The Price of Spring (Long Price Quartet #4)(22)

Inside the thick stone walls of the farmhouse, the air was cooler and rich with the scent of dog and old curry. The afternoon faded slowly, the sun lingering in the treetops to the west, its light thick and golden and softened by Maati's failing eyes. Cicadas set up a choir. He sat on a low stone porch, watching everything and nothing.

Maati had known quite well that Idaan and Cehmai had been lovers once, even while Idaan had been married to another man and arranging the deaths of her family. Cehmai's betrayal of her had been the key that brought her down, that lifted Otah into the role of Khai Machi, and from there to Emperor. Cehmai had, in his fashion, created the world as it was with the decision to expose his lover's crimes.

Maati had thought the man mad for still harboring feelings for the woman; she was a murderer and a traitor to her city and her family. He'd thought him mad twice over for wanting to find her again after the andat had vanished from the world and the poets had fallen from grace. She would, he had expected, kill Cehmai on sight.

And yet.

As a boy, Maati had taken another man's lover as his own, and Otah had forgiven it. In gratitude or something like it, Maati had devoted himself to proving Otah's innocence and helped to bring Idaan's crimes to light. Seedless, the first andat Maati had known, had betrayed both the poet Heshai who had bound him and the Galtic house that had backed the andat's cruel scheme. And the woman-what had her name been?whose child died. Seedless had betrayed everyone, but had asked only Maati to forgive him.

The accrued weight of decades pressed upon him as the sun caught in the western branches. Dead children, war, betrayal, loss. And here, in this small nameless farm days' travel from even a low town of notable size, two lovers who had become enemies were lovers again. It made him angry, and his anger made him sad.

As the first stars appeared, pale ghost lights in the deepening blue before sunset, Idaan emerged from the house. With her leather gear gone, she looked less like a thing from a monster tale. She was a woman, only a woman. And growing old. It was only when she met his gaze that he felt a chill. He had seen her eyes set in a younger face, and the darkness in them had shifted, but it had not been unmade.

"There's food," she said.

The table was small and somehow more frail than Maati had expected. Three bowls were set out, each with rice and strips of browned meat. Cehmai was also pouring out small measures of rice wine from a bone carafe. It was, Maati supposed, an acknowledgment of the occasion and likely as much extravagance as Cehmai's resources would allow. Maati took a pose that offered thanks and requested permission to join the table. Cehmai responded with one of acceptance and welcome, but his movements were slow. Maati couldn't tell if it was from exhaustion or thought. Idaan added neither word nor pose to the conversation; her expression was unreadable.

"I've been thinking," Cehmai said. "Your plan. I have a few questions about it."

"Anything," Maati said.

"Would your scheme to undo what Sterile did include restoring the Galts?"

Maati took a strip of the meat from his bowl. The flesh was pleasantly rich and well-salted. He chewed slowly to give himself time to think, but his hesitation was answer enough.

"I don't think I can join you," Cehmai said. "This battle I've ... I've lost my taste for it."

Maati felt his own frown like an ache.

"Reconsider," he said, but Cehmai shook his head.

"I've given too much of my life to the world already. I'd like to keep the rest of my years for myself. No more great struggles, no more cities or nations or worlds resting on what I do or don't do. What I have here is enough."

Maati wiped his fingers on his sleeve and took a pose of query that bordered on accusation. Cehmai's eyes narrowed.

"Enough for what?" Maati demanded. "Enough for the pair of you? It'll be more than enough before many years have passed. It'll be too much. How much do you work in a day? Raising your own food, tending your crop and your animals, making food and washing your robes and gathering wood for your fires? Does it give you any time at all to think? To rest?"

"It isn't as easy as living in the courts, that's truth," Cehmai said. His smile was the same as ever, even set in this worn face. "There are nights it would be good to leave the washing to a servant."

"It won't get easier," Maati said. "You'll get older. Both of you. The work will stay just as difficult, and you'll get tired faster. When you take sick, you'll recover slowly. One or the other of you will strain something or break an old bone or catch fever, and your children won't be there to care for you. The next farm over? His children won't be there for you either. Or the next. Or the next."

"He's not wrong, love," Idaan said. Maati blinked. Of all the people in the world, Idaan was the last he'd expected support from.

"I know all that," Cehmai said. "It doesn't mean that I should go back to being a poet."

"What else would you do?" Maati said. "Sell the land rights? Who is there to buy them? Take up some new trade? Who will there be to teach you? Binding the andat is the thing you've trained for. Your mind is built for the work. These girls ... you should see them. The dedication, the engagement, the drive. If this thing can be done, they will do it. We can remake the world."

"We've done that once already," Cehmai said. "It didn't go well."