Seasons of War

me,’ Vanjit said. ‘What you said about Wounded.’
    ‘Which was?’ he said. Clarity-of-Sight gurgled and swung its thick arms at Vanjit’s ears, its dumb show of fear and distress forgotten.
    ‘You said that Eiah-cha couldn’t make an andat based on things being as they’re meant to, because the andat aren’t meant to be bound. It’s not their nature. You said she had to bind Wounded and then withdraw it from all the women who still can’t bear babes. And so we withdrew from Ashti Beg.’
    The andat cooed. It might have been Maati’s imagination, but the thing seemed proud. Clarity-of-Sight. And so also Blindness.
    The warmth that bloomed in his breast, the tightening of his jaw, the near-unconscious shaking of his head. They were not anger so much as a bone-deep impatience.
    ‘It is manipulating you,’ he said. ‘We’ve talked about this from the beginning. The andat wants its freedom. Whatever else it is, it will always struggle to be free. It has been courting Ashti Beg and the others for days to precipitate exactly this. You have to know yourself better than it does. You have to behave like a grown woman, not a self-righteous child.’
    ‘But she—’
    Maati put two fingers against the girl’s lips. The andat was silent now, staring at him with silent anger.
    ‘You have been entrusted with a power beyond any living person,’ Maati said, his tone harsher than he’d intended. ‘You are responsible for that power. You understand me? Responsible. I have tried to make you see that, but now I think I’ve failed. Poets aren’t simply men . . . or women . . . who have a particular profession. We aren’t like sailors or cabinetmakers or armsmen. Holding the andat is like holding small gods, and there is a price you pay for that. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
    ‘Yes, Maati-kvo,’ Vanjit whispered.
    ‘I doubt that,’ he said. ‘After what I’ve seen today, I very much doubt it.’
    She was weeping silently. Maati opened his mouth, some cutting comment ready to humiliate her further, and stopped. For a moment, he was a boy again, in this same hallway. He could feel the thin robes and the winter cold, and the tears on his own cheeks as the older boys mocked him or Tahi-kvo - bald, cruel Tahi-kvo, who had later become the Dai-kvo - beat him. He wondered if this fear and rage had been what drove his teachers back then, or if it had been something colder.
    ‘Fix it,’ Maati said. ‘Put Ashti Beg back as she was, and never, never use the andat for petty infighting again.’
    ‘No, Maati-kvo.’
    ‘And wash the pots when your turn comes.’
    Vanjit took a pose that was a promise and an expression of gratitude. The quiet sobs as she walked away made Maati feel smaller. If they had been in a city, he would have gone to a bathhouse or some public square, listened to beggars singing on the corners and bought food from the carts. He would have tried to lose himself for a while, perhaps in wine, perhaps in music, rarely in gambling, and never in sex. At the school, there was no escape. He walked out, leaving the stone walls and memories behind him. Then the gardens. The low hills that haunted the land west of the buildings.
    He sat on the wind-paved hillside, marking the passage of the sun across the afternoon sky, his mind tugged a hundred different ways. He had been too harsh with Vanjit, or not harsh enough. The binding of Wounded was overworked or not deeply enough considered, doomed or on the edge of being perfected. Ashti Beg had been in the wrong or justified or both. He closed his eyes and let the sunlight beat down on them, turning the world to red.
    In time, the turmoil in his heart calmed. A small, blue-tailed lizard scrambled past him. He had chased lizards like it when he’d been a boy. He hadn’t recalled that in years.
    It was folly to think of poets as different from other men. Other women, now that Vanjit had proved their grammar effective. It was that mistake which had made the school what it was, which had deformed the lives of so many people, his own included. Of course Vanjit was still subject to petty jealousy and pride. Of course she would need to learn wisdom, just the same as anyone else. The andat had never changed who someone was, only what they could do.
    He should have taught them that along with all the rest. Every now and again, he could have spent an evening talking about what power was, and what responsibility it carried. He’d never thought to do it,