His tension and fear gave the words a hilarity they didn't deserve, and
he fought to contain his laughter. The quay was dark around them; the
torches kept his eyes from adapting to the darkness. It was as if the
world had narrowed to a few feet of lichen-slicked flagstone, a single
unshuttered window in the distance, and countless, endless, unnumbered
stars.
"All right," Eiah said. "I can't be disturbed while I do this. If we
could have the armsmen set up a guard formation? It would be in keeping
with my luck to have a stray boar stumble into us at the wrong moment."
The captain didn't wait for Otah's approval. The men shifted, Idaan and
Danat with them. Only Otah stayed. As if she saw him there, Eiah took a
querying pose.
"You may die from this," he said.
"I'm aware of it," she said. "It doesn't matter. I have to try. And I
think you have to let me."
"I do," Otah agreed. Smiling, she looked young.
"I love you too, Papa-kya."
"May I sit with you?" he asked. "I don't want to distract you, but it
would be a favor."
He brushed the back of her hand with his fingertips. She took him by the
sleeve of his robe and pulled him down to sit beside her. The fingers of
her left hand laced with his right. For a moment, the only sounds were
the gentle lapping of the river against the stone, the diminished hush
of torch fire, the cooing of owls. Eiah leaned forward, her fingertips
on the first tablet. Otah let go, and both of her hands caressed the
wax. She began to chant.
The words were only words. He recognized a few of them, some phrases.
Her voice went out on the cool night air as she moved slowly across each
of the shattered tablets. When she reached the end, she went back to the
beginning.
Though there were no walls or cliffs to sound against, her voice began
first to resonate and then to echo.
30
Maati traveled through the darkness alone. The sense of unreality was
profound. He had refused Otah Machi, Emperor of the Khaiem. He had
refused Otah-kvo. For years, perhaps a lifetime, he had admired Otah or
else despised him. Maati had broken the world twice, once in Otah's
service, and now, through Vanjit, in opposition to him. But this once,
Otah had been wrong, and he had been right, and Otah had acknowledged it.
How strange that such a small moment should bring him such a profound
sense of peace. His body itself felt lighter, his shoulders more nearly
square. To his immense surprise, he realized he had shed a burden he'd
been carrying unaware for most of his life.
Maati traveled through the darkness of Udun alone, because he had chosen to.
The brown vines and bare branches stirred in a soft breeze. The flutter
of wings came from all around him, from nowhere. The air was cold enough
to make his breath steam, and the voice of the river was a constant
hush. With each step, some new detail of his path would come clear: an
axe consumed by rust, a door still hanging from rotten leather hinges,