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sides, his expression blank. Otah's belly went tight as sickness as he
saw that the girl at Nlaati's feet was Eiah. And the thing that cradled
his daughter's head turned to look at him. After a long moment, it drew
breath and spoke.
"Otah-kya," it said. Its voice was low and beautiful, heavy with
amusement and contempt. The familiarity of it was dizzying.
"Seedless?"
"It isn't," Nlaati said. "It's not him."
"What's happened?" Otah asked. When Maati didn't answer, Otah shook the
man's sleeve. " Nlaati. What's going on?"
"He's failed," the andat said. "And when a poet fails, he pays a price
for it. Only Nlaati-kvo is clever. He's found a way to make it so that
failure can't touch him. He's found a trick."
"I don't understand," Otah said.
"My protection," Maati said, his voice rich with despair. "It doesn't
stop the price being paid. It only can't kill me."
The andat took a pose that agreed, as a teacher might approve of a
clever student. From the stairwell, Utah heard footsteps and the voice
of the Khai Cetani. The first of the servant men hurried into the room,
robes flapping like a flag in high wind, before he saw them and stopped
dead and silent.
"What is it doing?" Utah asked. "What's it done?"
"You can ask me, Most High," Sterile said. "I have a voice."
Utah looked into the black, inhuman eyes. Eiah whimpered, and the thing
stroked her brow gently, comforting and threatening both. Utah felt the
urge to pull Eiah away from the thing, as if it were a spider or a snake.
"What have you done to my daughter?" he asked.
"What would you guess, Most High?" Sterile asked. "I am the reflection
of a man whose son is not his son. All his life, Maati-kya has been bent
double by the questions of fathers and sons. What do you imagine I would
do?"
""fell me."
"I've soured her womb," the andat said. "Scarred it. And I've done the
same to every woman in the cities of the Khaiem. Lachi, Chaburi- Ian,
Saraykeht. All of them. Young and old, highborn and low. And I've gelded
every Galtic man. From Kirinton to Far Galt to right here at your doorstep."
"Papa-kya," Eiah said. "It hurts."
Utah knelt, drawing his daughter to him. Her mouth was thin with pain.
The andat opened its hand, the long fingers gesturing him to take her.
The Khai Cetani was at Utah's side now, his breath heavy and his hands
trembling. Utah took Eiah in his arms.
"Your children will be theirs," it said. ""I'he next generation will
have the Khaiem for fathers and feed from Galtic breasts, or else it
will not be. Your history will be written by half-breeds, or it won't be
written."
"Maati," Otah said, but his old friend only shook his head.
"I can't stop it," Maati said. "It's already happened."
"You should never have been a poet," Sterile said, standing as it spoke.
"You failed the tests. The strength to stand on your own, and the
compassion to turn away from cruelty. "Those are what the I)ai-kvo asked
of you."
"I did my best," Maati breathed.
"You were told," it said and turned to Otah. "You went to him. When you
were both boys, you warned him that the school wasn't as it seemed. You
told him it was a test. You gave the game away. And hecause he knew, he
passed. He would have failed without you, and this could never have
happened."
"I don't believe you," Otah said.
"It doesn't matter what you think," it said. "Only what he knows.
Iaati-kvo made an instrument of slaughter, and he made it in fear; that
makes it a failure of both his lessons. A generation of women will know
him as the man who stole motherhood from them. The men of Galt will hate
him for unma
their children from them."
"I did . . ." Nlaati began, and his voice fell to nothing. lie sat down,
his legs seeming to collapse beneath him. Otah tried to speak, but his
throat was dry. It was Eiah, cradled in his arms, who broke the silence.
"Stop it," she said. "Leave him alone. He never did anything mean to you.
The andat smiled. Its teeth were pale as snow and sharp.
"I Ie did something mean to win, Fiah-kya," it said. "You'll grow to
know how badly he's hurt you. It may take you years to understand. It
may take a lifetime."
"I don't care!" I?iah veiled. "1'ou Ieave uncle Nlaati alone!"
And as if the words themselves were power, it vanished. The dark robes
fell empty to the stone floor. The only sounds were Eiah's pained breath
and the moaning of the cite. The Khai Cetani licked his lips and looked
uneasily at Otah. Maati stared at the ground between his hands.
""They'll never forgive this," Cchmai said. "The Galts will kill us to a
man."
Otah smoothed a hand over his daughter's brow. Confronting the andat
seemed to have taken what strength she had. I ter face was pale, and he
could see the small twitching in her body that spoke of fresh pain. He
kissed her gently where her forehead met her hair, and she put her arms
around him, whimpering so softly that only he could hear it. Therc was
blood soaking through her robe just below where the cloth widened at her
hips.
"No. They won't. Cehmai," Otah said, his voice seeming to cone from far
away. Ile was surprised to hear how calm he sounded. ""lake Nlaati. Get
out of the city. It won't be safe for either of you here."
"It won't be safe for us anywhere," Cehmai said. "We could make for the
Westlands when spring comes. Or Eddensea-"
"Go now, and don't tell me where. I don't want the option of finding
you. Do you understand?" lie looked up at Cehmai's wide, startled eyes.
"I have my daughter here, and that's had enough. When I see my Wife, I
don't want you anywhere I can find you."
Cehmai opened his mouth, as if to speak, and then closed it again and
silently took a pose that accepted Utah's command. Nlaati looked up, his
eyes brimming and red. 'T'here was no begging in his expression, no
plea. Only remorse and resignation. If he could have moved without
disturbing Eiah, Utah would have embraced the man, comforted him as best
he could. And still lie would have sent Nlaati away. Ile could see that
his old friend knew that. Nlaati's thick hands took a formal pose of
leave-taking, appropriate to the begi