THE (tlpq-4) (55 page)

as lace that held a hundred burning candles-everything was designed to

draw the eyes to the dais, the black lacquer chair, and then out a wide,

unshuttered window that reached from ceiling to floor. The Khai would

have sat there, his city arrayed out behind him like a cloak. Now the

cloak was only darkness, and in the black chair, Clarity-of-Sight cooed.

"I didn't think you'd come," Vanjit said from the shadows behind him.

Maati startled and turned.

Exhaustion and hunger had thinned the girl. Her dark hair was pulled

back, but what few locks had escaped the bond hung limp and lank,

framing her pale face.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Fear of justice," Vanjit said.

She stepped out into the candlelight. Her robes were silken rags,

scavenged from some noble wardrobe, fourteen years a ruin. Her head was

bowed beneath an invisible weight and she moved like an old woman bent

with the pain for years. She had become Udun. The war, the damage, the

ruin. It was her. The baby-the inhuman thing shaped like a baby-shrieked

with joy and clapped its tiny hands. Vanjit shuddered.

"Vanjit-cha," Maati said, "we can talk this through. We can ... we can

still end this well."

"You tried to murder me," Vanjit said. "You and your pet poisoner. If

you'd had your way, I would be dead now. How, Maati-kvo, do you propose

to talk that through?"

"I . . ." he said. "There must ... there must be a way."

"What was I supposed to be that I wasn't?" Vanjit asked as she walked

toward the black chair with its tiny beast. "You knew what the Galts had

done to me. Did you want me to get this power, and then forget? Forgive?

Was this supposed to be the compensation for their deaths?"

"No," Maati said. "No, of course not."

"No," she said. "Because you didn't care when I blinded them, did you?

That was my decision. My burden, if I chose to take it up. Innocent

women. Children. I could destroy them, and you could treat it as

justice, but I went too far. I blinded you. For half a hand, I turned it

against you, and for that, I deserved to die."

"The andat, Vanjit-kya," Maati said, his voice breaking. "They have

always schemed against their poets. They have manipulated the people

around them in terrible ways. Eiah and I ..."

"You hear that?" Vanjit said, scooping up Clarity-of-Sight. The andat's

black eyes met hers. "This is your doing."

The andat cooed and waved its arms. Vanjit smiled as if at some unspoken

jest, shared only between those two.

"I thought I would make the world right again," Vanjit said. "I thought

I could make a baby. Make a family."

"You thought you could save the world," Maati said.

"I thought you could," she said in a voice like cold vinegar. "Look at me.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Look."

Her face sharpened. He saw the smudge of dust along her cheek, the

stippled pores along her cheek, the individual hairs smaller than the

thinnest threads. Her eyes were labyrinths of blood mapped on the

whites, and the pupils glowed like a wolf's where the candlelight

reflected from their depths. Her skin was a mosaic, tiny scales that

broke and scattered with every movement. Insects too small to see

scuttled through the roots of her hair, her eyelashes.

Maati's stomach turned, a deep nausea taking him. He closed his eyes,

pressing his palms into the lids.

"Please," he said, and Vanjit wrenched his hands away from his face.

"Look at me!" she shouted. "Look!"

Reluctantly, slowly, Maati opened his eyes. There was too much. Vanjit

was no longer a woman but a landscape as wide as the world, moving,

breaking, shifting. Looking at her was being tossed on an infinite sea.

"Can you see my pain, Maati-kvo? Can you see it?"

No, he tried to say, but his throat closed against his illness. Vanjit

pushed him away, and he spun, a thousand details assaulting him in the

space of a heartbeat. He fell to the stone floor and retched.

"I didn't think you would," she said.

"Please," Maati said.

"You've taken it from me," Vanjit said. "You and Eiah. All the others. I

was ready to do anything for you. I risked death. I did. And you don't

even know me."

Her laugh was short and brutal.

"My eyes," he said.

"Fine," Vanjit said, and Maati's vision went away. He was once again in

the fog of blindness. "Is that better?"

Maati reached toward the sound of her voice, then stumbled. Vanjit

kicked him once in the ribs. The surprise was worse than the pain.

"There is nothing you have to teach me anymore, old man," she said.

"I've learned everything you know. I understand."

"No," Maati said. "There's more. I can tell you more. I know what it is

to lose someone you love. I know what it is to feel betrayed by the ones

you thought closest to you."

"Then you know the world isn't worth saving," Vanjit said.

The words hung in the air. Maati tried to rise, but he was short of

breath, wheezing like he'd run a race. His racing heart filled his ears

with the sound of rushing blood.

"It is," he said. "It's worth ..."

"Ah. There's Eymond. Everyone in Eymond, blind as a stone. And Eddensea.

There. Gone. Bakta. But why stop there, Maati-kya? Here, the birds. All

the birds in the world. There. The fish. The beasts." She laughed. "All

the flies are blind. I've just done that. All the flies and the spiders.

I say we give the world to the trees and the worms. One great nation of

the eyeless."

"Vanjit," Maati said. His back hurt like someone had stabbed him and

left the blade in. He fought to find the words. "You mustn't do this. I

didn't teach you this."

"I did what you told me," she said, her voice rising. The andat's cry

rose with her, an infantile rage and anguish and exultation at the

world's destruction. "I did what you wanted. More, Maati-kvo, I did what

you couldn't do yourself, and you hated me for it. You wanted me dead?

Fine, then. I'll die. And the world can come with me."

"No!" Maati cried.

"I'm not a monster," Vanjit said. Like a candle being snuffed, the

andat's wail ceased. Vanjit collapsed beside him, as limp as a puppet

with cut strings.

