded quietly. ‘Is there something to wait for?’

  The boy mumbled something Otah couldn’t make out.

  ‘What? If you’re going to talk, make it so people can hear you.’

  ‘My hand,’ the boy forced through the sobs. ‘My hands hurt. I tried. I tried to dig deeper, but it hurt so much . . .’

  He turned his palms up, and looking at the bleeding blisters was like leaning over a precipice; Otah felt suddenly dizzy. The boy looked up into his face, weeping, and the low keening was a sound Otah recognized though he had never heard it before; it was a sound he had longed to make for seasons of sleeping in the cold, hoping not to dream of his mother. It was the same tune he had heard in his old cohort, a child crying in his sleep.

  The black robes suddenly felt awkward, and the memory of a thousand humiliations sang in Otah’s mind the way a crystal glass might ring with the sound of a singer’s note.

  He knelt beside the weeping boy, words rushing to his lips and then failing him. The others in the cohort stood silent.

  ‘You sent for me?’ Tahi asked. Milah didn’t answer, but gestured out the window. Tahi came to stand by him and consider the spectacle below. In a half-turned plot of dirt, a black robe was cradling a crying child in his arms while the others in the cohort stood by, agape.

  ‘How long has this been going on?’ Tahi asked through a tight throat.

  ‘They were like that when I noticed them. Before that, I don’t know.’

  ‘Otah Machi?’

  Milah only nodded.

  ‘It has to stop.’

  ‘Yes. But I wanted you to see it.’

  In grim silence, the pair walked down the stairs, through the library, and out to the west gardens. The third cohort, seeing them come, pretended to work. All except Otah and the boy he held. They remained as they were.

  ‘Otah!’ Tahi barked. The black-robed boy looked up, eyes red and tear-filled.

  ‘You’re not well, Otah,’ Milah said gently. He drew Otah up. ‘You should come inside and rest.’

  Otah looked from one to the other, then hesitantly took a pose of submission and let Milah take his shoulder and guide him away. Tahi remained behind; Milah could hear his voice snapping at the third cohort like a whip.

  Back in the quarters of the elite, Milah prepared a cup of strong tea for Otah and considered the situation. The others would hear of what had happened soon enough if they hadn’t already. He wasn’t sure whether that would make things better for the boy or worse. He wasn’t even certain what he hoped. If it was what it appeared, it was the success he had dreaded. Before he acted, he had to be sure. He wouldn’t call for the Dai-kvo if Otah wasn’t ready.

  Otah, sitting slump-shouldered on his bunk, took the hot tea and sipped it dutifully. His eyes were dry now, and staring into the middle distance. Milah pulled a stool up beside him, and they sat for a long moment in silence before he spoke.

  ‘You did that boy out there no favors today.’

  Otah lifted a hand in a pose of correction accepted.

  ‘Comforting a boy like that . . . it doesn’t make him stronger. I know it isn’t easy being a teacher. It requires a hard sort of compassion to treat a child harshly, even when it is only for their own good in the end.’

  Otah nodded, but didn’t look up. When he spoke, his voice was low.

  ‘Has anyone ever been turned out from the black robes?’

  ‘Expelled? No, no one. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’ve failed,’ Otah said, then paused. ‘I’m not strong enough to teach these lessons, Milah-kvo.’

  Milah looked down at his hands, thinking of his old master. Thinking of the cost that another journey to the school would exact from that old flesh. He couldn’t keep the weight of the decision entirely out of his voice when he spoke.

  ‘I am removing you from duty for a month’s time,’ he said, ‘while we call for the Dai-kvo.’

  ‘Otah,’ the familiar voice whispered. ‘What did you do?’

  Otah turned on his bunk. The brazier glowed, the coals giving off too little light to see by. Otah fixed his gaze on the embers.

  ‘I made a mistake, Ansha,’ he said. It was the reply he’d given on the few occasions in the last days that someone had had the courage to ask.

  ‘They say the Dai-kvo’s coming. And out of season.’

  ‘It may have been a serious mistake.’

