has done what for all the world it seems she's done, every city and town

and village over there has been blinded for weeks now. It isn't winter

yet, but it's cold enough. And even if they had gotten some of the

harvest in before this, it would only help the people on the farms. You

can't walk from town to town blind, much less steer one of these soup

pots on wheels."

"They'll find ways."

"Some of them may have, but there'll be fewer tomorrow. And then the

next day. The next," Idaan agreed. "It doesn't matter. However many

there are, they aren't Galts anymore."

"No? Then what are they?"

"Survivors," Idaan said, and any amusement that had been in her voice

was gone. "Just survivors."

They stood in silence, looking at nothing. The crows insulted one

another, rose into the air, and settled again. The breeze smelled of new

snow and the promise of frost.

Inside the stone walls, the armsmen had made camp. The kitchen was warm,

and the smell of boiling lentils and pork fat filled the air. Ana Dasin

and Ashti Beg sat side by side, talking to the air. Otah tried not to

watch the two blind women, but he found he couldn't turn away. It was

their faces that captured him. Their expressions, their gestures thrown

into nothingness, were strangely intimate. It was as if by being cast

into their personal darkness, they had lost some ability to dissemble.

Ashti Beg's anger was carved into the lines around her mouth. Ana, by

contrast, betrayed an unexpected serenity in every movement of her

hands, every smile. Three empty bowls lay beside them, evidence of Ana's

appetite. Their voices betrayed nothing, but their faces and their

bodies were eloquent.

As the sun set, the cold grew. It seemed to radiate from the walls,

sucking away the life and heat like a restless ghost. That night, they

slept in the shelter of the school. Otah took the wide, comfortable room

that had once belonged to Tahi-kvo, his first and least-loved teacher.

The wool blankets were heavy and thick. The night wind sang empty,

mindless songs against the shutters. In the dim flickering light from

the fire grate, he let his mind wander.

It was uncomfortable to think of Eiah in this place. It wasn't only that

she was angry with him, that she had chosen this path and not the one he

preferred. All that was true, but it was also that this place was one

part of his life and that she was another. The two didn't belong

together. He tried to imagine what he would have said to her, had she

and Maati and the other students in Maati's little school still been

encamped there.

The truth he could not admit to anyone was that he was relieved to have

failed.

The shadows at the fire grate seemed to grow solid, a figure crouching

there. He knew it was an illusion. It wasn't the first time his mind had

tricked itself into imagining Kiyan after her death. He smiled at the

vision of his wife, but the dream of her had already faded. It was a

sign, and since it was both intended for him and created by his mind, it

was perfectly explicable. If killing his daughter was the price it took

to save the world, then the world could die. He took little comfort in

the knowledge.

In the morning, Danat woke him, grinning. A piece of paper flapped in

the boy's hand like a moth as Danat threw open the shutters and let the

morning light spill in. Otah blinked, yawned, and frowned. Dreams

already half-remembered were fading quickly. Danat dropped onto the foot

of Otah's cot.

"I've found them," Danat said.

Otah sat up, taking a pose that asked explanation. Danat held out the

paper. The handwriting was unfamiliar to him, the characters wider than

standard and softly drawn. He took the page and rubbed his eyes as if to

clear them.

"I was sleeping in one of the side rooms," Danat said. "When I woke up

this morning, I saw that. It was in a corner, not even hidden. I don't

know how I missed it last night, except it was dark and I was tired."

Otah's eyes able now to focus, his mind more fully awake, he turned his

attention to the letter.

Ashti-cha-

Me have decided to leave. Eiah says that Maati-kvo isn't

well, so we're all going to Utani so that she can get help

caring for him. Please, if you get this, you have to come

back! Uanjit is just as bad as ever, and I'm afraid without

you here to put her in her place, she'll only get worse.

Small Kae has started having nightmares about her. And the

baby! You should see the way it tries to get away. It

slipped into my lap last night after the Great Poet had gone

to sleep and curled up like a kitten.

They've almost finished loading the cart. I'm going to sneak

back in once we're almost under way so that she won't find

it. You have to come back! Meet us in Utani as soon as you can.

The letter was signed Irit Laatani. Otah folded the paper and tapped it

against his lips, thinking. It was plausible. It could be a trick to

send them off to Utani, but that would mean that they knew where Otah

and his party were, and the errand they were on. If that was the case,

there was no reason for misleading them. Vanjit and her little Blindness

could stop any pursuit if she wanted it. Danat coughed expectantly.

"Utani," Otah said. "They're going north, just the way you'd planned.

This is where you tell me how clever you were for heading there at the

first?"

Danat laughed, shaking his head.

"You were right, Papa-kya. Coming here was the right thing. If Maati

wasn't ill, they'd have been here."

"Still. It does mean they've stopped hiding. That's a risk if they've

only got one poet."

Danat took a questioning pose.

"This poet," Otah said. "She's their protection and their power. As long

as she has the andat in her control, they think that they're safe. In

truth, though, she can only defend against things she knows. As long as

there is only one poet, a well-placed man with a bow could end her

before she could blind him. And then none of them are defended."

"Unless there's a second binding. Another andat," Danat said, and Otah

took a confirming pose. Danat frowned. "But if there had been, then Irit

would have said so, wouldn't she? If Eiah had managed to capture Wounded?"

"I'd expect her to, yes," Otah said.

"Then why would they go?"

Otah tapped the letter.

"Just what the woman said. Because Maati's ill," he said. "And because

Eiah decided that caring for him was worth the risk. If he's bad enough