Seasons of War

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