The Price Of Spring (31 page)

"Danat-kya," he said when he'd walked close enough to be heard over the good cheer of their companions. His son squatted at the edge of the cart, and then sat. In the light from the kilns, Danat seemed little more than a deeper shadow, his face hidden. "There are some things we should discuss."

"There are," Danat said, and his voice pulled Otah back.

Otah shifted to sit at his son's side. Something in his left knee clicked, but there was no particular pain, so he ignored it. Danat laced his fingers.

"You're angry that I've come?" Otah said.

"No," Danat said. "It's not ... not that, quite. But I hadn't thought that you would be here, or that we'd be going west. I made arrangements with my own plan set, and you've changed it."

"I can apologize. But this is the right thing. I can't swear that Pathai is-

"That's not what I'm trying ... Gods," Danat said. He turned to his father, his eyes catching the kiln light and flashing with it. "Come on. You might as well know."

Danat shifted, rose, and walked across the wide, wooden back of the steamcart. The shed's door was shut fast. As Otah pulled himself up, grunting, Danat worked a thick iron latch. The armsmen's singing faltered. Otah was aware of eyes fixed upon them, though he couldn't see the men as more than silhouettes.

Otah made his way to the shed's open door. Inside was pure darkness. Danat stood, latch in his hand, silent. Otah was about to speak when another voice came from the black.

"Danat?" Ana Dasin asked. "Is it you?"

"It is," Danat said. "And my father."

Gray-eyed, the Galtic girl emerged from the darkness. She wore a blouse of simple cotton, a skirt like a peasant worker's. Her hands moved before her, testing the air until they found the wood frame of the shed's door. Otah must have made a sound, because she turned as if to look at him, her gaze going past him and into nothing. He almost took a pose of formal greeting but stopped himself.

"Ana-cha," he said.

"Most High," she replied, her chin high, her brows raised.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he said.

"I went to her as soon as I heard what had happened," Danat said. "I swore it was nothing that we'd done. We hadn't been trying to recapture the andat. She didn't believe me. When I decided to go, I asked her to come. As a witness. We've left word for Farrercha. Even if he disapproves, it doesn't seem he'd be able to do much about it before we returned."

"You know this is madness," Otah said softly.

Ana Dasin frowned, hard lines marking her face. But then she nodded.

"It makes very little difference whether I die in the city or on the road," she said. "If this isn't treachery on the part of the Khaiem, then I don't see that I have anything to fear."

"We are on an improvised campaign against powers we cannot match. I can name half-a-dozen things to fear without stopping to think," Otah said. He sighed, and the Galtic girl's expression hardened. Otah went on, letting a hint of bleak amusement into his voice. "But I suppose if you've come, you've come. Welcome to our hunt, Ana-cha."

He nodded to his son and stepped back. Her voice recalled him.

"Most High," she said. "I want to believe Danat. I want to think that he had nothing to do with this."

"He didn't," Otah said. The girl weighed his words, and then seemed to accept them.

"And you?" she said. "Was any of this yours?"

Otah smiled. The girl couldn't see him, but Danat did.

"Only my inattention," Otah said. "It's a failure I've come to correct."

"So the andat can blind you as easily as he has us," Ana said, stepping out of the shed and onto the steamcart. "You aren't protected any more than I am."

"That's true," Otah said.

Ana went silent, then smiled. In the dim light of the fire, he could see her mother in the shape of her cheek.

"And yet you take our side rather than ally with the poets," she said. "So which of us is mad?"

Chapter 18

The snow fell and stayed, as deep as Maati's three fingers together. The winds of autumn whistled through the high, narrow windows that had never known glass. The women-Eiah, Irit, and the two Kaeswere in a small room, clustered around a brazier and talking with hushed fervor about grammar and form, the distinctions between age and wounds and madness. Vanjit, wrapped in thick woolen robes and a cloak of waxed silk, was sitting on a high wall, her gaze to the east. She sang lullabies to Clarityof-Sight, and her voice would have been beautiful if she'd been cradling a real babe. Maati considered interrupting her or else returning to the work with the others, but both options were worse than remaining alone. He turned away from the great bronze door and retreated into the darkness.

