Seasons of War

by Daniel Abraham

  It was only days later, at the halfway point between the school and the river Qiit, that without intending it, Eiah called the question.

  They had stopped at a wayhouse at the side of a broad lake. A wide wooden deck stood out over the water, the wind pulling small waves to lap at its pilings. A flock of cranes floated and called to one another at the far shore. Maati sat on a three-legged stool, his traveling cloak still wrapping his shoulders. He looked out on the shifting water, the gray-green trees, the hazy white sky. He heard Eiah behind him, her voice coming from the main building as if it were coming from a different world. When she came out, he heard her footsteps and the leather physician’s satchel bumping against her hip. She stopped just behind him.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ he said, nodding at the cranes.

  ‘I suppose,’ Eiah said.

  ‘Vanjit? The others?’

  ‘In their rooms,’ Eiah said, a trace of satisfaction in her voice. ‘Three rooms, and all of them private. Meals this evening and before we go. One length of silver and two copper.’

  ‘You could have paid them the normal price,’ Maati said.

  ‘My pride won’t allow it,’ Eiah said. She stepped forward and knelt. ‘There was something. If you’re not tired.’

  ‘I’m an old man. I’m always tired.’

  Her eyes held some objection, but she didn’t give it voice. Instead she unbuckled her satchel, rooted in it for a moment, and drew out a paper. Maati took it, frowning. The characters were familiar, a part of Eiah’s proposed binding, but the structure of them was different. Awkward.

  ‘It isn’t perfect,’ Eiah said. ‘But I thought we could consider it. I’ve mentioned the idea to Large Kae, and she has some ideas about how to make it consonant with the grammar.’

  Maati lifted his hand, palm out, and stopped the flow of words. The cranes called, their harsh voices crossing the water swifter than arrows. He sounded out each phrase, thinking through the logic as he did.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘This is the strongest part of the binding. Why would you change . . .’

  And then he saw her intentions. Each change she had made broadened the concept of wounds. Of harm. Of damage. And there, in the corner of the page, was a play on the definitions of blood. He folded the page, slipping it into his sleeve.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘I think it can—’

  ‘No,’ Maati said again. ‘What we’re doing is hard enough. Making it fit the things that Sterile has done is enough. If you try to make everything fit into it, you’ll end with more than you can hold.’

  Eiah sighed and looked out across the water. The wind plucked a lock of hair, the black threads dancing on her cheek. He could see in her expression that she’d anticipated all he would say. And more, that she agreed. He put a hand on her shoulder. For a moment, neither spoke.

  ‘Once we reach the river, things will move faster,’ Eiah said. ‘With the Galts’ paddle boats, we should reach Utani before the worst cold comes.’ To their left, a fish leaped from the water and splashed back down. ‘Once I have you someplace with real physicians, I’m going to try the binding.’

  Maati drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. A sick dread uncurled in his belly.

  ‘You’re sure?’ he said.

  Eiah took a pose that confirmed her resolve and also chided him. When he replied with one that expressed mild affront, she spoke.

  ‘You sit here like something from a philosopher’s daydream, refusing to let me even try to mend your heart,’ she said, ‘and then you start quaking like an old woman when I’m the one at risk.’

  ‘“Quaking like an old woman”?’ Maati said. ‘I think we haven’t known the same old women. And of course I’m concerned for you, Eiah-kya. How could I not be? You’re like a daughter to me. You always have been.’

  ‘I might not fail,’ she said. And a moment later, rose, kissed his hair, and walked in, leaving him alone with the world. Maati sank deeper into his cloak, determined to watch the birds until his mind calmed. Half a hand later, he went inside the building, muttering to himself.

  The evening meal was a soup of ground lentils, rice, and a sweet, hot spice that made Maati’s eyes water. He paid an extra length of copper for a second bowl. The commons with its low ceilings and soot-stained walls also served as a teahouse for the nearby low towns. By the time he’d finished eating, local men and women had begun to appear. They took little notice of the travelers, which suited Maati quite well.

  In less interesting times, the table talk would have turned on matters of weather, of crop yields and taxes and the small jealousies and dramas that humanity drew about itself in all places and times. Instead, they spoke of the Emperor, his small caravan on its way to Pathai or else Lachi or else some unknown destination in the Westlands. He was going to broker a new contract for women, now that the Galts had been destroyed, or else retrieve the new poet and march back in triumph. He had been secretly harboring the poets all this time, or had become one himself. Nothing that approached the truth. Small Kae, listening to two of the local men debate, looked on the edge of laughter the whole evening.

  As the last of the sunset faded, a pair of the older men took up drums, and the tables nearest the fire grate were pulled aside to clear space for dancers. Maati was prevented from excusing himself from the proceedings only by Vanjit’s appearance at his side.

  ‘Maati-kvo,’ she murmured, her hand slipping around his arm, ‘I spoke to Eiah-kya. I know it was wrong of me to interfere, but please, please, will you reconsider?’

