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 Clarity-of-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.
"Eiah-cha 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. "Clarity-of-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 Eiah-cha's binding will go," Vanjit said. "I know that we were first as a test of the grammar. That Clarity-of-Sight exists is proof that the bindings can work. It isn't proof that Eiah-cha ... Don't misunderstand, Maati-kvo. I know as well as anyone that Eiah-cha 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 Eiah-cha. 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 Eiah-cha 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 Clarity-of-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, Clarity-of-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, Clarity-of-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.
"I agree," Maati said as she ended, then plucked his sleeves back into their proper place. "Do you think ..."
"Before Candles Night, certainly," Eiah said. "But there is going to be a complication. We have to leave the school. Utani would be best, but Pathai would do if that's impossible. You and I can leave in the morning, and the others can join us."
Maati chuckled.
"Eiah-kya," he said. "You've apologized for letting Ashti Beg go. I understand why you did it, but there's nothing to be concerned about. Even if she did tell someone that we're out here, Vanjit could turn Clarityof-Sight against them, and we could all walk quietly away. The power of the andat-"
"Your heart is failing," Eiah said. "I don't have the herbs or the baths to care for you here."
She said it simply, her voice flat with exhaustion. Maati felt the smile fading from his lips. He saw tears beginning to glimmer in her eyes, the drops unfallen but threatening. He took a pose that denied her.
"Your color is bad," she said. "Your pulses aren't symmetric. Your blood is thick and dark. This is what I do, Uncle. I find people who are sick, and I look at the signs, and I think about them and their bodies. I look at you, here, now, and I see a man whose blood is slow and growing slower."
"You're imagining things," Maati said. "I'm fine. I only haven't slept well. I would never have guessed that you of all people would mistake a little lost rest for a weak heart."
"I'm not-"
"I am fine!" Maati shouted, pounding the arm of the chair. "And we cannot afford to run off into the teeth of winter. You aren't a physician any longer. That's behind you. You are a poet. You are the poet who's going to save the cities."
She took his hand in both of hers. For a moment, there was no sound but the low murmur of the fire and the nearly inaudible sound of her palm stroking the back of his hand. One of the threatened tears fell, streaking her cheek black. He hadn't realized she wore kohl.
"You," he said softly, "are the most important poet there is. The most important one there ever was."
"I'm just one woman," Eiah said. "I'm doing the best I can, but I'm tired. And the world keeps getting darker around me. If I can't take care of everything, at least let me take care of you."
"I will be fine," Maati said. "I'm not young anymore, but I'm a long way from death. We'll finish your binding, and then if you want to haul me to half the baths in the Empire, I'll submit."
Another tear marked her face. Maati took his sleeve and wiped her cheek dry.
"I'll be fine," he said. "I'll rest more if you like. I'll pretend my bones are made of mud brick and glass. But you can't stop now to concern yourself with me. Those people out there. They're the ones who need your care. Not me."
"Let me go to Pathai," she said. "I can get teas there."
"No," Maati said. "I won't do that."
"Let me send Large Kae, then. I can't stand by and do nothing."
"All right," Maati said, holding up a placating hand. "All right. Let's wait until morning, and we can talk to Large Kae. And perhaps you'll see that I'm only tired and we can move past this."
She left in the end without being convinced. As darkness fell, Maati found himself slipping into a soft despair. The world was quiet and still and utterly unaware of him.
His son was dead. The people he had counted as his friends had become his enemies, and he was among the most despised men in the world. Eiah was wrong, of course. His health was fine. But someday, it would fail. All men died, and most were forgotten. The few that the world remembered were not always celebrated.
He lit the night candle by holding it to the fire, the wax hissing where it dripped on the coals. He found his book and settled close to the fire grate before opening the cover and considering the words.
I, Maati Vaupathai, am one of the two men remaining in the world who has wielded the power of the andat.
Already, it was not true. There were three living poets now, and one of them a woman. Between the time he had touched a pen to this page and this moment, reading it in the early night, the world had moved on. He wondered how much of the rest was already old, already the property of a past that could never be regained. He read slowly, tracing the path his own mind had taken. The candle lent the pages an orange glow, the ink seeming to retreat into the pages, as if they were much larger and much farther away. The fire warmed his ankles and turned strong, solid wood into ashes softer than snow.
He was surprised to see the anger and bitterness in the book. There was a thread, he thought, of hatred in these words. He didn't think he'd meant it to be there, and yet sitting alone with his slowing blood, it could not be denied. Hatred of Otah and the Galts, of course, but also of Cehmai. Of Liat, whom he mentioned more frequently than he remembered and in terms that he knew she didn't deserve. Hatred toward the gods and the world. And thus, he had to think, toward himself. Before he reached the last page, Maati was weeping quietly.
He found an ink brick and a fresh pen, lit all the lanterns and candles he could find, and sat at his desk. He drew a line across the middle of the last page, marking a change in the book and in himself that he could not yet describe. He freshened the ink and did not know precisely what he intended to write until the nib touched the page, tracing out letters with a sound as dry and quiet as a lizard on stones.
If it were within my power, I would begin again. I would begin as a boy again, and live my life a different way. I have been told tonight that my heart is growing weak. Looking back upon the man I have been until now, I think it always has been. I think it was shattered one time too many and put back without all the shards in place.
