and in terms that he knew she didn't deserve. Hatred toward the gods and
the world. And thus, he had to think, toward himself. Before he reached
the last page, Maati was weeping quietly.
He found an ink brick and a fresh pen, lit all the lanterns and candles
he could find, and sat at his desk. He drew a line across the middle of
the last page, marking a change in the book and in himself that he could
not yet describe. He freshened the ink and did not know precisely what
he intended to write until the nib touched the page, tracing out letters
with a sound as dry and quiet as a lizard on stones.
If it were within my power, I would begin again. I would
begin as a boy again, and live my life a different way. I
have been told tonight that my heart is growing weak.
Looking back upon the man I have been until now, I think it
always has been. I think it was shattered one time too many
and put back without all the shards in place.
And, though I think this is the cry of a coward, I do not
want to die. I want to see the world made right. I want to
live that long, at least.
He paused, looking at the words where they grew fainter, the ink running
thin.
He found Eiah asleep on her cot, still wearing the robes she'd worn all
day. Her door stood ajar, and his scratch woke her.
"Uncle," she said, yawning. "What's happened? Is something wrong?"
"You're certain. What you said about my blood. You're sure."
"Yes," she said. There was no hesitation in her.
"Perhaps," he said, then coughed. "Perhaps we should go to Utani."
Tears came to her eyes again, but with them a smile. The first true
smile he'd seen from her since her journey to the low town. Since
Vanjit's blinding of the Galts.
"Thank you, Uncle," she said.
In the morning, the others were shocked, and yet before the sun broke
through the midday clouds, the cart was loaded with food and books, wax
tables and wineskins. The horses were fitted with their leads and
burdens, and all six of the travelers, seven if he counted
Clarity-of-Sight, were wrapped in warm robes and ready for the road. The
only delay was Irit scrambling back at the last moment to find some
small, forgotten token.
Maati pulled himself deep into the enfolding wool as the cart shifted
under him, and the low buildings with snow on the roofs and the cracks
between stones receded. His breath plumed before him, rubbing out the
division between sky and snow.
Vanjit sat beside him, the andat wrapped in her cloak. Her expression
was blank. Dark smudges of fatigue marked her eyes, and the andat
squirmed and fussed. The wide wheels tossed bits of hard-packed snow up
into the cart, and Maati brushed them away idly. It would be an hour or
more to the high road, and then perhaps a day before they turned into
the network of tracks and roads that connected the low towns that would
take them to the grand palaces of Utani, center of the Empire. Maati
found himself wondering whether Otah-kvo would have returned there, to