It would be only weeks until winter was upon them. Not the killing storms of the north, but enough that even the short journey to Pathai would become difficult. He tried to imagine the long nights and cold that waited for him, for all of them, and he wondered how they would manage it.

A darkness had taken Eiah since her return. He saw it in her eyes and heard the rasp of it in her voice, but there was no lethargy about it. She was awake before him every morning and took to her bed long after sunset. Her attention was bent to the work of her binding, and her ferocity seemed to pull the others in her wake. Only Vanjit held herself apart, attending only some of Eiah's discussions. It was as if there were a set amount of attention, and as Eiah bore down, Vanjit floated up like a kite. Maati, caught between the pair, only felt tired and sick and old.

It had been years since he had lived in one place, and then it had been as the permanent guest of the Khai Machi. He had had a library, servants who brought him wine and food. Eiah had been no more than a girl, then. Bright, engaged, curious. But more than that, she had been joyful. And he remembered himself as being a part of that joy, that comfort.

He lumbered into one of the wide, bare rooms where rows and columns of cots had once held boys no older than ten summers, wrapped in all the robes they owned to keep off the cold. He leaned against the wall, feeling the rough stone against his back.

Another winter in this place. There was a time when he'd thought it wise.

Footsteps came from behind him. Vanjit's. He knew them from the sound. He didn't turn to greet her. When she stepped into the room, waxed silk shining like leather, she didn't at first look at him. She had grown beautiful in an odd way. The andat held against her hip clung to her, and there was a peace in her expression that lent her an air of serenity. He wanted to trust her, to take her success as the first of a thousand ways in which he would be able to set the world right, to unmake his mistakes.

"Maati-kvo," Vanjit said. Her voice was low and soft as a woman newly woken.

"Vanjit," he said, taking a pose of greeting.

She and the andat came to sit at his side. The tiny thing balled its hands in the folds of Maati's robe, tugging as if to draw his attention. Vanjit appeared not to notice.

"Eiahcha is doing well, isn't she?" Vanjit asked.

"I think so," Maati said. "She's taken a wide concept, and that's always difficult. She's very serious, though. There are a few flaws. Structures that work against each other instead of in concert."

"How long?" Vanjit asked. Maati rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"Until she's ready? If she finds a form that resolves the conflict, I suppose she could start the last phase tomorrow. Two weeks. Three at the earliest. Or months more. I don't know."

Vanjit nodded to herself, not looking up at him. The andat tugged at his robe again. Maati looked down into the black, eager eyes. The andat gave its wide, toothless grin.

"We've been talking," Vanjit said. "Clarityof-Sight and I have been talking about Eiah and what she's doing. He pointed something out that I hadn't considered."

That was possible, but only in a fashion. The andat was a part of her, as all of them reflected the poets who had bound them. Whatever thought it had presented in the deep, intimate battle it waged with Vanjit, it had to have originated with her. Still, she was as capable of surprising herself as any of them. Maati took a pose that invited her to continue.

"We can't know how Eiahcha's binding will go," Vanjit said. "I know that we were first as a test of the grammar. That Clarityof-Sight exists is proof that the bindings can work. It isn't proof that Eiahcha ... Don't misunderstand, Maati-kvo. I know as well as anyone that Eiahcha is brilliant. Without her, I would never have managed my binding. But until she makes the attempt, we can't be sure that she's the right sort of mind to be a poet. Even with all our work, she might still fail."

"That's true," Maati said, trying to turn away from the thought even as he spoke.

"It would all end, wouldn't it? What I can do, what we can do. It wouldn't mean anything without Eiahcha. She's the one who can undo what Sterile did, and unless she can do that ..."

"She's our best hope," Maati said.

"Yes," Vanjit said, and turned to look up at Maati. Her face was bright. "Yes, our best hope. But not the only one."

The andat at her hip clucked and giggled to itself, clapping tiny hands. Maati took a pose of query.

"We know for certain that we have one person who could bind an andat, because I already have. I want Eiahcha to win through as badly as anyone, but if her binding does fail, I could take it up."

Maati smiled because he could think of nothing else to do. Dread knotted in his chest. His breath had grown suddenly short, and the warehouse-wide walls of the sleeping quarters had narrowed. Vanjit stood, her hand on his sleeve. Maati took a moment, shook his head.

