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with only the lightest twinge of trepidation.

"Are you sure you should let him speak?" Sinja murmured.

"There's no avoiding it," Otah replied, still smiling. "It will be fine."

The councilman cleared his throat, stood in the odd, awkward style of

Galtic orators-one foot before the other, one hand in the air, the other

clasping his jacket and spoke. All of Otah's worst fears were put at

once to rest. It was as if Issandra had written the words and spoke them

now through her husband's mouth. The joy that was children, the dark

years that the war had brought, the emptiness of a world without the

laughter of babes. And now, the darkness ended.

Otah felt himself begin to weep slightly. He wished deeply that Kiyan

had lived to see this night. He hoped that whatever gods were more than

stories and metaphors took word of it to her. The old Galt bowed his

head to the crowd. The applause was like an earthquake or a flood. Otah

rose and held his hand out to Danat as Fatter Dasin did the same with

his daughter. The Emperor-to-be and his Empress meeting here for the

first time. There would be songs sung of this night, Otah knew.

Ana was beautiful. Someone had seen to it that the gown she wore

flattered her. Her face was painted in perfect harmony with her hair and

the gold of her necklace. Danat wore a black robe embroidered with gold

and cut to please the Galtic eye. Farrer and Otah stepped back, leaving

their children to the center of the dais. Danat tried a smile. The

girl's eyes fluttered; her cheeks were flushed under the paint, her

breath fast.

"Danat Machi?" she said.

"Ana Dasin," he replied.

The girl took a deep breath. Her pretty, rodentlike face shone. When she

spoke, her voice was strong and certain.

"I will never consent to lay down with you, and if you rape me, I will

see the world knows it. My lover is Hanchat Dor, and I will have no other."

Otah felt his face go white. In the corner of his eye, he saw Farrer

Dasin rock back like a man struck by a stone and then raise a hand to

his face. Danat's mouth opened and closed like a fish's. The whisperers

paused, and then a heartbeat later, the words went out where they could

never be called back. The voice of the crowd rose up like the waters of

chaos come to drown them all.

6

Maati relived his conversation with Cehmai a thousand times in the weeks

that followed. He rose in the morning from whatever rough camp or

wayhouse bed he'd fallen into the night before, and he muttered his

arguments to Cehmai. He rode his weary mule along overgrown tracks thick

with heat and heavy with humidity, and he spoke aloud, gesturing. He ate

his evening meals with the late sunset of summer, and in his mind,

Cehmai sat across from him, dumbfounded and ashamed, persuaded at last

by the force of Maati's argument. And when Maati's imagination returned

him to the world as it was, his failure and shame poured in on him afresh.

Every low town he passed through, the mud streets empty of the sound of

children, was a rebuke. Every woman he met, an accusation. He had

failed. He had gone to the one man in the world who might have lightened

his burden, and he had been refused. The better part of the season was

lost to him now. It was time he should have spent with the girls,

preparing the grammar and writing his book. They were days he would

never win back. If he had stayed, perhaps they would have had a

breakthrough. Perhaps there would already be an andat in the world, and

Otah's plans ruined.

And what if by going after Cehmai, Maati had somehow lost that chance?

With every day, it seemed more likely. As the trees and deer of the

river valleys gave way to the high, dry plains between Pathai and ruined

Nantani, Maati became more and more sure that his error had been

catastrophic. Irretrievable. And so it was also another mark against

Otah Machi. Otah, the Emperor, to whom no rules applied.

Maati found the high road, and then the turning that would lead, given

half a day's ride, to the school. To his students. To Eiah. He camped at

the crossroads.

He was too old to be living on muleback. Lying in the thin folds of his

bedroll, he ached as if he'd been beaten. His back had been suffering

spasms for days; they had grown painful enough that he hadn't slept

deeply. And his exhaustion seemed to make his muscles worse. The high

plains grew cool at night, almost cold, and the air smelled of dust. He

heard the skittering of lizards or mice and the low call of owls. The

stars shone down on him, each point of light smeared by his aging eyes

until the whole sky seemed possessed by a single luminous cloud.

There had been a time he'd lain under stars and picked out

constellations. There was a time his body could have taken rest on

cobblestone, had the need arisen. There was a time Cehmai, poet of Machi

and master of Stone-Made-Soft, had looked up to him.

It was going to be hard to tell Eiah that he'd failed. The others as

well, but Eiah knew Cehmai. She had seen them work together. The others

might be disappointed, but Eiah alone would understand what he had lost.

His dread slowed him. At this, his last camp, he ate his breakfast and

watched the slow sunrise. He packed his mule slowly, then walked

westward, his shadow stretching out ahead and growing slowly smaller.

The shapes of the hills grew familiar, and the pauses he took grew

longer. Here was the dry streambed where he and the other black-robed

boys had sat in the evenings and told one another stories of the

families they had already half-forgotten. There, a grouping of stumps

showed where the stand of trees they had climbed had been felled by

Galtic axes and burned. A cave under an outcropping of rock where they'd

made the younger boys slither into the darkness to hunt snakes. The air

was as rich with memory as the scent of dust and wildflowers. His life

had been simpler then, or if not simpler, at least a thing that held

promise.

He managed to postpone his arrival at the school itself until the sun

was lowering before him. The grand stone buildings looked smaller than

he remembered them, but the great bronze door that had once been

reserved for the Dai-kvo was just as grand. The high, narrow windows

were marked black at the tops, the remnants of some long-dead fire. The

wall of one of the sleeping chambers had fallen, stones strewn on the

ground. The gardens were gone, marked only by low mounds where stones

had once formed their borders. Time and violence had changed the place,

but not yet beyond recognition. Another decade of rain washing mortar

from between the stones, another fire, and perhaps the roofs would

collapse. The ground would reclaim its own.

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