THE

"Vanjit-cha," Maati said, "we can talk this through. We can ... we can

still end this well."

"You tried to murder me," Vanjit said. "You and your pet poisoner. If

you'd had your way, I would be dead now. How, Maati-kvo, do you propose

to talk that through?"

"I . . ." he said. "There must ... there must be a way."

"What was I supposed to be that I wasn't?" Vanjit asked as she walked

toward the black chair with its tiny beast. "You knew what the Galts had

done to me. Did you want me to get this power, and then forget? Forgive?

Was this supposed to be the compensation for their deaths?"

"No," Maati said. "No, of course not."

"No," she said. "Because you didn't care when I blinded them, did you?

That was my decision. My burden, if I chose to take it up. I

women. Children. I could destroy them, and you could treat it as

justice, but I went too far. I blinded you. For half a hand, I turned it

against you, and for that, I deserved to die."

"The andat, Vanjit-kya," Maati said, his voice breaking. "They have

always schemed against their poets. They have manipulated the people

around them in terrible ways. Eiah and I ..."

"You hear that?" Vanjit said, scooping up Clarity-of-Sight. The andat's

black eyes met hers. "This is your doing."

The andat cooed and waved its arms. Vanjit smiled as if at some unspoken

jest, shared only between those two.

"I thought I would make the world right again," Vanjit said. "I thought

I could make a baby. Make a family."

"You thought you could save the world," Maati said.

"I thought you could," she said in a voice like cold vinegar. "Look at me.

"I don't understand," he said.

"Look."

Her face sharpened. He saw the smudge of dust along her cheek, the

stippled pores along her cheek, the individual hairs smaller than the

thi

whites, and the pupils glowed like a wolf's where the candlelight

reflected from their depths. Her skin was a mosaic, tiny scales that

broke and scattered with every movement. Insects too small to see

scuttled through the roots of her hair, her eyelashes.

Maati's stomach turned, a deep nausea taking him. He closed his eyes,

pressing his palms into the lids.

"Please," he said, and Vanjit wrenched his hands away from his face.

"Look at me!" she shouted. "Look!"

Reluctantly, slowly, Maati opened his eyes. There was too much. Vanjit

was no longer a woman but a landscape as wide as the world, moving,

breaking, shifting. Looking at her was being tossed on an infinite sea.

"Can you see my pain, Maati-kvo? Can you see it?"

No, he tried to say, but his throat closed against his illness. Vanjit

pushed him away, and he spun, a thousand details assaulting him in the

space of a heartbeat. He fell to the stone floor and retched.

"I didn't think you would," she said.

"Please," Maati said.

"You've taken it from me," Vanjit said. "You and Eiah. All the others. I

was ready to do anything for you. I risked death. I did. And you don't

even know me."

Her laugh was short and brutal.

"My eyes," he said.

"Fine," Vanjit said, and Maati's vision went away. He was once again in

the fog of blindness. "Is that better?"

Maati reached toward the sound of her voice, then stumbled. Vanjit

kicked him once in the ribs. The surprise was worse than the pain.

"There is nothing you have to teach me anymore, old man," she said.

"I've learned everything you know. I understand."

"No," Maati said. "There's more. I can tell you more. I know what it is

to lose someone you love. I know what it is to feel betrayed by the ones

you thought closest to you."

"Then you know the world isn't worth saving," Vanjit said.

The words hung in the air. Maati tried to rise, but he was short of

breath, wheezing like he'd run a race. His racing heart filled his ears

with the sound of rushing blood.

"It is," he said. "It's worth ..."

"Ah. There's Eymond. Everyone in Eymond, blind as a stone. And Eddensea.

There. Gone. Bakta. But why stop there, Maati-kya? Here, the birds. All

the birds in the world. There. The fish. The beasts." She laughed. "All

the flies are blind. I've just done that. All the flies and the spiders.

I say we give the world to the trees and the worms. One great nation of

the eyeless."

"Vanjit," Maati said. His back hurt like someone had stabbed him and

left the blade in. He fought to find the words. "You mustn't do this. I

didn't teach you this."

"I did what you told me," she said, her voice rising. The andat's cry

rose with her, an infantile rage and anguish and exultation at the

world's destruction. "I did what you wanted. More, Maati-kvo, I did what

you couldn't do yourself, and you hated me for it. You wanted me dead?

Fine, then. I'll die. And the world can come with me."

"No!" Maati cried.

"I'm not a monster," Vanjit said. Like a candle being snuffed, the

andat's wail ceased. Vanjit collapsed beside him, as limp as a puppet

with cut strings.

There were voices. Otah, Danat, Eiah, Idaan, Ana. And others. He lay

back, letting his eyes close. He didn't know what had happened. For the

moment, he didn't care. His body was a single, sudden wash of pain. And

then, his chest only ached. Maati opened his eyes. An unfamiliar face

was looking down at him.

The man had skin as pale as snow and flowing ink-black hair. His eyes

were deep brown, as soft as fur and as warm as tea. His robe was blue

silk embroidered with thread of gold. The pale man smiled and took a

pose of greeting. Maati responded reflexively. Vanjit lay on the floor,

her arm bent awkwardly behind her, her eyes open and empty.

"Killed her," Maati said. "You. Killed her."

"Well. More precisely, we wounded her profoundly and then she died," the

pale man said. "But I'll grant you it's a fine point. The effect is much

the same."

"Maati!"

He lifted his head. Eiah was rushing toward him, her robes pressed back

like a ba