Vanjit's face, and for a moment, Maati thought the poet might believe
the lie. He cleared his throat.
"We wouldn't do that," he said.
Vanjit turned to him, her expression empty and mad. At his feet, the
andat made a sound that might have been a warning or a laugh.
"Do you think he only speaks to you?" Vanjit spat.
Maati sputtered, falling back a step when Vanjit lunged forward. She
only scooped up the andat, turned, and ran into the darkness.
Maati scrambled after her, calling her name with a deepening sense of
despair. The trees were shadows within the night's larger darkness. His
voice seemed too weak to carry more than a few paces before him. It
couldn't have been more than half a hand-less than that, certainlywhen
he stopped to catch his breath. Leaning against an ancient ash, he
realized that Vanjit was gone and he was lost, only the soft rushing of
the river away to his left still there to guide him. He picked his way
back, trying to follow the route he had taken and failing. A carpet of
dry leaves made his steps loud. Something shifted in the branches
overhead. The cold numbed his fingers and toes. The half-moon glimmering
among the branches assured him that he had not been blinded. It was the
only comfort he had.
In the end, he made his way east until he found the river, and then
south to the wide mud where the boat still rested. It was simple enough
to find the little camp after that. He tried to nurture some hope that
he would step into the circle of firelight to find Vanjit returned and,
through some unimagined turn of events, peace restored. The laughter and
soft company of the first days of the school returned; time unwound, and
his life ready to be lived again without the errors. He wanted it to be
true so badly that when he stumbled into the clearing and found Eiah and
the two Kaes seated by the fire, he almost thought they were well.
Eiah turned gray, fogged eyes toward him.
"Who's there?" she demanded at the sound of his approaching steps.
"It's me," Maati said, wheezing. "I'm fine. But Vanjit's gone."
Large Kae began to weep. Small Kae put an arm over the woman's shaking
shoulders and murmured something, her eyes closed and tearstreaked.
Maati sat at the fire. His bowl of soup had overturned.
"She's done for the three of us," Eiah said. "None of us can see at all."
"I'm sorry," Maati said. It was profoundly inadequate.
"Can you help me?" Eiah said, gesturing toward something Maati couldn't
fathom. Then he saw the pile of wax fragments. "I think I have them all,
but it's hard to be sure."
"Leave them," Maati said. "Let them go."
"I can't," Eiah said. "I have to try the thing. I can do it now. Tonight."
Maati looked at her. The fire popped, and she shifted her head toward
the sound. Her jaw was set, her gray eyes angry. The cold wind made her
robes flutter at her ankles like a flag.
"No," he said. "You can't."
"I have been studying this for weeks," Eiah said, her voice sharpening.
"Only help me put these back together, and I can ..."
"You can die," Maati said. "I know you've changed the binding. You won't