The Price of Spring (Long Price Quartet #4)(78)

It had been years since he had lived in one place, and then it had been as the permanent guest of the Khai Machi. He had had a library, servants who brought him wine and food. Eiah had been no more than a girl, then. Bright, engaged, curious. But more than that, she had been joyful. And he remembered himself as being a part of that joy, that comfort.

He lumbered into one of the wide, bare rooms where rows and columns of cots had once held boys no older than ten summers, wrapped in all the robes they owned to keep off the cold. He leaned against the wall, feeling the rough stone against his back.

Another winter in this place. There was a time when he'd thought it wise.

Footsteps came from behind him. Vanjit's. He knew them from the sound. He didn't turn to greet her. When she stepped into the room, waxed silk shining like leather, she didn't at first look at him. She had grown beautiful in an odd way. The andat held against her hip clung to her, and there was a peace in her expression that lent her an air of serenity. He wanted to trust her, to take her success as the first of a thousand ways in which he would be able to set the world right, to unmake his mistakes.

"Maati-kvo," Vanjit said. Her voice was low and soft as a woman newly woken.

"Vanjit," he said, taking a pose of greeting.

She and the andat came to sit at his side. The tiny thing balled its hands in the folds of Maati's robe, tugging as if to draw his attention. Vanjit appeared not to notice.

"Eiah-cha is doing well, isn't she?" Vanjit asked.

"I think so," Maati said. "She's taken a wide concept, and that's always difficult. She's very serious, though. There are a few flaws. Structures that work against each other instead of in concert."

"How long?" Vanjit asked. Maati rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"Until she's ready? If she finds a form that resolves the conflict, I suppose she could start the last phase tomorrow. Two weeks. Three at the earliest. Or months more. I don't know."

Vanjit nodded to herself, not looking up at him. The andat tugged at his robe again. Maati looked down into the black, eager eyes. The andat gave its wide, toothless grin.

"We've been talking," Vanjit said. "Clarity-of-Sight and I have been talking about Eiah and what she's doing. He pointed something out that I hadn't considered."

That was possible, but only in a fashion. The andat was a part of her, as all of them reflected the poets who had bound them. Whatever thought it had presented in the deep, intimate battle it waged with Vanjit, it had to have originated with her. Still, she was as capable of surprising herself as any of them. Maati took a pose that invited her to continue.

"We can't know how Eiah-cha's binding will go," Vanjit said. "I know that we were first as a test of the grammar. That Clarity-of-Sight exists is proof that the bindings can work. It isn't proof that Eiah-cha ... Don't misunderstand, Maati-kvo. I know as well as anyone that Eiah-cha is brilliant. Without her, I would never have managed my binding. But until she makes the attempt, we can't be sure that she's the right sort of mind to be a poet. Even with all our work, she might still fail."

"That's true," Maati said, trying to turn away from the thought even as he spoke.

"It would all end, wouldn't it? What I can do, what we can do. It wouldn't mean anything without Eiah-cha. She's the one who can undo what Sterile did, and unless she can do that ..."

"She's our best hope," Maati said.

"Yes," Vanjit said, and turned to look up at Maati. Her face was bright. "Yes, our best hope. But not the only one."

The andat at her hip clucked and giggled to itself, clapping tiny hands. Maati took a pose of query.

"We know for certain that we have one person who could bind an andat, because I already have. I want Eiah-cha to win through as badly as anyone, but if her binding does fail, I could take it up."

Maati smiled because he could think of nothing else to do. Dread knotted in his chest. His breath had grown suddenly short, and the warehouse-wide walls of the sleeping quarters had narrowed. Vanjit stood, her hand on his sleeve. Maati took a moment, shook his head.

"Are you well, Maati-kvo?" Vanjit asked.

"I'm old," he said. "It's nothing. Vanjit-kya, you can't hold another andat. You of all of us know how much of your attention Clarity-of-Sight requires.

"I would have to release him for a time," Vanjit said. "I understand that. But what makes him him comes from me, doesn't it? All the things that aren't innate to the idea of sight made clear. So when I bind Wounded, it would be almost like having him back. It would be, because it would come from me, just as he does."

"It ... it might," Maati said. His head still felt light. A chill sweat touched his back. "I suppose it might. But the risk of it would also be huge. Once the andat was let go, you wouldn't be able to recall it. Even if you were to bind another, Clarity-of-Sight would be gone. We have the power now ..."

"But my power doesn't mean anything," Vanjit said. Her voice was taking on a strained tone, as if some banked anger was rising in her. "Eiah matters. Wounded matters."

He thought of the Galts, blinded. Had Vanjit held Wounded, they would doubtless all have died. A nation felled-every woman, every man-by invisible swords, axes, stones. It was a terrible power, but they weren't here for the benefit of the Galts. He put his hand over Vanjit's.