  The older of the two men set up a low throbbing beat on his drum. The second drummer closed his eyes and bobbed his head almost in time with the first. Maati suspected that both were drunk.

  ‘This isn’t the place to discuss it,’ Maati said. ‘Later, we can . . .’

  ‘Please,’ Vanjit said. Her breath wasn’t free from the scent of distilled wine. Her cheeks were flushed. ‘Without you, none of us matter. You know that. You’re our teacher. We need you. And if Eiah . . . she pays its price, you know that I’ll be there. I can do the thing. I’ve already managed once, and I know that I could do it again.’

  The second drum began, dry and light and not quite on its mark. No one seemed to be paying attention to the old man in the corner or the young woman attached to his arm. Maati leaned close to Vanjit, speaking low.

  ‘What is it, Vanjit-kya?’ he asked. ‘This is the second time you’ve offered to bind Wounded. Why do you want that?’

  She blinked and released his arm. Her eyes were wider, her mouth thin. It was his turn to take her arm, and he did, leaning close enough to speak almost into her ear.

  ‘I have known more poets than I can count,’ he said. ‘Only a few held the andat, and none of them took joy in it. My own first master, Heshai of Saraykeht, planned out a second binding of Seedless. It could never have worked. It was too near what he’d done before, and part of Sterile’s failure was that I borrowed too much from his design.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Maati-kvo,’ Vanjit said. Three women had stepped into the dancing space and were thumping in a simple pattern, keeping time with one drum or the other.

  ‘I mean that everyone wants a second chance,’ Maati said. ‘Clarityof-Sight . . .’

  Maati bit down, glancing to see if anyone had heard him. The music and the dance were the focus of the room.

  ‘The little one,’ Maati said, more quietly, ‘isn’t what you’d hoped. But neither would the next one be.’

  He might just as well have slapped her. Vanjit’s face went white, and she stood so quickly the bench scraped out from under her. By the time Maati rose, she was halfway to the door leading out to the stables and courtyard, and when he reached her, they were outside in the chill. A thin fog blurred the lantern hanging above the wayhouse door.

  ‘Vanjit!’ Maati called, and she turned back, her face a mask of pain.

  ‘How could you say that? How could you say those things to me
?’ she demanded. ‘You had as much to do with that binding as I did. You are just as much responsible for him. I offered to take Eiah’s place because someone would have to, not because it’s something that I want. I love him. He’s my boy, and I love him. He is everything I’d hoped. Everything!’

  ‘Vanjit—’

  She was weeping openly now, her voice high, thin, and wailing.

  ‘And he loves me. No matter what you say, I know he does. He’s my boy, and he loves me. How could you think that I’d want a second chance? I offered this for you!’

  He took her sleeve in his fist, and she pulled back, yelping. She tried to turn away, but he would not let her.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said sternly. ‘You don’t need to tell me how deeply you—’

  Vanjit snarled, her lips pulled back from her teeth like a pit dog’s. She pulled away sharply, and Maati stumbled, falling to his knees. When he rose, he could hear her running footsteps fading into the dark, but the fog had thickened so badly that he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face.

  Except that, of course, it hadn’t.

  He stood still, heart racing, hands trembling. The raucous sounds of the dance came from behind him and to the left. The poorly played drums became his polestar. He turned and made his slow, careful way back toward the wayhouse. The ground was rough under his feet, gravel and weeds taking him at slightly different angles with every step.

  He shouldn’t have tried to hold her. She was upset. He should have let her go. He cursed himself for his stubbornness and her for her lack of control. The drums had given way to a flute and a low, warbling singer. Maati’s outstretched fingers found the rough planks of the wall. He leaned against it, unsure what to do next. If he went back to the main room, his sudden infirmity would call attention to him, to the others, to Vanjit. But if he didn’t, what would he do? He couldn’t navigate his way back to his room, couldn’t reach shelter. His robes were damp with the fog, the wood under his palm slick. He could stay here, pressing against the wayhouse like he was holding it up, or he could move. If there was only some way to find Eiah . . .

  He began inching away from the door. He could follow the walls around the building, and find the deck. If he waited long enough, Eiah would come looking for him, and that might well be one of the first places she’d look. He tried to recall where the deck’s railing began and ended. He had been there for hours earlier, but now he found the details escaped him.

  He stumbled over a log and bruised his knee, but he didn’t cry out. The cold was beginning to numb him. He reached the corner and a set of stairs he didn’t remember. The prospect of sitting in the cold at the edge of the unseen lake was becoming less and less sustainable. He started devising stories that would cover his blindness. He could go near the common room, cry out, and collapse. If he kept his eyes closed, he could feign unconsciousness. They would bring Eiah to him.

  He stepped in something wet and soft, like mud but with a sudden, billowing smell of rotting plants. Maati lifted his foot slowly to keep the muck from pulling off his boot. It occurred to him for the first time that they had done this - precisely this - to a nation.

