THE

"Well, she won't be dancing," Otah said.

"If she can hop, she will."

"Is there a place we can speak?" Otah asked.

Eiah dried her hands on a length of cloth, leaving it dark with water

and pink with blood. Her expression was closed, but she led the way

through a wide door and down a hall. Someone was moaning nearby. She

turned off into a small garden, the bushes as bare as sticks, a

widebranched tree empty. If there had been snow, it would have been lovely.

"I'm calling a meeting with the Galtic High Council tomorrow," he said.

"And my own as well. It's the begi

hear it from me."

"That seems wise," Eiah said.

"The poets. The andat. They can't be kept out of that conversation."

"I know," she said. "I've been thinking about it."

"I don't suppose there are any conclusions you'd want to share," he

asked, trying to keep his tone light. Eiah pulled at her fingers, one

hand and then the other.

"We can't be sure there won't be others," she said. "The hardest thing

about binding them is the understanding that they can be bound. They

burned all the books, they killed every poet they could find, and we

remade the grammar. We bound two andat. Other people are going to try to

do what we did. Work from the basic structures and find a way."

"You think they'll do it?"

"History doesn't move backward," she said. "There's power in them. And

there are people who want power badly enough to kill and die.

Eventually, someone will find a way."

"Without Maati? Without Cehmai?"

"Or Irit, or Ashti Beg, or the two Kaes?" Eiah said. "Without me? It

will be harder. It will take longer. The cost in lives and failed

bindings may be huge."

"You're talking about generations from now," Otah said.

"Yes," Eiah said. "Likely, I am."

Otah nodded. It wasn't what he'd hoped to hear, but it would do. He took

a pose that thanked Eiah. She bowed her head.

"Are you well?" he asked. "It isn't an easy thing, killing."

"Vanjit wasn't the first person I've killed, Father. Knowing when to

help someone leave is part of what I do," Eiah said. She looked up,

staring at the moon through the bare branches that couldn't shelter

them, even from light. "I'm more troubled by what I could have done and

didn't."

Otah took a pose that asked her to elaborate. Eiah shook her head, and

then a moment later spoke softly, as if the words themselves were delicate.

"I could have held all our enemies at bay just by the threat of

Wounded," she said. "What army would take the field, knowing I could

blow out their lives like so many candles? Who would conspire against us

knowing that if their agents were discovered, I could slaughter their

kings and princes without hope of defense?"

"It would have been convenient," Otah agreed carefully.

"I could have slaughtered the men who killed Sinja-kya," Eiah said. "I

could have ended every man who had ever taken a woman against her will

or hurt a child. Between one breath and the next, I could have wiped

them from the world."

Eiah turned her gaze to him. In the cool moonlight, her eyes seemed lost

in shadow.

"I look at those things-all the things I might have done-and I wonder

whether I would have. And if I had, would they have been wrong?"

"And what do you believe?"

"I believe I saved myself when I set that perversion free," she said. "I

only hope the price the rest of the world pays isn't too high."

Otah stepped forward and took her in his arms. Eiah held back for a

moment, and then relaxed into the embrace. She smelled of herbs and

vinegar and blood. And mint. Her hair smelled of mint, just as her

mother's had done.

"You should go see him," she said. He knew who she meant.

"Is he well?"

"For now," she said. "He's weathered the attacks so far. But his blood's

still slowing. I expect he'll be fine until he isn't, and then he'll die."

"How long?"

"Not another year," she said.

Otah closed his eyes.

"He misses you," she said. "You know he does."

He stepped back and kissed her forehead. In the distance, someone

screamed. Eiah glanced over his shoulder with disgust.

"That will be Yaniit," she said. "I'd best go tend to him. Tall as a

tree, wide as a bear, and wails if you pinch him."

"Take care," Otah said.

His daughter walked away with the steady stride of a woman about her own

business, leaving the bare garden for him. He looked up at the moon, but

it had lost its poetry and charm. His sigh was opaque in the cold.

Maati's cell was the most beautifully appointed prison in the cities,

possibly in the world. The armsmen led Otah into a chamber with vaulted

ceilings and carved cedar along the walls. Maati sat up, waving the

servant at his side to silence. The servant closed the book she'd been

reading but kept the place with her thumb.

"You're learning Galtic tales now?" Otah asked.

"You burned my library," Maati said. "Back in Machi, or don't you recall

that? The only histories your grandchild will read are written by them."

"Or by us," Otah said. "We can still write, you know."

Maati took a pose that accepted correction, but with a dismissive air

that verged on insult. So this was how it was, Otah thought. He motioned

to the armsmen to take the prisoner and follow him, then spun on his

heel. The feeble sounds of protest behind him didn't slow his pace.

The highest towers of Utani were nothing in comparison to those in

Machi; they could be scaled by stairways and corridors and didn't re

quire a rest halfway along. Under half the height, and Otah liked them

better. They were built with humanity in mind, and not the raw boasting

power of the andat.

At the pi

tallest place in the city. Wind whipped it, as cold as a bath of ice

water. Otah motioned for Maati to be led forward. The poet's eyes were

wild, his breath short. He raised his thick chin.

"What?" Maati spat. "Decided to throw me off, have you?"