set in the half-smile Kiyan had often worn.
'You need to listen to me, Papa-kya. I'm not telling you that she's right. I'm not telling you she's wrong, for that. I'm telling you Eiah loves people and she hates pain. If she's been backing Uncle Maati, it's to take away the pain, not to…'
Danat gestured at the shutters, and by implication at the world on the other side of them. The logs in the grate popped and the song of a single cricket, perhaps the last one alive before the coming winter, sang counterpoint to the ticking clock. Otah rubbed his chin, his mind turning his son's words over like a jeweler considering a gem.
'She may be part of this,' Danat said. 'I think you're right to find her. But the poet we want? It isn't her.'
'I wish I could be certain of that,' Otah said.
'Well, start with not being certain that she is,' Danat said. 'The world will carry you the rest of the way, if I'm right.'
Otah smiled and put his hand on his son's head.
'When did you become wise?' Otah asked.
'It's only what you'd have said, if you weren't busy feeling responsible for all of it,' Danat said. 'You're a good man, Papa-kya. And we're doing what we can in unprecedented times.'
Otah let his hand fall to his side. Danat smiled. The cricket, wherever it was, went silent.
'Go,' Danat said. 'Sleep. We've got a long ride tomorrow, and I'm exhausted.'
Otah rose, his hands taking a pose that accepted the command. Danat chuckled; then as Otah reached the door, he sobered.
'Thank you, by the way, for what you said about Ana,' Danat said. 'You were right. We weren't treating her with the respect she deserved.'
'It's a mistake we all make, one time and another,' Otah said. 'I'm glad it was an error we could correct.'
Perhaps mine also will be, he thought. It terrified him in some fundamental and joyous way to think that possibly, possibly, this might still end without a sacrifice that was too great for him to bear. He hadn't realized how much he had tried to harden himself against the prospect of killing his own daughter, or how poorly he had managed it.
He crawled into his bed. Danat's certainty lightened the weight that bore him down. The poet wasn't Eiah. This blindness wasn't in her, wasn't who she was. The andat might have been bound by Maati or some other girl. Some girl whom he could bring himself to kill. He closed his eyes, considering how he might avoid having the power of the andat turned on him. The fear would return, he was sure of that. But now, for a moment, he could afford himself the luxury of being more frightened of loss than of the price of victory.
They left before sunrise with the steamcarts' supplies of wood, coal, and water refreshed, the horses replaced with well-rested animals, and the scent of snow heavy in the air. They moved faster than Otah had expected, not pausing to eat or rest. He himself took a turn at the kiln of the larger steamcart, keeping the fire hot and well-fueled. If the armsmen were surprised to see the Emperor working like a commoner, they didn't say anything. Two couriers passed them riding east, but neither bore a message from Idaan. Three came up behind them bearing letters for the Emperor from what seemed like half the court at Saraykeht and Utani.
Nightfall caught them at the top of the last high, broad pass that opened onto the western plains. On the horizon, Pathai glittered like a congress of stars. The armsmen assembled the sleeping tents, unrolling layers of leather and fur to drape over the canvas. Otah squatted by the kiln, reading through letter after letter. The silk threads that had once sewn the paper closed rested in knots and tangles by his feet. The snow that lay about them was fresh though the sky had cleared, and the cold combined with the day's work to tire him. The joints of his hands ached, and his eyes were tired and difficult to focus. He dreaded the close, airless sleeping tents and the ache-interrupted night that lay before him almost as much as he was annoyed by the petty politics of court.
Letter after letter praised or castigated him for his decision to leave. The Khaiate Council, as it had been deemed in his absence, was either a terrible mistake or an act of surpassing wisdom, and whichever it was, the author of the letter would be better placed on it than someone Otah had named.
Balasar Gice, the only Galt on the council, was pressing for relief ships to sail for Galt with as much food as could be spared and men to help guide and oversee the blinded. The rest of the council was divided, and a third of them had written to Otah for his opinion. Otah put those letters directly into the fire. If he'd meant to answer every difficult question from the road, he wouldn't have created the council.
There was no word from Sinja or Chaburi-Tan. Balasar, writing with a secretary to help him, feared the worst. This letter, Otah tucked into his sleeve. There was no reason to keep it. He could do nothing to affect its news. But he couldn't bring himself to destroy something to do with Sinja when his old friend's fate already seemed so tentative.
Uncertain footsteps sounded behind him. Ana Dasin was walking the wide boards toward the kiln. Her hair was loose and her robe blue shot with gold. Her grayed eyes seemed to search the darkness.
'Ana-cha,' he said, both a greeting and a warning that he was there. The girl started a little, but then smiled uncertainly.
'Most High,' she said, nodding very nearly toward him. 'Is… I was wondering if Danat-cha was with you?'
'He's gone to fetch water with the others,' Otah said, nodding uselessly toward a path that led to a shepherd's well. 'He will be back in half a hand, I'd think.'
'Oh,' Ana said, her face falling.
'Is there something I can do?'
Watching the struggle in the girl's expression seemed almost more an intrusion than his previous eavesdropping. After a moment, she drew something from her sleeve. Cream-colored paper sewn with yellow thread. She held it out.
'The courier said it was from my father,' she said. 'I can't read it.'
Otah cleared his throat against an unexpected tightness. He felt unworthy of the girl's trust, and something like gratitude brought tears to his eyes.
'I would be honored, Ana-cha, to read it for you,' he said.
Otah rose, took the letter, and drew Ana to a stool near enough the kiln to warm her, but not so close as to put her in danger of touching the still-scorching metal. He ripped out the thread, unfolded the single page, and leaned in toward the light.
It was written in Galtic though the script betrayed more familiarity with the alphabet of the Khaiem. He knew before he began to read that there would be nothing in it too personal to say to a secretary, and the fact relieved him. He skimmed the words once, then again more slowly.
'Most High?' Ana said.
'It is addressed to you,' Otah said. 'It says this: I understand that you've seen fit to run off without telling we or your mother. You should know better than that. Then there are a few more lines that restate all that.'
Ana sat straight, her hands on her knees, her face expressionless. Otah coughed, cleared his throat, and went on.
'There is a second section,' he said. 'He says… well.'
Otah smoothed the page with his fingers, tracing the words as he spoke.
'Still, I was your age once too. If good judgment were part of being young, there would be no reason to grow old. In God's name write back to tell us you're well. Your mother's sick that you'll fall off the trail and get eaten by dogs, and I'm half-sick that you'll come back wed and pregnant,' Otah said. 'He goes on to offer a brief analysis of my own intelligence. I'll skip that.'
Ana chuckled and wiped away a tear. Otah grinned and kept the smile in his voice when he went on.
'He ends by saying that he loves you. And that he trusts you to do what's right.'
'You're lying,' Ana said.
Otah took a pose that denied an unjust accusation, then flapped his hands in annoyance. The physical language of the Khaiem was a difficult habit to put aside.
'Why would I lie?' he asked.
'To be polite? I don't know But my father? Fatter Dasin putting on paper that he trusts his little girl's judgment? The stars would dance on treetops first. The wed-and-pregnant part sounded like him, though.'
