look at the two of them, Balasar guessed he would look more like the man
about to face death. He took a pose of respect and greeting. The poet
came slowly to a halt, and returned the gesture.
"I trust all is well with you," Balasar said in the tongue of the Khaiem.
"I am ready," Riaan said, with a smile that made him seem almost gentle.
"I wanted to thank you, Balasar-cha, for this opportunity. 't'hese are
strange times that men such as you and I should find common cause. The
structures of the I)ai-kvo have caused good men to suffer for too many
generations. I honor you for the role you have played in bringing me here."
Balasar bowed his head. Over the years he had known many men whose minds
had been touched by wounds-blows from swords or stones, or fevers like
the one that had prompted Riaan's fall from favor. Balasar knew how
impulsive and unreliable a man could become after such an injury. But he
also knew that with many there was also a candor and honesty, if only
because they lacked the ability they had once had to dissemble. Against
his own will, he found himself touched by the man's words.
"We all do what fate calls us to," he said. "It's no particular virtue
of mine.
The poet smiled because he didn't understand what Balasar meant. And
that was just as well. Eustin arrived moments later and made formal
greeting to them both.
"There's breakfast waiting for us, when we're done here," Eustin said,
and even such mundane words carried a depth.
"Well then," Balasar said, turning to Riaan. The poet nodded and took a
pose more complex than Balasar could parse, but that seemed to be a
farewell from a superior to someone of a lower class. Then Riaan dropped
his pose and walked with a studied grace to the cushion in the room's
center. Balasar stood against the back wall and nodded for Eustin to
join him. He was careful not to obscure the symbols painted there,
though Riaan wasn't looking back toward them.
For what seemed half a day and was likely no more than two dozen breaths
together, the poet was silent, and then he began, nearly under his
breath, to chant. Balasar knew the basic form of a binding, though the
grammars that were used for the deepest work were beyond him. It was
thought, really. Like a translation-a thought held that became something
like a man as a song in a Westlands tongue might take new words in Galt
but hold the same meaning. The chant was a device of memory and focus,
and Balasar remained silent.
Slowly, the sound of the poet's voice grew, filling the space with words
that seemed on the edge of comprehension. The sound began to echo, as if
the room were much larger than the walls that Balasar could see, and
something like a wind that somehow did not stir the air began to twist
through the space. For a moment, he was in the desert again, feeling the
air change, hearing Little Ott's shriek. Balasar put his arm back, palm
pressed against the stone wall. He was here, he was in Aren. The
chanting grew, and it was as if there were other voices now. Beside him,
Eustin had gone pale. Sweat stood on the man's lip.
Under Balasar's fingertips, the wall seemed to shift. The stone hummed,
dancing with the words of the chant. The script on the front wall