And, though I think this is the cry of a coward, I do not want to die. I want to see the world made right. I want to live that long, at least.
He paused, looking at the words where they grew fainter, the ink running thin.
He found Eiah asleep on her cot, still wearing the robes she'd worn all day. Her door stood ajar, and his scratch woke her.
"Uncle," she said, yawning. "What's happened? Is something wrong?"
"You're certain. What you said about my blood. You're sure."
"Yes," she said. There was no hesitation in her.
"Perhaps," he said, then coughed. "Perhaps we should go to Utani."
Tears came to her eyes again, but with them a smile. The first true smile he'd seen from her since her journey to the low town. Since Vanjit's blinding of the Galts.
"Thank you, Uncle," she said.
In the morning, the others were shocked, and yet before the sun broke through the midday clouds, the cart was loaded with food and books, wax tables and wineskins. The horses were fitted with their leads and burdens, and all six of the travelers, seven if he counted Clarity-of-Sight, were wrapped in warm robes and ready for the road. The only delay was Irit scrambling back at the last moment to find some small, forgotten token.
Maati pulled himself deep into the enfolding wool as the cart shifted under him, and the low buildings with snow on the roofs and the cracks between stones receded. His breath plumed before him, rubbing out the division between sky and snow.
Vanjit sat beside him, the andat wrapped in her cloak. Her expression was blank. Dark smudges of fatigue marked her eyes, and the andat squirmed and fussed. The wide wheels tossed bits of hard-packed snow up into the cart, and Maati brushed them away idly. It would be an hour or more to the high road, and then perhaps a day before they turned into the network of tracks and roads that connected the low towns that would take them to the grand palaces of Utani, center of the Empire. Maati found himself wondering whether Otah-kvo would have returned there, to sit on the gold-worked seat. Or perhaps he would still be in Saraykeht, scheming to haul countless thousands of blinded women from Kirinton, Acton, and Marsh.
He tried to picture his old friend and enemy, but he could conjure only a sense of his presence. Otah's face escaped him, but it had been a decade and a half since they had seen each other. All memory faded, he supposed. Everything, eventually, passed into the white veil and was forgotten.
The snow made roadway and meadow identical, so the first bend in the road was marked by a stand of thin trees and a low ridge of stone. Maati watched the dark buildings vanish behind the hillside. It was unlikely that he would ever see them again. But he would carry his memories of the warmth of the kitchens, the laughter of women, the first binding done by a woman, and the proof that his new grammar would function. Better that than the death house it had been when the Galts had come down this same road, murder in their minds. Or the mourning chambers for boys without families before that.
Vanjit shuddered. Her face was paler. Maati freed his hands and took a pose that expressed concern and offered comfort. Vanjit shook her head.
"He's never been away," she said. "He's leaving home for the first time."
"It can be frightening," Maati said. "It will pass."
"No. Worse, really. He's happy. He's very happy to be leaving," Vanjit said. Her voice was low and exhausted. "All the things we said about the struggle to hold them. It's all truth. I can feel him in the back of my mind. He never stops pushing."
"It's the nature of the andat," Maati said. "If you'd like, we can talk about ways to make bearing the burden easier."
Vanjit looked away. Her lips were pale.
"No," she said. "We'll be fine. It's only a harder day than usual. We'll find another place, and see you cared for, and then all will be well. But when the time comes to bind Wounded, there are things I'll do differently."
"We can hope it never comes to that," Maati said.
Vanjit shifted, her eyes widening for a moment, and the soft, almost flirting smile came to her lips.
"Of course not," she said. "Of course it won't. Eiah-cha will be fine. I was only thinking aloud. It was nothing."
Maati nodded and lay back. His thick robes cushioned the bare wood of the cart's side. Crates and chests groaned and shifted against their ropes. Small Kae and Irit began singing, and the others slowly joined them. All of them except Vanjit and himself. He let his eyes close to slits, watching Vanjit from between the distorting bars of his eyelashes.
The andat squirmed again, howled out once, and her face went hard and still. She glanced over at Maati, but he feigned sleep. The others, involved in their song and the road, didn't see it when she pulled Clarity-of-Sight from her cloak, staring at it. The tiny arms flailed, the soft legs whirled. The andat made a low, angry sound, and Vanjit's expression hardened.
She shook the thing once, hard enough to make the oversized head snap back. The tiny mouth set itself into a shocked grimace and it began to wail. Vanjit looked about, but no one had seen the small violence between them. She pulled the andat back to her, cooing and rocking slowly back and forth while it whimpered and fought. Desolate tears tracked her cheeks. And were wiped away with a sleeve.
Maati wondered how often scenes like this one had passed without comment or notice. Many years before, he had cared for an infant himself, and the frustration of it was something he understood. This was something different. He thought of what it would have been to have a child that hated him, that wanted nothing more than to be free. Clarity-ofSight was all the longing that haunted Vanjit and all the anger that sustained her put into a being that would do whatever was needed to escape. Vanjit had been betrayed by the cruelty of the world, and now also her own desire made flesh.
At last she had the baby that had haunted her dreams. And it wanted to die.
Eiah spoke in his memory. What makes its imagine we can do good with these as our tools?