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."

"We didn't have time. The Galts were at our door. We did what we had to

do. And now we can correct our errors."

"Does my brother know about this?" Idaan asked.

"He refused me," Maati said.

"Is that why you hate him?"

The air around the table seemed to clench. Maati stared at the woman.

Idaan met his gaze with a level calm.

"He is selling us," Maati said. "He is turning away from a generation of

women whose injuries are as much his fault as ours."

"And is that why you hate him?" Idaan asked again. "You can't tell me

that you don't, Maati-cha. I know quite a lot about hatred."

He let my son die to save his, Maati thought but did not say. There were

a thousand arguments against the statement: Otah hadn't been there when

Nayiit died; it wasn't Danat's fault that his protector failed to fend

off the soldiers; Nayiit wasn't truly his son. He knew them all, and

that none of them mattered. Nayiit had died, Maati had been sent into

the wilderness, and Otah had risen like a star in the sky.

"What I feel toward your brother doesn't change what needs to be done,"

Maati said, "or the help I'll need to do it."

"Who's backing you?" Idaan said.

Maati felt a flash of surprise and even fear. An image of Eiah flickered

in his mind and was banished.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Someone's feeding you," she said. "Someone's hiding you and your

students. If the word got out that you'd been found, half the world

would send armsmen to cut you down for fear you'd do exactly what you're

doing now. And half of the rest would kick you to death for petty