Galt than once he had been.
And still, he was a man to be reckoned with.
He came into the room, bowing to Otah as he always did, but with a wry
smile which was reserved for occasions out of the public eye.
"I came to inquire after your health, Most High," Balasar Gice said in
the language of the Khaiem. His accent hadn't lessened in the years
since they had met. "Councilman Trathorn was somewhat relieved by your
absence, but he had to pretend distress."
"Well, you can tell him his distress in every way mirrors my own," Otah
said. "I couldn't face it. I've been too much in the world. There is
only so much praise I can stand from people who'd be happy to see my
head on a plate. Please, sit. I can have a fire lit if you're cold...."
Balasar sat on a low couch beside the window. He was a small man, more
than half a head shorter than Otah, with the force of personality that
made it easy to forget. The years had weathered his face, grooves at the
corners of his eyes and mouth that spoke as much of laughter as sorrow.
They had met a decade and a half ago in the snow-covered square that had
been the site of the last battle in the war between Galt and the Khaiem.
A war that they had both lost.
The years since had seen his status in his homeland collapse and then
slowly be rebuilt. He wasn't a member of the convocation, much less the
High Council, but he was still a man of power within Galt. When he sat
forward, elbows resting on his knees, Otah could imagine him beside a
campfire, working through the final details of the next morning's attack.
"Otah," the former general said, falling into his native tongue, "what
is your plan if the vote fails?"
Otah leaned back in his chair.
"I don't see why it should," Otah said. "All respect, but what Sterile
did, she did to both of us. Galt is in just as much trouble as the
cities of the Khaiem. Your men can't father children. Our women can't
bear them. We've gone almost fifteen years without children. The farms
are starting to feel the loss. The armies. The trades."
"I know all that," Balasar said, but Otah pressed on.
"Both of our nations are going to fall. They've been falling, but we're
coming close to the last chance to repair it. We might be able to
weather a single lost generation, but if there isn't another after that,
Galt will become Eymond's back gardens, and the Khaiem will be eaten by
whoever can get to us first. You know that Eymond is only waiting for
your army to age into weakness."
"And I know there are other peoples who weren't cursed," Balasar said.
"Eymond, certainly. And the Westlands. Bakta. Obar State."
"And there are a handful of half-bred children from matches like those
in the coastal cities," Otah said. "They're born to high families that
can afford them and hoarded away like treasure. And there are others
whose blood was mixed. Some have borne. Might that be enough, do you think?"
Balasar's smile was thin.
"It isn't," he said. "They won't suffice. Children can't be rarer than
silk and lapis. So few might as well be none. And why should Eymond or
Eddensea or the Westlands send their sons here to make families, when