"That seemed to go well," Maati said. "I think Irit's solution was
fairly elegant."
"It has promise," Eiah agreed as she followed him into the room. He sat
in a leather chair, sighing. Eiah blew life into the coals in the fire
grate, added a handful of small tinder and a twisted length of oak to
the fire, then took a stool and pulled it up before him.
"How do you feel about the binding's progress?" he asked.
"Well enough," she said, taking both his forearms in her hands. Her gaze
was locked somewhere over his left shoulder, her fingers pressing hard
into the flesh between the bones of his wrists. A moment later, she
dropped his right hand and began squeezing his fingertips.
"Eiah-kya?"
"Don't mind me," she said. "It's habit. The binding's coming closer.
There are one or two more things I'd like to try, but I think we've come
as near as we're going to."
She went on for half a hand, recounting the fine issues of definition,
duration, and intent that haunted the form of her present binding. Maati
listened, submitting himself to her professional examination as she went
on. Outside the window, the snow was falling again, small flakes gray
against the pure white sky. Before Vanjit, he wouldn't have been able to
make them out.
"I agree," Maati said as she ended, then plucked his sleeves back into
their proper place. "Do you think ..."
"Before Candles Night, certainly," Eiah said. "But there is going to be
a complication. We have to leave the school. Utani would be best, but
Pathai would do if that's impossible. You and I can leave in the
morning, and the others can join us."
Maati chuckled.
"Eiah-kya," he said. "You've apologized for letting Ashti Beg go. I
understand why you did it, but there's nothing to be concerned about.
Even if she did tell someone that we're out here, Vanjit could turn
Clarityof-Sight against them, and we could all walk quietly away. The
power of the andat-"
"Your heart is failing," Eiah said. "I don't have the herbs or the baths
to care for you here."
She said it simply, her voice flat with exhaustion. Maati felt the smile
fading from his lips. He saw tears beginning to glimmer in her eyes, the
drops unfallen but threatening. He took a pose that denied her.
"Your color is bad," she said. "Your pulses aren't symmetric. Your blood
is thick and dark. This is what I do, Uncle. I find people who are sick,
and I look at the signs, and I think about them and their bodies. I look
at you, here, now, and I see a man whose blood is slow and growing slower."
"You're imagining things," Maati said. "I'm fine. I only haven't slept
well. I would never have guessed that you of all people would mistake a
little lost rest for a weak heart."
"I'm not-"
"I am fine!" Maati shouted, pounding the arm of the chair. "And we
cannot afford to run off into the teeth of winter. You aren't a
physician any longer. That's behind you. You are a poet. You are the