  His boot was heavy and made a wet sound when he put weight on it, but it didn’t slip. He started making his way back toward where he’d been. He thought he’d made it halfway there when the world suddenly clicked back into place. His hands pink and gray against the damp, black wood. The thin fog hardly worth noticing. He turned and found Vanjit sitting cross-legged on the stones of the courtyard. Her dark eyes were considering. He wondered how long she’d been watching.

  ‘What you said before? It was uncalled for,’ she said. Her voice was steady as stone, and as unforgiving.

  Maati took a pose that offered apology but also pointedly did not end the conversation. Vanjit considered him.

  ‘I love Eiah-cha,’ she said, frowning. ‘I would never, never wish her ill. Suggesting that I want her to fail just so I could remain the only poet . . . it’s madness. It hurts me that you would say it.’

  ‘I never did,’ Maati said. ‘I never said anything like it. If that’s what you heard, then something else is happening here.’

  Vanjit shifted back, surprise and dismay in her expression. Her hands moved toward some formal pose, but never reached it. The shriek came from within the wayhouse. The music stopped. Vanjit stood up muttering something violent and obscene, but Maati was already moving to the door.

  The large room was silent, drums and flute abandoned where they had fallen. The woman who’d screamed was sitting on a stool, her hands still pressed to her mouth, her face bloodless, and her gaze fixed on the archway that led to the private rooms. No one spoke. Clarity-of-Sight stood in the archway, its hands on the wall, its tiny hips swaying crazily as it lost and regained and lost its balance. It saw Vanjit, let out a high squeal, and waved its tiny arms before sitting down hard and suddenly. The delight never left its face.

  ‘It is,’ someone said in a voice woven from awe and tears. ‘It’s a baby.’

  And as if the word had broken a dam, chaos flowed through the way-house. Vanjit dashed forward, her hands low to scoop up the andat, and the crowd surged with her. The chorus of questions and shouts rose, filling the air. Maati started forward, then stopped. The older of the drummers appeared from amid the throng and embraced him, tears of joy in the man’s eyes.

  Through the press of the crowd, Maati saw Eiah standing alone. Her expression was cold. Maati pulled back from his grinning companion and struggled toward her. He heard Vanjit talking high and fast behind him, but couldn’t make out the words. There were too many voices layered over it.

  ‘Apparently we’ve decided not to travel quietly,’ Eiah said in tone of cold acid.

  ‘Get the others,’ he said. ‘I’ll prepare the cart. We can leave in the night.’

  ‘You think anyone here is going to sleep tonight?’ Eiah said. ‘There’s a baby. A full-blooded child of the cities, and Vanjit the mother. If the gods themselves walked in the door right now, they’d have to wait for a room. They’ll think it’s to do with me. The physician who has found a way to make women bear. They’ll hound me like I’ve stolen their teeth.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Maati said.

  ‘Word of this is going to spread. Father’s going to hear of it, and when he does, he’ll be on our heels.’

  ‘Why would he think it was you?’

  ‘Galt went blind, and he headed west. For Pathai. For me,’ Eiah said.

  ‘He can’t know you’re part of this,’ Maati said.

  ‘Of course he can,’ Eiah said. ‘I am, and he isn’t dim. I didn’t think it was a problem when no one knew who or where we were.’

  A round of cheering broke out, and the wayhouse keeper appeared as if from nowhere, two bottles of wine in each hand. Vanjit had been ushered to a seat by the fire grate. Clarity-of-Sight was in her arms, beaming at everyone who came close. Vanjit’s cheeks were flushed, but she seemed pleased. Proud. Happy.

  ‘This was my mistake,’ Maati said. ‘My failure as much as anything. I distracted her from the thing. It has more freedom when her mind is elsewhere.’

  Eiah turned her head to look at him. There was nothing soft in her eyes. Maati drew himself up, frowning. Anger bloomed in his breast, but he couldn’t say why or with whom.

  ‘Why is it so important to you,’ Eiah asked, ‘that nothing she does be wrong?’

  And with a sensation that was almost physical, Maati knew what he had been trying for months to ignore. A wave of vertigo shook him, but he forced himself to speak.

  ‘Because she should never have become a poet,’ he said. ‘She’s too young and too angry and more than half mad. And that beast on her lap? We gave it to her.’

  Eiah’s startled expression lasted only a moment before something both resignation and weariness took its place. She kissed Maati’s cheek. They stood together, a silence within the storm. He had said what she had already known, and she too had wished it was not truth.

/>   Large Kae and Small Kae quietly prepared the cart and horses. While the wayhouse and every man and woman within running distance came to pay homage to child, mother, and physician, Irit and Maati packed their things. Eiah saw to it that the wine flowed freely, that - near the end - the celebratory drinks were all laced with certain herbs.

  It was still four hands before dawn when they made their escape. Maati and Eiah drove the cart. Large Kae rode ahead, leading the spare horses. The others slept in the cart, exhausted bodies fitted in among the crates and sacks. The moon had already set, and the road before them was black and featureless apart from Large Kae’s guiding torch. The fog had cleared, but a deep cold kept Maati’s cloak wrapped tight. His eyes wanted nothing more than to close.