Seasons of War

poet had bound the first andat, anything had been possible. Anything a mind could fathom could be harnessed; anything that could be thought could be done.
    But when the first andat had escaped and been harder to recapture, that potential had dropped a degree. Once a binding failed, each one that followed had to be different, and there were only so many ways to describe a thing fully enough to hold it as a slave. It was the central truth of the long, slow, dwindling of power that had brought them all here.
    It was like a man’s life. For a time in his youth, Otah had been capable of anything. His body had been strong, his judgment so certain he’d been willing to kill a man. And every day and every decision had narrowed him. Every year had weakened his back and his knees, eaten at his sight and wrinkled his skin. Time had taken Kiyan from him. His judgment had lost him his daughter.
    He could have done anything, and he had chosen this. Or had it chosen for him.
    And he wasn’t yet dead, so there were other choices still to be made. Other days and years to live through. Other duties and failures and disappointments he would be responsible for not making right. His anger with Idaan was perfectly comprehensible. He was enraged by her because she had seen to the heart of something he hadn’t wanted to understand.
    He tried to imagine Kiyan sitting on the stone rail, smiling down at him the way she had. It was very, very easy.
    What should I do? he asked the ghost his mind had conjured.
    You can do anything, love , she said, it’s just that you can’t do everything .
    Otah, Emperor of the Khaiem, wept, and he couldn’t say how much was from sorrow and how much from relief.
    In the morning, he had the Master of Tides clear his schedule. He met with Balasar and Sinja first. The meeting room was blond stone, ornately carved. Otah had heard that the carvings illustrated some ancient epic, but he’d never bothered to consider it. They were only figures in stone, unmoving and incapable of change. Unlike the men.
    Balasar and Sinja sat across from each other, their spines straight and their expressions polite. They were divided by blood and broken faith. Otah poured the tea himself.
    ‘I am placing you in joint control of the fleets and what armsmen we have,’ Otah said. ‘Between the two of you, you will protect Chaburi-Tan from the raiders and bring the mercenary forces into compliance with their contracts. I’ve written an edict that officially grants you my unrestricted permissions.’
    ‘Most High,’ Balasar said. His voice was careful and precise. ‘Forgive me, but is this wise? I am not one of your countrymen.’
    ‘Of course you are,’ Otah said. ‘Once Danat and Ana marry, we will be a united empire. Are you refusing the command?’
    Sinja replied in the general’s place.
    ‘We’re an odd pairing, Most High,’ he said. ‘It might be better if—’
    ‘You’ve been my right hand for decades. You know our resources and our strengths. You’re known and you’re trusted,’ Otah said. ‘Balasarcha’s the best commander in Galt. You’re both grown men.’
    ‘What exactly do you want from us?’ Balasar asked.
    ‘I want you to take this problem from me and fix it,’ Otah said. ‘I’m only one man, and I’m tired and overcommitted. Besides which, I’m a third-rate war leader, as I think we are all aware.’
    Sinja coughed to cover laughter. Balasar leaned forward, stroking his chin and looking down as if he’d discovered something fascinating in the grain of the table before him. Slowly, he nodded. After that, it was only a matter of working out the wording of the edict to the satisfaction of Sinja and Balasar both.
    There would be trouble between them. That couldn’t be avoided. But, Otah told himself, that was theirs to work. Not his. Not his any longer. He left the meeting room feeling oddly giddy.
    He had scheduled a similar meeting with Danat and Issandra Dasin concerning the politics of the court and the intermarriage of Galt and the Khaiem. And then he thought Ashua Radaani was the man to address the issues of the conspiracy between Yalakeht and Obar State. He wasn’t certain of that yet. Panjit Dun might also do well with it.
    And once all that was done, all the best minds he could choose given their autonomy, he would closet himself with his sister and begin the work that couldn’t be safely trusted to others: tracking Maati and whatever enemy among the courts of the utkhaiem had