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.