"So which of us is mad?"
18
The snow fell and stayed, as deep as Maati's three fingers together. The
winds of autumn whistled through the high, narrow windows that had never
known glass. The women-Eiah, Irit, and the two Kaeswere in a small room,
clustered around a brazier and talking with hushed fervor about grammar
and form, the distinctions between age and wounds and madness. Vanjit,
wrapped in thick woolen robes and a cloak of waxed silk, was sitting on
a high wall, her gaze to the east. She sang lullabies to
Clarity-of-Sight, and her voice would have been beautiful if she'd been
cradling a real babe. Maati considered interrupting her or else
returning to the work with the others, but both options were worse than
remaining alone. He turned away from the great bronze door and retreated
into the darkness.
It would be only weeks until winter was upon them. Not the killing
storms of the north, but enough that even the short journey to Pathai
would become difficult. He tried to imagine the long nights and cold
that waited for him, for all of them, and he wondered how they would
manage it.
A darkness had taken Eiah since her return. He saw it in her eyes and
heard the rasp of it in her voice, but there was no lethargy about it.
She was awake before him every morning and took to her bed long after
sunset. Her attention was bent to the work of her binding, and her
ferocity seemed to pull the others in her wake. Only Vanjit held herself
apart, attending only some of Eiah's discussions. It was as if there
were a set amount of attention, and as Eiah bore down, Vanjit floated up
like a kite. Maati, caught between the pair, only felt tired and sick
and old.
It had been years since he had lived in one place, and then it had been
as the permanent guest of the Khai Machi. He had had a library, servants
who brought him wine and food. Eiah had been no more than a girl, then.
Bright, engaged, curious. But more than that, she had been joyful. And
he remembered himself as being a part of that joy, that comfort.
He lumbered into one of the wide, bare rooms where rows and columns of
cots had once held boys no older than ten summers, wrapped in all the
robes they owned to keep off the cold. He leaned against the wall,
feeling the rough stone against his back.
Another winter in this place. There was a time when he'd thought it wise.
Footsteps came from behind him. Vanjit's. He knew them from the sound.
He didn't turn to greet her. When she stepped into the room, waxed silk
shining like leather, she didn't at first look at him. She had grown
beautiful in an odd way. The andat held against her hip clung to her,
and there was a peace in her expression that lent her an air of
serenity. He wanted to trust her, to take her success as the first of a
thousand ways in which he would be able to set the world right, to
unmake his mistakes.
"Maati-kvo," Vanjit said. Her voice was low and soft as a woman newly woken.
"Vanjit," he said, taking a pose of greeting.
She and the andat came to sit at his side. The tiny thing balled its