Daniel Abraham - THE

gruel was soft and rich with buttercream and honey.

"Maati-kvo!" Small Kae called, and he took a pose of welcome that the

others matched. "There's fresh tea in the green pot. And that bowl there

is clean. The blue one."

"Eiah was just telling us about the news from Pathai," Ashti Beg said.

"Little that there was of it," Eiah said. "Nothing to compare with what

you were all doing here."

"Nothing we did while you were away is going to compare with what we'll

do next," Small Kae said. Her face was bright, her smile taut. She

covered her fear with an unwillingness to conceive of defeat. Maati

poured himself the tea. It smelled like fresh-picked leaves.

"Have we seen Vanjit?" he asked and lowered himself to a cushion beside

the fire. He grunted only a little bit.

"Not yet," Eiah said. "Large Kae went to wake her."

"Perhaps it would be better to let her sleep," Small Kae said. "It is

her day, after all. It seems rude to make demands on her just because we

all want to share it with her."

Eiah smiled, but her gaze was on Maati. A private conversation passed

between them, no longer than three heartbeats together. More would be

decided today than Vanjit and Clarity-of-Sight. Likely they all knew as

much, but no one would say the words. Maati filled a fresh bowl with the

sweet grain, holding it out for Ashti Beg to cover with apple. He didn't

answer Eiah's unspoken question: What will we do if she fails?

Vanjit arrived before he had finished half the bowl. She wore a robe of

deep blue shot with red, and her hair was woven with glass beads and

carved shells. Her face was painted, her lips widened and red, her eyes

touched by kohl. Maati hadn't even known she'd brought paints and

baubles to the school. She had never worn them before, but this morning,

she looked like the daughter of a Khai. When no one was looking, he took

a pose of congratulation to Eiah. She replied with an inclination of the

head and a tiny smile that admitted the change was her doing.

"How did you sleep, Vanjit-cha?" Maati asked as she swept the hem of her

robe aside and sat next to him.

She took his hand and squeezed it, but didn't answer his question. Large

Kae brought her a bowl of tea, Irit a helping of the grain and butter

already covered with apple. Vanjit took a pose of thanks somewhat

hampered by the food and drink.

While they all ate, the conversation looped around the one concern they

all shared. The Galts, the Emperor, the weather, the supplies Eiah had

brought from Pathai, the species of insect peculiar to the dry lands

around the school. Anything was a fit topic except Vanjit's binding and

the fear that lay beneath all their merriment and pleasure.

Vanjit alone seemed untouched by care. She was beautiful and, for the

first time since Maati had met her, comfortable in her beauty. Her

laughter seemed genuine and her movements relaxed. Maati thought he was

seeing confidence in her, the assurance of a woman who was about to do a

thing she had no thought might be beyond her. His opinion didn't change

until after all the bowls had been gathered and rinsed, the cored apples

and spilled grain swept up and carried away to the pit in the back of

the school, when she took him by the hand and led him gently aside.

"I wanted to thank you," she said as they reached the bend of the wide

hallway.

"I can't see I've done anything worth it," he said. "If anything, I

should be offering you ..."

There were tears brimming in her eyes, the shining water threatening her

kohl. Maati took the end of his sleeve and dabbed her eyes gently. The

brown cloth came away stained black.

"After Udun," Vanjit began, then paused. "After what the Galts did to my

brothers ... my parents. I thought I would never have a family again. It

was better that there not be anyone in my life that I cared for enough

that it would hurt me to lose them."

"Ah, now. Vanjit-kya. You don't need to think of that now."

"But I do. I do. You are the closest thing I've had to a father. You are

the most dedicated man I have ever known, and it has been an honor to be

allowed a place in your work. And I've broken the promise I made myself.

I will miss you."

Maati took a pose that both disagreed and asked for clarification.

Vanjit smiled and shook her head, the beads and shells in her braids

clicking like claws on stone. He waited.

"We both know that the chances are poor that I'll see the sunset," she

said. Her voice was solemn and composed. "This grammar we've made is a

guess. The forces at play are deadlier than fires or floods. If I were

someone else, I wouldn't wager a length of copper on my chances if you

offered me odds."

"That isn't true," Maati said. He hadn't meant to shout, and lowered his

voice when he spoke again. "That isn't true. We've done good work here.

The equal of anything I learned from the Dai-kvo. Your chances are equal

to the best any poet has faced. I'll swear to that if you'd like."

"There's no call," she said. From down the hall, he heard voices in

bright conversation. He heard laughter. Vanjit took his hand. He had

never noticed how small her hands were. How small she was, hardly more

than a child herself.

"Thank you," she said. "Whatever happens, thank you. If I die today,

thank you. Do you understand?"

"No."

"You've made living bearable," she said. "It's more than I can ever repay.

"You can. You can repay all of it and more. Don't die. Succeed."

Vanjit smiled and took a pose that accepted instruction, then moved

forward, wrapping her arms around Maati in a bear hug. He cradled her

head on his breast, his eyes pressed closed, his heart sick and anxious.

The chamber they had set aside for the binding had once been the

sleeping room for one of the younger cohorts. The lines of cots were

gone now. The windows shone with the light of middle morning. Vanjit

took a round of chalk and began writing out her binding on the wide

south wall, ancient words and recent blending together in the new

grammar they had all created. From Maati's cushion at the back of the

room, the letters were blurry and indistinct, but from their shape

alone, he could see that the binding had shifted since the last time

he'd seen it.

Eiah sat at his side, her hand on his arm, her gaze fixed on the

opposite wall. She looked half-ill.

"It's going to be all right," Maati murmured.

Eiah nodded once, her eyes never leaving the pale words taking over the

far wall like a bright shadow. When Vanjit was finished, she walked to

the beginning again, paced slowly down the wall reading all she'd

written, and then, satisfied, put the chalk on the ground. A single

cushion had been placed in the middle of the room for her. She stopped

at it, her binding behind her, her face turned toward the small assembly

at the back. She took a silent pose of gratitude, turned, and sat.

Maati had a powerful urge to stand, to call out. He could wash the wall

clean, talk through the binding again, check it for errors one last

time. Vanjit began to chant, the cadences unlike anything he had heard

before. Her voice was soft, coaxing, gentle; she was singing her andat

into the world. He clenched his fists and stayed quiet. Eiah seemed to

have stopped breathing.

The sound of Vanjit's voice filled the air, reverberating as if the

building had grown huge. The chant began to echo, and Vanjit's actual

voice receded. Words and phrases combined, voice against echo, making