"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 unmanning them. You, Maati Vaupathai, will he the one who took
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