couldn't express.
Something's wrong. T' have to stop her, he said to Eiah, but though he
could feel the words vibrate in his throat, he couldn't hear them.
Vanjit's circling voice had made a kind of silence that Maati was
powerless to break. Another layer of echoes came, the words seeming to
come before Vanjit spoke them, echoing from the other direction in time.
Beside him, Eiah's face had gone white.
Vanjit's voice spoke a single word-the last of the binding-at the same
time as all the layered echoes, a dozen voices speaking as one. The
world itself chimed, pandemonium resolving into a single harmonious
chord. The room was only a room again. When Maati stood, he could hear
the hem of his robe whispering against the stone. Vanjit sat where she
had been, her head bowed. No new form stood before her. It should have
been there.
She's failed, Maati thought. It hasn't worked, and she's paid the price
of it.
The others were on their feet, but he took a pose that commanded them to
remain where they were. This was his. However bad it was, it was his.
His belly twisted as he walked toward her corpse. He had seen the price
a failed binding exacted: always different, always fatal. And yet
Vanjit's ribs rose and fell, still breathing.
"Vanjit-kya?" he said, his voice no more than a murmur.
The girl shifted, turned her head, and looked up at him. Her eyes were
bright with joy. In her lap, something squirmed. Maati saw the round,
soft flesh, the tubby, half-formed hands and feet, a toothless mouth,
and black eyes full of empty rage. Except for the eyes, it could have
been a human baby.
"He's come," Vanjit said. "Look, Maati-kvo. We've done it. He's here."
As if freed from silence by the poet's words, Clarity-of-Sight opened
its tiny throat and wailed.
11
Kiyan-kya-
I look athow longI carriedthe world, orthoughtI did, andl
wonder how many times we have to learn the same lessons.
Until we remember them, I suppose. It isn't that I've
stopped worrying. The gods all know I crawl into my bed at
night half-tempted to call for reports from Sinja and Danat
and Ashua. Even if I had them dragged into my chambers to
recount everything they'd seen and done, how would it change
things? Would I need less sleep? Would I be able to remake
the world through raw will like a poet? I'm only a man,
however fancy the robes they put me in. I'm not more suited
to lead a war fleet or root out a conspiracy or win a young
girl's love than any of them.
Why is it so hard for me to believe that someone besides
myself might be competent? Or did I ./ear that letting go of
any one part would mean everything would all away?
No, love. Idaan was right. I have been punishing myself all
this time for not saving the people I cared for most. I