greater risk, and the role of the first of the poets of a new age. It's
only that there are certain benefits that Eiah-cha brings because of her
position at court. Once those aren't needed any longer, you see-"
Vanjit kissed him. Maati sat back. The girl's smile was broad, genuine,
and oddly pitying. Her hands took a pose that offered correction.
"Ah, Maati-kvo. You think it matters that Eiah is more important than I am?"
"I didn't ... I wouldn't put it that way."
"Let me. Eiah is more important than I am. I'm first because I'm the
scout. That's all. But if I do well, if I can make this binding work,
then she will have your permission. And then we can do anything. That's
all I want."
Maati ran a hand through his hair. He found that none of the words he
had practiced fit the moment. Vanjit seemed to understand his silence.
When she went on, her voice was low and gentle.
"There's a difference between why you came to this place and why we
have," she said. "Your father sent you here in hopes of glory. He hoped
that you would rise through the ranks of all the boys and be sent to the
Daikvo and become a poet. It isn't like that for me. I don't want to be
a poet. Did you understand that?"
Maati took a pose that expressed both an acceptance of correction and a
query. Vanjit responded with one appropriate to thanking someone of
higher status.
"I had the dream again," Vanjit said. "I've been having it every night,
almost. He's in me. And he's shifting and moving and I can hear his
heart beating."
"I'm sorry," Maati said.
"No, Maati-kvo, that's just it. I wake up, and I'm not sad any longer.
It was only hard when I thought it would never come. Now, I wake up, and
I'm happy all day long. I can feel him getting close. He'll be here.
What is being a poet beside that?"
Nayiit, he thought.
Maati didn't expect the tears, they simply welled up in his eyes. The
pain in his breast was so sudden and sharp, he almost mistook the sorrow
for illness. She put her hand on his, her expression anxious. He forced
himself to smile.
"You're quite right," he said. "Quite right. Come along now. The bowls
are all washed, and it's time we got to work."
He made his way to the hall they had set aside for classes. His heart
was both heavy and light: heavy with the renewed sorrow of his boy's
death, light at Vanjit's reaction to him. She had known Eiah's work to
be of greater importance, and had already made her peace with her own
lesser role. He wondered whether, in her place and at her age, he would
have been able to do the same. He doubted it.
That evening, his lecture was particularly short, and the conversation
after it was lively and pointed and thoughtful. In the days that
followed, Maati abandoned his formal teaching entirely, instead leading
discussion after discussion, analysis after analysis. Together, they
tore Vanjit's binding of Clarity-of-Sight apart, and together they
rebuilt it. Each time, Maati thought it was stronger, the images and