chuckled; then as Otah reached the door, he sobered.
"Thank you, by the way, for what you said about Ana," Danat said. "You
were right. We weren't treating her with the respect she deserved."
"It's a mistake we all make, one time and another," Otah said. "I'm glad
it was an error we could correct."
Perhaps mine also will be, he thought. It terrified him in some
fundamental and joyous way to think that possibly, possibly, this might
still end without a sacrifice that was too great for him to bear. He
hadn't realized how much he had tried to harden himself against the
prospect of killing his own daughter, or how poorly he had managed it.
He crawled into his bed. Danat's certainty lightened the weight that
bore him down. The poet wasn't Eiah. This blindness wasn't in her,
wasn't who she was. The andat might have been bound by Maati or some
other girl. Some girl whom he could bring himself to kill. He closed his
eyes, considering how he might avoid having the power of the andat
turned on him. The fear would return, he was sure of that. But now, for
a moment, he could afford himself the luxury of being more frightened of
loss than of the price of victory.
They left before sunrise with the steamcarts' supplies of wood, coal,
and water refreshed, the horses replaced with well-rested animals, and
the scent of snow heavy in the air. They moved faster than Otah had
expected, not pausing to eat or rest. He himself took a turn at the kiln
of the larger steamcart, keeping the fire hot and well-fueled. If the
armsmen were surprised to see the Emperor working like a commoner, they
didn't say anything. Two couriers passed them riding east, but neither
bore a message from Idaan. Three came up behind them bearing letters for
the Emperor from what seemed like half the court at Saraykeht and Utani.
Nightfall caught them at the top of the last high, broad pass that
opened onto the western plains. On the horizon, Pathai glittered like a
congress of stars. The armsmen assembled the sleeping tents, unrolling
layers of leather and fur to drape over the canvas. Otah squatted by the
kiln, reading through letter after letter. The silk threads that had
once sewn the paper closed rested in knots and tangles by his feet. The
snow that lay about them was fresh though the sky had cleared, and the
cold combined with the day's work to tire him. The joints of his hands
ached, and his eyes were tired and difficult to focus. He dreaded the
close, airless sleeping tents and the ache-interrupted night that lay
before him almost as much as he was annoyed by the petty politics of court.
Letter after letter praised or castigated him for his decision to leave.
The Khaiate Council, as it had been deemed in his absence, was either a
terrible mistake or an act of surpassing wisdom, and whichever it was,
the author of the letter would be better placed on it than someone Otah
had named.
Balasar Gice, the only Galt on the council, was pressing for relief
ships to sail for Galt with as much food as could be spared and men to
help guide and oversee the blinded. The rest of the council was divided,
and a third of them had written to Otah for his opinion. Otah put those
letters directly into the fire. If he'd meant to answer every difficult
question from the road, he wouldn't have created the council.