  It may be the first time that anyone has risen so far and failed so badly, Otah thought. The first time anyone so unsuited to the black robes had been given them. He remembered the cold, empty plain of snow he’d walked across the night Milah-kvo had promoted him. He could see now that his flight hadn’t been a sign of strength after all - only a presentiment of failure.

  ‘What did you do?’ Ansha asked in
the darkness.

  Otah saw the boy’s face again, saw the bloodied hand and the tears of humiliation running down the dirty cheeks. He had caused that pain, and he could not draw the line between the shame of having done it and the shame of being too weak to do it again. There was no way for him to explain that he couldn’t lead the boys to strength because in his heart, he was still one of them.

  ‘I wasn’t worthy of my robe,’ he said.

  Ansha didn’t speak again, and soon Otah heard the low, deep breath of sleep. The others were all tired from their day’s work. Otah had no reason to be tired after a day spent haunting the halls and rooms of the school with no duties and no purpose, wearing the black robe only because he had no other robes of his own.

  He waited in the darkness until even the embers deserted him and he was sure the others were deeply asleep. Then he rose, pulled on his robe, and walked quietly out into the corridor. It wasn’t far to the chilly rooms where the younger cohorts slept. Otah walked among the sleeping forms. Their bodies were so small, and the blankets so thin. Otah had been in the black for so little time, and had forgotten so much.

  The boy he was looking for was curled on a cot beside the great stone wall, his back to the room. Otah leaned over carefully and put a hand over the boy’s mouth to stifle a cry if he made one. He woke silently, though, his eyes blinking open. Otah watched until he saw recognition bloom.

  ‘Your hands are healing well?’ Otah whispered.

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Good. Now stay quiet. We don’t want to wake the others.’

  Otah drew his hand away, and the boy fell immediately into a pose of profound apology.

  ‘Otah-kvo, I have dishonored you and the school. I . . .’

  Otah gently folded the boy’s fingers closed.

  ‘You have nothing to blame yourself for,’ Otah said. ‘The mistake was mine. The price is mine.’

  ‘If I’d worked harder—’

  ‘It would have gained you nothing,’ Otah said. ‘Nothing.’

  The bronze doors boomed and swung open. The boys stood in their ranks holding poses of welcome as if they were so many statues. Otah, standing among the black robes, held his pose as well. He wondered what stories the cohorts of disowned children had been telling themselves about the visit: hopes of being returned to a lost family, or of being elevated to a poet. Dreams.

  The old man walked in. He seemed less steady than Otah remembered him. After the ceremonial greetings, he blessed them all in his thick, ruined whisper. Then he and the teachers retired, and the black robes - all but Otah - took charge of the cohorts that they would lead for the day. Otah returned to his room and sat, sick at heart, waiting for the summons he knew was coming. It wasn’t long.

  ‘Otah,’ Tahi-kvo said from the doorway. ‘Get some tea for the Dai-kvo. ’

  ‘But the ceremonial robe . . .’

  ‘Not required. Just tea.’

  Otah rose into a pose of submission. The time had come.

  The Dai-kvo sat silently, considering the fire in the grate. His hands, steepled before him, seemed smaller than Milah remembered them, the skin thinner and loose. His face showed the fatigue of his journey around the eyes and mouth, but when he caught Milah’s gaze and took a pose part query, part challenge, Milah thought there was something else as well. A hunger, or hope.

  ‘How are things back in the world?’ Milah asked. ‘We don’t hear much of the high cities here.’

  ‘Things are well enough,’ the Dai-kvo said. ‘And here? How are your boys?’

  ‘Well enough, most high.’

  ‘Really? Some nights I find I wonder.’

  Milah took a pose inviting the Dai-kvo to elaborate, but to no effect. The ancient eyes had turned once more to the flames. Milah let his hands drop to his lap.

  Tahi returned and took a pose of obedience and reverence before bending into his chair.

  ‘The boy is coming,’ Tahi said.

