The Price of Spring (Long Price Quartet #4)(106)

"Not the way it was," Idaan agreed. "We can't be sure how bad it is, but I'll swear it isn't good."

The silence was only a lack of voices. The river, the birds, the wind all went on with their long, inhuman conversation. It wasn't truly silence, it only felt that way.

"I think about what I would do without all of you," Ana said. "And then I imagine ... What would you do if a city caught fire and no one could see it? How would you put it out?"

"You wouldn't," Idaan said. Her voice was cool and matter-of-fact.

"I think about that," Ana said. "I think about it more now. The future, the things that can go wrong. Dangers. I wonder if that always happens when-"

Idaan had made a clicking sound, tongue against teeth.

"You're not fooling anyone, brother," Idaan said. "We all know you're awake."

Otah rolled onto his back, his eyes still closed, and took a pose of abject denial. Idaan chuckled. He opened his eyes to the great pale blue dome of the sky, the sun burning white overhead and searing his eyes. He sat up slowly, his back as bruised as if someone had beaten him.

Ashti Beg lay a few yards off, her arm curved under her to cradle her sleeping head. Two armsmen sat at either side of their boat with pairs at the stern and the bow, keeping watch on the changeless river. Danat had joined the watchers at the bow and seemed to be having a conversation with them. It was good to see it. Otah had been concerned after his disappearance at the wayhouse that Danat and the captain of the guard might have found themselves on bad terms. Danat seemed to be making it his work to see that didn't happen.

The boat itself was smaller than Otah would have chosen, but the kilns at the back were solid, the wheel new, and the alternatives had been few. When there are only three boats on the riverfront, even being emperor won't create a fourth. Ana and Idaan were sitting side by side on a shin-high bench, their hands clasped.

It was something Otah had noticed before, the tendency of Ana and Ashti Beg to touch people. As if the loss of their eyes had left them hungry for something, and this lacing of fingers was the nearest they could come.

"You both look lovely," Otah said.

"Your hair looks like mice have been building a nest in it," Idaan said.

Otah confirmed her assessment with his fingertips. The fact of the matter was that none of them was presentable. Too many weeks on the road bathing with rags and tepid water had left them looking disrep utable. Somewhere just east of Pathai, they had been joined by a colony of lice 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.