"I don't know what you mean, Maati-kvo," Vanjit said. Three women had
stepped into the dancing space and were thumping in a simple pattern,
keeping time with one drum or the other.
"I mean that everyone wants a second chance," Maati said.
"Clarityof-Sight. . ."
Maati bit down, glancing to see if anyone had heard him. The music and
the dance were the focus of the room.
"The little one," Maati said, more quietly, "isn't what you'd hoped. But
neither would the next one be."
He might just as well have slapped her. Vanjit's face went white, and
she stood so quickly the bench scraped out from under her. By the time
Maati rose, she was halfway to the door leading out to the stables and
courtyard, and when he reached her, they were outside in the chill. A
thin fog blurred the lantern hanging above the wayhouse door.
"Vanjit!" Maati called, and she turned back, her face a mask of pain.
"How could you say that? How could you say those things to me?" she
demanded. "You had as much to do with that binding as I did. You are
just as much responsible for him. I offered to take Eiah's place because
someone would have to, not because it's something that I want. I love
him. He's my boy, and I love him. He is everything I'd hoped. Everything!"
"Vanjit-"
She was weeping openly now, her voice high, thin, and wailing.
"And he loves me. No matter what you say, I know he does. He's my boy,
and he loves me. How could you think that I'd want a second chance? I
offered this for you!"
He took her sleeve in his fist, and she pulled back, yelping. She tried
to turn away, but he would not let her.
"Listen to me," he said sternly. "You don't need to tell me how deeply you-
Vanjit snarled, her lips pulled back from her teeth like a pit dog's.
She pulled away sharply, and Maati stumbled, falling to his knees. When
he rose, he could hear her running footsteps fading into the dark, but
the fog had thickened so badly that he couldn't see his own hand in
front of his face.
Except that, of course, it hadn't.
He stood still, heart racing, hands trembling. The raucous sounds of the
dance came from behind him and to the left. The poorly played drums
became his polestar. He turned and made his slow, careful way back
toward the wayhouse. The ground was rough under his feet, gravel and
weeds taking him at slightly different angles with every step.
He shouldn't have tried to hold her. She was upset. He should have let
her go. He cursed himself for his stubbornness and her for her lack of
control. The drums had given way to a flute and a low, warbling singer.
Maati's outstretched fingers found the rough planks of the wall. He
leaned against it, unsure what to do next. If he went back to the main
room, his sudden infirmity would call attention to him, to the others,
to Vanjit. But if he didn't, what would he do? He couldn't navigate his
way back to his room, couldn't reach shelter. His robes were damp with
the fog, the wood under his palm slick. He could stay here, pressing
against the wayhouse like he was holding it up, or he could move. If