There were voices. Otah, Danat, Eiah, Idaan, Ana. And others. He lay

back, letting his eyes close. He didn't know what had happened. For the

moment, he didn't care. His body was a single, sudden wash of pain. And

then, his chest only ached. Maati opened his eyes. An unfamiliar face

was looking down at him.

The man had skin as pale as snow and flowing ink-black hair. His eyes

were deep brown, as soft as fur and as warm as tea. His robe was blue

silk embroidered with thread of gold. The pale man smiled and took a

pose of greeting. Maati responded reflexively. Vanjit lay on the floor,

her arm bent awkwardly behind her, her eyes open and empty.

"Killed her," Maati said. "You. Killed her."

"Well. More precisely, we wounded her profoundly and then she died," the

pale man said. "But I'll grant you it's a fine point. The effect is much

the same."

"Maati!"

He lifted his head. Eiah was rushing toward him, her robes pressed back

like a banner by her speed. Otah and Idaan followed her more slowly. Ana

and Danat were locked in a powerful embrace. Maati lifted his hand in

greeting. When she drew near, Eiah hesitated, her gaze on the fallen

girl. The pale man-Wounded-took a pose that offered congratulations, and

there was irony in the cant of his wrists. Eiah knelt, touching the

corpse with a calm, professional air.

"Oh, yes," the andat said, folding its hands. "Quite dead."

"Good," Eiah said.

"He isn't standing," Idaan said, nodding toward Maati.

Eiah's attention shifted to him and her face paled.

"Just need. To catch my breath."

"His heart's stopping," Eiah said. "I knew this would happen. I told you

to drink that tea."

Maati waved his hand, shooing her concerns away. Danat and Ana had come.

He hadn't noticed it. They were simply there. Ana's eyes were brown and

they were beautiful.

"Can't we ... can't we do something?" Danat asked.

"No," said the andat in the same breath that Eiah said, "Yes. I need my

satchel. Where is it?"

Danat rushed back to the great doors, returning half a moment later with

the physician's satchel in his hands. Eiah grabbed it, plucked out a

cloth bag, and started shuffling through sheaves of dried herbs that to

Maati looked identical.

"There's another bag. A yellow one," Eiah said. "Where is it?"

"I don't think we brought it," Danat said.

"Then it's back at the quay. Get it now."

Danat turned and sprinted. Gently, Eiah took Maati's hand. He thought at

first she meant to comfort him, but her fingers pressed into his wrist,

and then she reached for his other hand. He surrendered himself to her

care. He didn't have a great deal of choice. Idaan squatted at his side,

Otah sitting on the dais. The andat rose, stepping back by Ana's side as

if out of respect.

"How bad?" Idaan asked.

"He hasn't died. That's what I can offer for now," Eiah said. "Maati-

kya, open your mouth. I don't have time to brew this, but it will help

until I can get the rest of my supplies. It's going to be sweet first

and then bitter."

"You've done it," Maati said around the pinch of leaves she put on his

tongue.

Eiah looked at him, her expression startled. He smiled at her.

"You bound it. You've cured the blindness."

Eiah looked up at her creation, her slave. It nodded.

"Well, no," she said. "I mean, yes, I bound him. And I did undo Vanjit's

damage to Ana and myself. And then you, when I saw that she'd done it."

"Galt?" Ana asked.

"I hadn't ... I hadn't even thought of it. Gods. Is there anything

different to be done? I mean, a whole nation at once?"

"You have to do everything," Maati said. "Birds. Beasts. Fish. Everyone,

everywhere. You have to hurry. It's only a thought." The herbs were

making his mouth tingle and burn, but the pain in his breast seemed to

ebb. "It's no different."

Eiah turned to the andat. The kind, pale face hardened. No matter how it

seemed, the thing wasn't a man and it wasn't gentle. But it was bound to

her will, and a moment later Eiah caught her breath.

"It's done," she said, wonder in her voice. "They've been put back. The

ones who are left."

Ana stepped forward and knelt, wordlessly enfolding Eiah in her arms.

From where he lay, he could see Eiah's eyes close, watch her lean into

the embrace. The two women seemed to pause in time, a moment that lasted

less than two long breaths together but carried the weight of years

within it. Eiah raised her head sharply and the andat twitched. Idaan

leaped up, yelping. All eyes turned to her as she pressed a flat palm to

her belly.

"That," she said, "felt very odd. You should warn someone when you're

planning something like that."

"Sterile?" Otah asked. His voice was low. There was no joy in it.

"Repaired," Eiah said. "We can bear again. Galts can father children and

we can bear them."

"I don't suppose you could leave me as I was?" Idaan asked.

"So we've begun again," Otah said. "It is all as it was. We've only

changed a few names. Well-"

Wounded cut him off with a low bark of a laugh. Its eyes were fixed upon

Eiah. Otah looked from one to the other, his hands taking a querying

pose. Woman and slave both ignored him.

"Everyone?" the andat asked.

"Everyone, everywhere," Eiah said. "It's only a thought, isn't it?

That's all it needs to be."

"What are you doing?" Ana asked. It seemed like a real curiosity.

"I'm curing everyone," Eiah said. "If there's a child in Bakta who split

her head on a stone this morning, I want it fixed. A man in Eymond whose

hip was broken when he was a boy and healed poorly, I want him walking

without pain in the morning. Everyone. Everywhere. Now."

"Eiah Machi," the andat said, its voice low and amused, "the little girl

who saved the world. Is that how you see it? Or is this how you

apologize for slaughtering a whole people?"