secretary to help him, feared the worst. This letter, Otah tucked into
his sleeve. There was no reason to keep it. He could do nothing to
affect its news. But he couldn't bring himself to destroy something to
do with Sinja when his old friend's fate already seemed so tentative.
Uncertain footsteps sounded behind him. Ana Dasin was walking the wide
boards toward the kiln. Her hair was loose and her robe blue shot with
gold. Her grayed eyes seemed to search the darkness.
"Ana-cha," he said, both a greeting and a warning that he was there. The
girl started a little, but then smiled uncertainly.
"Most High," she said, nodding very nearly toward him. "Is ... I was
wondering if Danat-cha was with you?"
"He's gone to fetch water with the others," Otah said, nodding uselessly
toward a path that led to a shepherd's well. "He will be back in half a
hand, I'd think."
"Oh," Ana said, her face falling.
"Is there something I can do?"
Watching the struggle in the girl's expression seemed almost more an
intrusion than his previous eavesdropping. After a moment, she drew
something from her sleeve. Cream-colored paper sewn with yellow thread.
She held it out.
"The courier said it was from my father," she said. "I can't read it."
Otah cleared his throat against an unexpected tightness. He felt
unworthy of the girl's trust, and something like gratitude brought tears
to his eyes.
"I would be honored, Ana-cha, to read it for you," he said.
Otah rose, took the letter, and drew Ana to a stool near enough the kiln
to warm her, but not so close as to put her in danger of touching the
still-scorching metal. He ripped out the thread, unfolded the single
page, and leaned in toward the light.
It was written in Galtic though the script betrayed more familiarity
with the alphabet of the Khaiem. He knew before he began to read that
there would be nothing in it too personal to say to a secretary, and the
fact relieved him. He skimmed the words once, then again more slowly.
"Most High?" Ana said.
"It is addressed to you," Otah said. "It says this: I understand that
you've seen fit to run off without telling we or your mother. You should
know better than that. Then there are a few more lines that restate all
that."
Ana sat straight, her hands on her knees, her face expressionless. Otah
coughed, cleared his throat, and went on.
"There is a second section," he said. "He says ... well."
Otah smoothed the page with his fingers, tracing the words as he spoke.
"Still, I was your age once too. If good judgment were part of being
young, there would be no reason to grow old. In God's name write back to
tell us you're well. Your mother's sick that you'll fall off the trail
and get eaten by dogs, and I'm half-sick that you'll come back wed and
pregnant," Otah said. "He goes on to offer a brief analysis of my own
intelligence. I'll skip that."
Ana chuckled and wiped away a tear. Otah grinned and kept the smile in