his own will, he found himself touched by the man's words.

"We all do what fate calls us to," he said. "It's no particular virtue

of mine.

The poet smiled because he didn't understand what Balasar meant. And

that was just as well. Eustin arrived moments later and made formal

greeting to them both.

"There's breakfast waiting for us, when we're done here," Eustin said,

and even such mundane words carried a depth.

"Well then," Balasar said, turning to Riaan. The poet nodded and took a

pose more complex than Balasar could parse, but that seemed to be a

farewell from a superior to someone of a lower class. Then Riaan dropped

his pose and walked with a studied grace to the cushion in the room's

center. Balasar stood against the back wall and nodded for Eustin to

join him. He was careful not to obscure the symbols painted there,

though Riaan wasn't looking back toward them.

For what seemed half a day and was likely no more than two dozen breaths

together, the poet was silent, and then he began, nearly under his

breath, to chant. Balasar knew the basic form of a binding, though the

grammars that were used for the deepest work were beyond him. It was

thought, really. Like a translation-a thought held that became something

like a man as a song in a Westlands tongue might take new words in Galt

but hold the same meaning. The chant was a device of memory and focus,

and Balasar remained silent.

Slowly, the sound of the poet's voice grew, filling the space with words

that seemed on the edge of comprehension. The sound began to echo, as if

the room were much larger than the walls that Balasar could see, and

something like a wind that somehow did not stir the air began to twist

through the space. For a moment, he was in the desert again, feeling the

air change, hearing Little Ott's shriek. Balasar put his arm back, palm

pressed against the stone wall. He was here, he was in Aren. The

chanting grew, and it was as if there were other voices now. Beside him,

Eustin had gone pale. Sweat stood on the man's lip.

Under Balasar's fingertips, the wall seemed to shift. The stone hummed,

dancing with the words of the chant. The script on the front wall

shifted restlessly until Balasar squinted and the letters remained in

their places. The air was thick.

"Sir," Eustin whispered, "I think it might he best if we stepped out,

left him to-"

"No," Balasar said. "Watch this. It's the last time it's ever going to

happen."

lr,ustin nodded curtly and turned with what seemed physical strain to

look ahead. Riaan had risen, standing where the cushion had been, or

perhaps he was floating. Or perhaps he was sitting just as he had been.

Something had happened to the nature of the space between them. And

then, like seven flutes moving from chaos to harmony, the world itself

chimed, a note as deep as oceans and pure as dawn. Balasar felt his

heart grow light for a moment, a profound joy filling him that had

nothing to do with triumph, and there, standing before the seated poet,

was a naked man, bald as a baby, with eyes white as salt.

The blast pressed Balasar back against the wall. His ears rang, and

Eustin's voice seemed to come from a great distance.

"Riaan, sir!"

Balasar fought to focus his eyes. Riaan was still seated where he had

been, but his shoulders were slumped, his head bowed is if in sleep.

Balasar walked over to him, the sound of his own footsteps lost in his

half-deafened state. It was like floating.

He was breathing. The poet breathed.

"Did it work, sir?" Eustin yelled from half a mile away or else there at

his shoulder. "Does that mean it worked?"

9

"What is he to do?" hlaati asked and then sipped his tea. It was just

slightly overhrewed, a bitter aftertaste haunting the back of his mouth.

Or perhaps it was only that he'd drunk too much the night before,

sitting up with his son until the full moon set and the eastern sky

began to lighten. \laati had seen Nayiit hack to the boy's apartments,

and then, too tired to sleep, wandered to the poet's house where Cehmai

was just risen for breakfast. He'd sent the servants back to the

kitchens to bring a second meal, and while they waited, Cehmai shared

what he had-thin butter pastry, blackberries still just slightly

underripe, overhrewed tea. Everything tasted of early summer. Already

the morning had broken the chill of the previous night.

"Really, he's been good to the woman. I Ie's acknowledged the babe, he's

married her. But if he doesn't love her, what's he to do? Love's not

something you can command."

"Not usually," Stone-Made-Soft said, and smiled wide enough to bare its

too-even white marble teeth. It wasn't a human mouth.

"I don't know," Cehmai said, ignoring the andat. "Really, you and I are

probably the two worst men in the city to ask about things like that.

I've never been in the position to have a wife. All the women I've been

with knew that this old bastard came before anything."

Stone-blade-Soft smiled placidly. Nlaati had the uncomfortable sense

that it was accepting a compliment.

"But you can see his dilemma," Nlaati said.

Outside, beyond the carefully sculpted oaks that kept the poet's house

separate from the palaces, the city was in shadow. The sun, hidden

behind the mountains to the east, filled the blue dome of air with soft

light. The towers stood dark against the daylight, birds wheeling far

below their highest reaches.

"I see that he's in a difficult position," Cehmai said. "And I'm in no

position to say that good men never lose their hearts to ... what?

Inappropriate women?"

"If you mean the Khai's sister, the term is vicious killers,"

StoneMade-Soft said. "But I think we can generalize from there."

"Thank you," Cehmai said. "But you've made the point yourself, Maati.

Nayiit's married her. He's acknowledged the child. Doing that hinds him

to something, doesn't it? He's made an agreement. He's made a kind of

promise, or else why say that he's been good to her? If he can put those

things aside, then that goodness is just a formality."

Maati sighed. His mind felt thick. Too much wine, too little rest. He

was old to be staying up all night; it was a young man's game. And

still, he felt it important that Cehmai understand. If he could explain

Nayiit to someone else, it would make the night and all their

conversations through it real. It would put them into the world in a way

that now might only have been a dream. He was silent too long,

struggling to put his thoughts in order. Cehmai cleared his throat, shot