"Are you well, Maati-kvo?" Vanjit asked.

"I'm old," he said. "It's nothing. Vanjit-kya, you can't hold another andat. You of all of us know how much of your attention Clarityof-Sight requires.

"I would have to release him for a time," Vanjit said. "I understand that. But what makes him him comes from me, doesn't it? All the things that aren't innate to the idea of sight made clear. So when I bind Wounded, it would be almost like having him back. It would be, because it would come from me, just as he does."

"It ... it might," Maati said. His head still felt light. A chill sweat touched his back. "I suppose it might. But the risk of it would also be huge. Once the andat was let go, you wouldn't be able to recall it. Even if you were to bind another, Clarityof-Sight would be gone. We have the power now ..."

"But my power doesn't mean anything," Vanjit said. Her voice was taking on a strained tone, as if some banked anger was rising in her. "Eiah matters. Wounded matters."

He thought of the Galts, blinded. Had Vanjit held Wounded, they would doubtless all have died. A nation felled-every woman, every man-by invisible swords, axes, stones. It was a terrible power, but they weren't here for the benefit of the Galts. He put his hand over Vanjit's.

"Let us hope it never comes to that," he said. "It would be far, far better to have two poets. But if it does, I'm glad you'll be here."

The girl's face brightened and she darted forward, kissing Maati's lips as brief and light as a butterfly. The andat on her hip gurgled and flailed. Vanjit nodded as if it had spoken.

"We should go," Vanjit said. "We've spent so much time talking about how to approach you, I've neglected the classes. Thank you, Maati-kvo. I can't tell you how much it means to know that I can still help."

Maati nodded, waited until girl and andat had vanished, then lowered himself to the floor. Slowly, the knot in his chest relaxed, and his breath returned to its normal depth and rhythm. In the snow-gray sunlight, he considered the backs of his hands, the nature of the andat, and what he had just agreed to. The cold of the stone and the sky seemed to take his energy. By the time he rose, his fingers had gone white and his feet were numb.

He found the others in the kitchen. Chalk marks on the walls sketched out three or four grammatical scenarios, each using different vocabulary and structures. Eiah, considering the notes, took a brief pose of welcome when he appeared, then turned to stare at him. Irit fluttered about, chattering merrily until he was seated by the fire with a bowl of warm tea in his hand. Large Kae and Small Kae were in the middle of a conversation about the difference between cutting and crushing, which in other circumstances would have been disturbing to hear. Vanjit sat with a beatific smile, Clarityof-Sight perched on her lap. Maati motioned at Eiah that she should carry on, and with a reluctance he didn't understand, she did.

The tea was warm and smelled like spring. Coals glowed in the brazier. The voices around him seemed hopeful and bright. But then he saw the andat's black eyes and was reminded of his unease.

The session came to its end and the women scattered, each to her own task, leaving only Vanjit sitting by the fire, nursing the andat from a breast swollen with milk. Maati made his way back to his rooms. He was tired past all reason and unsteady on his feet. As he had hoped, Eiah was waiting outside his door.

"That seemed to go well," Maati said. "I think Irit's solution was fairly elegant."

"It has promise," Eiah agreed as she followed him into the room. He sat in a leather chair, sighing. Eiah blew life into the coals in the fire grate, added a handful of small tinder and a twisted length of oak to the fire, then took a stool and pulled it up before him.

"How do you feel about the binding's progress?" he asked.

"Well enough," she said, taking both his forearms in her hands. Her gaze was locked somewhere over his left shoulder, her fingers pressing hard into the flesh between the bones of his wrists. A moment later, she dropped his right hand and began squeezing his fingertips.

"Eiah-kya?"

"Don't mind me," she said. "It's habit. The binding's coming closer. There are one or two more things I'd like to try, but I think we've come as near as we're going to."

She went on for half a hand, recounting the fine issues of definition, duration, and intent that haunted the form of her present binding. Maati listened, submitting himself to her professional examination as she went on. Outside the window, the snow was falling again, small flakes gray against the pure white sky. Before Vanjit, he wouldn't have been able to make them out.