The Emperor sat on the dais, his hands between his knees. He looked pale
and exhausted.
"Nothing ever goes the way I plan," Otah said, his tone peevish. "Not ever."
"You're tired," Maati said.
"I am. Gods, that I am."
The captain of the armsmen pulled open the doors. Four men followed, a
low weaving of branches and rope between them. Eiah walked at their
side. One of the men at the rear called out, and the whole parade
stopped while the captain, cursing, retied a series of knots. Maati
watched them as if they were dancers and gymnasts performing before a
banquet.
"I'm sorry," Maati said. "This wasn't what I intended."
"Isn't it? I thought the hope was to undo the damage we did with
Sterile, no matter what the price."
Maati started to object, then stopped himself. Outside the great window,
a star fell. The smear of light vanished as quickly as it had come.
"I didn't know how far it would go."
"Would it have mattered? If you had known everything it would take,
would you have been able to abandon the project?" Otah asked. He didn't
sound angry or accusing. Only like a man who didn't know the answer to a
question. Maati found he didn't either.
"If I asked your forgiveness ..."
Otah was silent, then sighed deeply, his head hanging low.
"Maati-kya, we've been a hundred different people to each other, and
tonight I'm too old and too tired. Everything in the world has changed
at least twice since I woke up this morning. I think about forgiving
you, and I don't know what the word means."
"I understand."
"Do you? Well, then you've outpaced me."
The litter came forward. Eiah helped him onto the makeshift seat, rope
and wood creaking under his weight, but solid. The gait of the armsmen
swayed him like a branch in the breeze. The Emperor, they left behind to
follow in the darkness.
31
The formal joining of Ana Dasin and Danat Machi took place on Candles
Night in the high temple of Utani. The assembled nobility of Galt along
with the utkhaiem from the highest of families to the lowest firekeeper
filled every cushion on the floor, every level of balcony. The air
itself was hot as a barn, and the smell of perfume and incense and
bodies was overwhelming. Otah sat on his chair, looking out over the
vast sea of faces. Many of the Galts wore mourning veils, and, to his
surprise, the fashion had not been lost on the utkhaiem. He worried that
the mourning was not entirely for fallen Galt, but also a subterranean
protest of the marriage itself. It was only a small concern, though. He
had thousands more like it.
The Galtic ceremony-a thing of dirgelike song and carefully measured
wine spilled over rice, all to a symbolic end that escaped him-was over.
The traditional joining of his own culture was already under way. Otah
shifted, trying to be unobtrusive in his discomfort despite every eye in