Eiah, letting him hold one of her hands, gestured with the other for an
assistant.
"Bind the wound, give him three measures of poppy milk, and put him
somewhere safe until morning. I'll want to see his wound again before we
send him back to his people."
The assistant took a pose that accepted instruction, and Eiah walked to
the wide stone basins on the back wall to wash the blood from her hands.
A woman screamed and retched, but he couldn't see where she was. Eiah
was unfazed.
"We'll have forty more like him by morning," she said. "Too drunk and
happy to think of the risks. There was a woman here earlier who wrenched
her knee climbing a rope they'd strung over the street. Almost fell on
Danat's head, to hear her say it. She may walk with a cane the rest of
her life, but she's all smiles tonight."
"Well, she won't be dancing," Otah said.
"If she can hop, she will."
"Is there a place we can speak?" Otah asked.
Eiah dried her hands on a length of cloth, leaving it dark with water
and pink with blood. Her expression was closed, but she led the way
through a wide door and down a hall. Someone was moaning nearby. She
turned off into a small garden, the bushes as bare as sticks, a
widebranched tree empty. If there had been snow, it would have been lovely.
"I'm calling a meeting with the Galtic High Council tomorrow," he said.
"And my own as well. It's the beginning of unification. I wanted you to
hear it from me."
"That seems wise," Eiah said.
"The poets. The andat. They can't be kept out of that conversation."
"I know," she said. "I've been thinking about it."
"I don't suppose there are any conclusions you'd want to share," he
asked, trying to keep his tone light. Eiah pulled at her fingers, one
hand and then the other.
"We can't be sure there won't be others," she said. "The hardest thing
about binding them is the understanding that they can be bound. They
burned all the books, they killed every poet they could find, and we
remade the grammar. We bound two andat. Other people are going to try to
do what we did. Work from the basic structures and find a way."
"You think they'll do it?"
"History doesn't move backward," she said. "There's power in them. And
there are people who want power badly enough to kill and die.
Eventually, someone will find a way."
"Without Maati? Without Cehmai?"
"Or Irit, or Ashti Beg, or the two Kaes?" Eiah said. "Without me? It
will be harder. It will take longer. The cost in lives and failed
bindings may be huge."
"You're talking about generations from now," Otah said.
"Yes," Eiah said. "Likely, I am."
Otah nodded. It wasn't what he'd hoped to hear, but it would do. He took
a pose that thanked Eiah. She bowed her head.
"Are you well?" he asked. "It isn't an easy thing, killing."
"Vanjit wasn't the first person I've killed, Father. Knowing when to
help someone leave is part of what I do," Eiah said. She looked up,
staring at the moon through the bare branches that couldn't shelter
them, even from light. "I'm more troubled by what I could have done and
didn't."
Otah took a pose that asked her to elaborate. Eiah shook her head, and
then a moment later spoke softly, as if the words themselves were delicate.
"I could have held all our enemies at bay just by the threat of
Wounded," she said. "What army would take the field, knowing I could
blow out their lives like so many candles? Who would conspire against us
knowing that if their agents were discovered, I could slaughter their
kings and princes without hope of defense?"
"It would have been convenient," Otah agreed carefully.
"I could have slaughtered the men who killed Sinja-kya," Eiah said. "I
could have ended every man who had ever taken a woman against her will
or hurt a child. Between one breath and the next, I could have wiped
them from the world."
Eiah turned her gaze to him. In the cool moonlight, her eyes seemed lost
in shadow.
"I look at those things-all the things I might have done-and I wonder
whether I would have. And if I had, would they have been wrong?"
"And what do you believe?"
"I believe I saved myself when I set that perversion free," she said. "I
only hope the price the rest of the world pays isn't too high."
Otah stepped forward and took her in his arms. Eiah held back for a
moment, and then relaxed into the embrace. She smelled of herbs and
vinegar and blood. And mint. Her hair smelled of mint, just as her
mother's had done.
"You should go see him," she said. He knew who she meant.
"Is he well?"
"For now," she said. "He's weathered the attacks so far. But his blood's
still slowing. I expect he'll be fine until he isn't, and then he'll die."
"How long?"
"Not another year," she said.
Otah closed his eyes.
"He misses you," she said. "You know he does."
He stepped back and kissed her forehead. In the distance, someone
screamed. Eiah glanced over his shoulder with disgust.
"That will be Yaniit," she said. "I'd best go tend to him. Tall as a
tree, wide as a bear, and wails if you pinch him."
"Take care," Otah said.
His daughter walked away with the steady stride of a woman about her own
business, leaving the bare garden for him. He looked up at the moon, but
it had lost its poetry and charm. His sigh was opaque in the cold.
Maati's cell was the most beautifully appointed prison in the cities,
possibly in the world. The armsmen led Otah into a chamber with vaulted
ceilings and carved cedar along the walls. Maati sat up, waving the
servant at his side to silence. The servant closed the book she'd been
reading but kept the place with her thumb.
"You're learning Galtic tales now?" Otah asked.
"You burned my library," Maati said. "Back in Machi, or don't you recall
that? The only histories your grandchild will read are written by them."
"Or by us," Otah said. "We can still write, you know."
Maati took a pose that accepted correction, but with a dismissive air
that verged on insult. So this was how it was, Otah thought. He motioned
to the armsmen to take the prisoner and follow him, then spun on his
heel. The feeble sounds of protest behind him didn't slow his pace.
The highest towers of Utani were nothing in comparison to those in
Machi; they could be scaled by stairways and corridors and didn't re
quire a rest halfway along. Under half the height, and Otah liked them
better. They were built with humanity in mind, and not the raw boasting