Seasons of War

bird’s nest. Her hands were in claws, trembling.
    ‘I haven’t . . . I haven’t found—’
    ‘He’s fine,’ Maati said. ‘He’s in my apartments, asleep.’
    Liat’s cry startled him. She didn’t walk to him so much as flow through the air, and her arms were around Maati’s shoulders, embracing him. And then she stepped back and struck his shoulder hard enough to sting.
    ‘How long has he been there?’
    ‘Since the army came back,’ Maati said, rubbing his bruised flesh. ‘He brought books that they salvaged from the Dai-kvo. I was looking them over when—’
    ‘And you didn’t send me a runner? There are no servants in the city who you could have told to come to me? I’ve been sitting here chewing my own heart raw, afraid he was dead, afraid he was still out with Otah chasing the Galts, and he was at your apartments talking about books ?’
    ‘He’s fine,’ Maati said. ‘I put a blanket over him and came to you. But he’ll need food. Soup. Some wine. I thought you could take it to him.’
    Liat wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.
    ‘He’s all right?’ she asked. Her voice had gone small.
    ‘He’s exhausted and hungry. But it’s nothing a few days’ rest won’t heal.’
    ‘And . . . his heart? You talked with him. Is he . . . ?’
    ‘I don’t know, sweet. I’m not his mother. Take him soup. Talk with him. You’ll know him better than I can.’
    Liat nodded. There were tears on her cheeks, but Maati knew it was only the fear working its way through. Seeing their boy would help more than anything else.
    ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
    ‘The poet’s house.’
    The night air was chill, both numbing his skin and making him more acutely aware of it. Summer was failing, autumn clearing its throat. The few men and women Maati passed seemed to haunt the palaces, more spirit than flesh. They took poses of deference to him, more formal or less depending upon their stations, but the stunned expressions spoke of a single thought. The news from the broken army had spread, and everyone knew that the Dai-kvo was gone, the Galts triumphant. With even the last glow of twilight long vanished, the paths were dimmer than usual, lanterns unlit, torches burned to coal. The great halls and palaces loomed, the glimmering from behind closed shutters the only sign that they had not been abandoned. Twists of dry herbs tied with mourning cloth hung from the trees as offering to the gods. The red banner that had announced the army’s arrival still hung from the high tower, grayed by the darkness. Colorless.
    Maati passed through the empty gardens, and found himself smiling. He felt separate from the city around him, untouched by its despair. Perhaps even invigorated by it. There was nothing the citizens of Machi could do, no path for them to take that might somehow make things right. That was his alone. He would save the city, if it were to be saved, and if Machi fell, it would find Maati working to the end. It was that hope and the clarity of the path that lay before him that made his steps lighter and kept his blood warm.
    He wondered if this strange elation was something like what Otah had felt, all those years he had lived under his false name. Perhaps holding himself at a distance from the world was how Otah had learned his confidence.
    But no. That thought was an illusion. However much this felt like joy, Maati’s rational mind knew it was only fear in brighter robes.
    The door of the poet’s house stood open. The candlelight from within glowed gold. Maati hauled himself up the stairs and through the doorway without scratching or calling out to announce his presence. The air within smelled of distilled wine and a deep earthy incense of the sort priests burned in the temples. He found Cehmai at the back of the house, eyes bloodshot and wine bowl cupped in his hands. He sat cross-legged on the floor contemplating a linked sigil of order and chaos - mother-of-pearl inlay in a panel of dark-stained rosewood. He glanced up at Maati and made an awkward attempt at some pose Maati could only guess at.
    ‘You’ve found religion?’ Maati asked.
    ‘Chaos comes out of order,’ Cehmai said. ‘I can’t think of a better time to contemplate the fact. And gods are all we have left now, aren’t they?’
    Maati reached out, brushing the panel with his fingers before tipping it backward. It slapped the floor with a sound like a book dropped from a table. Cehmai blinked, half shocked, half