  The Dai-kvo took a pose of acknowledgment, but nothing more. Milah saw his own concern mirrored in Tahi. It seemed too long before the soft knock came at the door and Otah Machi entered, carrying a tray with three small bowls of tea. Stone-faced, the boy put the tray on the low table and took the ritual pose of greeting.

  ‘I am honored by your presence, most high Dai-kvo,’ Otah said perfectly.

  The old man’s eyes were alive now, his gaze on Otah with a powerful interest. He nodded, but didn’t commend the boy to his studies. Instead, he gestured to the empty seat that Milah usually took. The boy looked over, and Milah nodded. Otah sat, visibly sick with anxiety.

  ‘Tell me,’ the Dai-kvo said, picking up a bowl of tea, ‘what do you know of the andat?’

  The boy took a moment finding his voice, but when he did, there was no quavering in it.

  ‘They are thoughts, most high. Translated by the poet into a form that includes volition.’

  The Dai-kvo sipped his tea, watching the boy. Waiting for him to say more. The silence pressed Otah to speak, but he appeared to have no more words. At last the Dai-kvo put down his cup.

  ‘You know nothing more of them? How they are bound? What a poet must do to keep his work unlike that which has gone before? How one may pass a captured spirit from one generation to the next?’

  ‘No, most high.’

  ‘And why not?’ The Dai-kvo’s voice was soft.

  ‘Milah-kvo told us that more knowledge would be dangerous to us. We weren’t ready for the deeper teachings.’

  ‘True,’ the Dai-kvo said. ‘True enough. You were only tested. Never taught.’

  Otah looked down. His face gray, he adopted a pose of contrition.

  ‘I am sorry to have failed the school, most high. I know that I was to show them how to be strong, and I wanted to, but—’

  ‘You have not failed, Otah. You have won through.’

  Otah’s stance faltered, and his eyes filled with confusion. Milah coughed and, taking a pose that begged the Dai-kvo’s permission, spoke.

  ‘You recall our conversation in the snow the night I offered you the black? I said then that a weak-minded poet would be destroyed by the andat?’

  Otah nodded.

  ‘A cruel-hearted one would destroy the world,’ Milah said. ‘Strong and kind, Otah. It’s a rare combination.’

  ‘We see it now less often than we once did,’ the Dai-kvo said. ‘Just as no boy has taken the black robes without a show of his strength of will, no one has put the black robe away without renouncing the cruelty that power brings. You have done both, Otah Machi. You’ve proven yourself worthy, and I would take you as my apprentice. Come back with me, boy, and I will teach you the secrets of the poets.’

  The boy looked as if he’d been clubbed. His face was bloodless, his hands still, but a slow comprehension shone in his eyes. The moment stretched until Tahi snapped.

  ‘Well? You can say something, boy.’

  ‘What I did . . . the boy . . . I didn’t fail?’

  ‘That wasn’t a failure. That was the moment of your highest honor.’

  A slow smile came to Otah’s lips, but it was deathly cold. When he spoke, there was fury in his voice.

  ‘Humiliating that boy was my moment of highest honor?’

  Milah saw Tahi frown. He shook his head. This was between the boy and the Dai-kvo now.

  ‘Comforting him was,’ the old man said.

  ‘Comforting him for what I did.’

  ‘Yes. And yet how many of the other black-robed boys would have done the same? The school is built to embody these tests. It has been this way since the war that destroyed the Empire, and it has held the cities of the Khaiem together. There is a wisdom in it that runs very deep.’

  Slowly, Otah took a pose of gratitude to a teacher, but there was something odd about it - something in the cant of the wrists that spoke of an emotion Milah couldn’t fathom.

  ‘If that was honor, most high, then I truly understand.’

  ‘Do you?’ the old man asked, and his voice s
ounded hopeful.

  ‘Yes. I was your tool. It wasn’t only me in that garden. You were there, too.’

  ‘What are you saying, boy?’ Tahi snapped, but Otah went on as if he had not spoken.

  ‘You say Tahi-kvo taught me strength and Milah-kvo compassion, but there are other lessons to be taken from them. As the school is of your design, I think it only right that you should know what I’ve learned at your hand.’