that still took up their evenings. Otah imagined walking into the
palaces at Utani as he now was and smiled.
He walked to the edge of the boat where a bucket and rope stood ready
for moments like this. With the armsmen looking on, he lowered the line
himself and hauled up the water. When he knelt and poured it over his
head, it was as if he could feel ice forming in his mind. He whooped and
shuddered, pulling his hair back. Idaan, behind him, was laughing. He
made his way back to them, Ana holding out a length of cloth for him to
take and dry himself.
And that was the nature of the journey. Tragedy lay behind them, and
desperate uncertainty ahead. He was gnawed by his fears and his guilt
and his sorrow, but his sister was there, laughing with him. His son.
The river was cold and uncomfortable and beautiful. Every day meant more
dead, and yet there was no way for them to move faster than the boat
would carry them. Otah knew that as a younger man, he would have been
sitting at the bow, frowning at the water as if by will alone he could
make things into something they weren't. As an old one, he was able to
put it all aside for as much as a hand at a time, holding his energy for
the moment when it might effect a change and resting until then. Perhaps
it was what the philosophers meant by wisdom.
Somewhere ahead, Maati and Eiah and the new poet were making their own
way to Utani and, he thought, the proclamation of their victory. Perhaps
Eiah would bind her andat as well, and return to the women of the
Khaiate cities their wombs. There would be children again, a new
generation to take the place of the old. All that would be sacrificed
was Galt, and the world would be put back as it was. An empire now,
instead of a scattering of cities, but with the andat, slaves of spirit
and will, putting them above the rest of the world.
Until a new Balasar Gice found a way to bring it all down, and the cycle
of suffering and desperation began anew.
"You've gone solemn," Idaan said.
"Steeling myself for failure," Otah said. "We'll be on them soon, I
think. And ..."
"You've been thinking about forgiveness," Idaan said. Otah looked at
Ana, listening, rapt. Idaan shook her head. "The girl's strong enough to
know the truth. There's no virtue in softening it."
"Please," Ana said.
Otah took a deep breath and let it slide out between his teeth. River
water traced a cold path down his back. On the east bank, half a hundred
crows took to the air, startled by something on the ground or just one
another.
"If we lose Galt," Otah said, stopped, and began again, more slowly. "If
we lose Galt, I don't believe I can forgive them. I know what you said,
and Danat. I should. I should do whatever it takes to stop all this,
even if it means agreeing that I've lost, but it's beyond me. I'm too
old to forgive anymore, and ..."
"And," Idaan said, making it sound like agreement.
"I don't understand," Ana said.
"That's because you haven't killed anyone," Idaan said. Otah looked up