"I received your message. I'm here."
"And I received your poem," Ana said.
It was too dark to actually see how deeply Danat blushed, but Otah recognized the discomfort in his son's body.
"Ah. That," he said.
Otah tapped Issandra on the shoulder and mouthed the word poem? Issandra pointed back down to their children.
"I am not a toy," Ana said. "If this is another scheme of your father's or my mother's, you can carry word back to them that it didn't work. I know better than to trust you."
"You think I've lied?" Danat said. "What have I said to you that wasn't true?"
"As if you'd let yourself be caught out," Ana said.
Danat sat, one leg tucked under him, the other bent. He looked up at her like a player in some ancient epic. In the dim light, his expression seemed bemused.
"Ask anything," he said. "Do it now. I won't lie to you."
Ana crossed her arms, looking down on Danat like a low-town judge. Her brows were furrowed.
"Are you trying to seduce me?"
"Yes," Danat said. His voice was calm and solid as stone.
"Why?"
"Because I think you are worth seducing," Danat said.
"Only that? Not to please your father or my mother?"
Danat chuckled. One of the guards at Otah's side shifted his weight, the leaves beneath him crackling. Neither of the children below had ears for it.
"It began that way, I suppose," Danat said. "A political alliance. A world to remake. All of that has its appeal, but it didn't write that poem."
Ana fumbled at her belt for a moment and drew out a folded sheet of paper. Danat hesitated, then reached up and accepted it from her. They were quiet. Otah sensed the tension in Issandra's crouched body. Ana was refusing the token. And then the girl spoke, and her mother relaxed.
"Read it," Ana said. "Read it to me."
Otah closed his eyes and prayed to all the gods there were that neither he nor Issandra nor either of the guards would sneeze or cough. He had never lived through a more excruciatingly awkward scene. Below, Danat cleared his throat and began to declaim.
It wasn't good. Danat's command of Galtic didn't extend to the subtlety of rhyme. The images were simple and puerile, the sexuality just under the surface of the words ham-fisted and uncertain, and worst of all of it, Danat's tone as he spoke was as sincere as a priest at temple. His voice shook at the end of the last stanza. Silence fell in the garden. One of the guards shook once with suppressed laughter and went still.
Danat folded the paper slowly, then offered it up to Ana. It hesitated there for a moment before the girl took it.
"I see," she said. Against all reason, her voice had softened. Otah could hardly believe it, but Ana appeared genuinely moved. Danat rose to stand a hand's breadth nearer to her than before. The lanterns flickered. The two children gazed at each other with perfect seriousness. Ana looked away.
"I have a lover," she said.
"You've made that quite clear," Danat replied, amusement in his voice.
Ana shook her head. The shadows hid her expression.
"I can't," she said. "You are a fine man, Danat. More an emperor than your father. But I've sworn. I've sworn before everyone…"
"I don't believe that," Danat said. "I've hardly known you, Ana-kya, and I don't believe the gods themselves could stop you from something if it was truly what you wanted. Say you won't have me, but don't tell me you're refusing me out of fear."
Ana began to speak, stumbled on the words, and went silent. Danat rose, and the girl took a step toward him.
And a moment later, "Does Hanchat know you're here?"
Ana was still, and then almost imperceptibly she shook her head. Danat put a hand on her shoulder and gently turned her to face him. Otah might have been imagining it, but he thought the girl's head inclined a degree toward that hand. Danat kissed Ana's forehead and then her mouth. Her hand, palm against Danat's chest, seemed too weak to push him away. It was Danat who stepped back.
He murmured something too low to hear, then bowed in the Galtic style, took his lantern, and left her. Ana slowly lowered herself to the ground. They waited, one girl alone in the night and four hidden spies with legs and backs slowly beginning to cramp. Without word or warning, Ana sobbed twice, rose, scooped up her own lantern, and vanished through the door she'd first come from. Otah let out a pained sigh and made his uncomfortable way out from beneath the willow. There were green streaks on his robe where his knees had ground into the ivy. The armsmen had the grace to move away a few paces, expressionless.
"We're doing well," Issandra said.
"I didn't hear a declaration of marriage," Otah said. He felt disagreeable despite the evidence of Ana's changing heart. He felt dishonest, and it made him sour.
"So long as nothing comes to throw her off, it will come. In time. I know my daughter. I've seen this all before."
"Really? How odd," Otah said. "I know my son, and I never have."
"Then perhaps Ana is a lucky woman," Issandra said. He was surprised to hear something wistful in the woman's voice. The moon passed behind a high cloud, deepening the darkness around them, and then was gone. Issandra stood before him, her head high and proud, her mouth in a half-smile. She was, he thought, an interesting woman. Not beautiful in the traditional sense, and all the more attractive for that.
"A marriage is what you make of it," she said.
Otah considered the words, then took a pose that both agreed and expressed a gentle sorrow. He did not know how much of his meaning she understood. She nodded and strode off, leaving him with his armsmen.
Otah suffered through the rest of the banquet and returned to his apartments, sure he would not sleep. The night air had cooled. The fire in the grate warmed his feet. The fear that had dogged him all these last months didn't vanish, but its hold upon him faded. Somewhere under the stars just then, Danat and Ana were playing out their drama in touches and whispers; Issandra and Fatter Dasin in silences and the knowledge of long association. Idaan was hunting, Ashua Radaani was hunting, Sinja was hunting. And he was alone and sleepless with nothing to do.
He closed his eyes and tried to feel Kiyan's presence, tried to bring some sense of her out of the scent of smoke and the sound of distant singing. He tricked himself into thinking that she was here, but not so well that he could forget it was a trick.
Tomorrow, there would be another wide array of men and women requesting his time. Another schedule of ritual and audience and meeting. Perhaps it would all go as well as today had, and he would end the day in his rooms, feeling old and maudlin despite his success. There were so many men and women in the court-in the world-who wanted nothing more than power. Otah, who had it, had always known how little it changed.
He slept deeply and without dreams. When he woke, every man and woman of Galt had gone blind.
16
It had been raining for two full days. Occasionally the water changed to sleet or hail, and small accumulations of rotten ice had begun to form in the sheltered corners of the courtyard. Maati closed his shutters against the low clouds and sat close to the fire, the weather tapping on wood like fingers on a table. It might almost have been pleasant if it hadn't made his spine stiffen and ache.
The cold coupled with Eiah's absence had turned life quiet and slow, like a bear preparing to sleep through the winter. Maati went down to the kitchen in the morning and ate with the others. Large Kae and Irit had started rehearsing old songs together to pass the time. They sang while they cooked, and the harmonies were prettier than Maati would have imagined. When Vanjit and Clarity-of-Sight were there, the andat would grow restive, its eyes shifting from one singer to the next and back again until Vanjit started to fidget and took her charge away. Small Kae had no ear for music, so instead spent her time reading the old texts that Clarity-of-Sight had been built from and asking questions about the finer points of their newly re-created grammar.