Shadow and Betrayal

being held to a single form. They fight it, and since the forms they have are a reflection of the poets who bind them . . . The world is full of willing victims - people who embrace the cruelty meted out against them. An andat formed from a mind like that would destroy the poet who bound it and escape. That you have chosen action is what the black robes mean.’
    ‘Then . . . the others . . . they all left the school too?’
    Milah laughed. Even in the cold, it was a warm sound.
    ‘No. No, you’ve all taken different paths. Ansha tried to wrestle Tahi-kvo’s stick away from him. Ranit Kiru asked forbidden questions, took the punishment for them, and asked again until Tahi beat him asleep. He was too sore to wear any robe at all for weeks, but his bruises were black enough. But you’ve each done something. If you choose to take up the robe, that is. Leave it, and really, this is just a conversation. Interesting maybe, but trivial.’
    ‘And if I take it?’
    ‘You will never be turned out of the school so long as you wear the black. You will help to teach the normal boys the lesson you’ve learned - to stand by your own strength.’
    Otah blinked, and something - some emotion he couldn’t put a name to - bloomed in his breast. His flight from the school took on a new meaning. It was a badge of his strength, the proof of his courage.
    ‘And the andat?’
    ‘And the andat,’ Milah-kvo said. ‘You’ll begin to learn of them in earnest. The Dai-kvo has never taken a student who wasn’t first a black robe at the school.’
    Otah stooped, his fingers numb with cold, and picked up the robe. He met Milah-kvo’s amused eyes and couldn’t keep from grinning. Milah-kvo laughed, stood and put an arm around Otah’s shoulder. It was the first kind act Otah could remember since he had come to the school.
    ‘Come on, then. If we start now, we may get back to the school by breakfast.’
    Otah took a pose of enthusiastic agreement.
    ‘And, while this once I think we can forgive it, don’t make a habit of stealing from the kitchen. It upsets the cooks.’
     
    The letter came some weeks later, and Milah was the first to read it. Sitting in an upper room, his students abandoned for the moment, he read the careful script again and felt his face grow tight. When he had gone over it enough to know he could not have misunderstood, he tucked the folded paper into the sleeve of his robe and looked out the window. Winter was ending, and somehow the eternal renewal that was spring felt like an irony.
    He heard Tahi enter, recognizing his old friend’s footsteps.
    ‘There was a courier,’ Tahi said. ‘Ansha said there was a courier from the Dai-kvo . . .’
    Milah looked over his shoulder. His own feelings were echoed in Tahi’s round face.
    ‘From his attendant, actually.’
    ‘The Dai-kvo. Is he . . .’
    ‘No,’ Milah said, fishing out the letter. ‘Not dead. Only dying.’
    Tahi took the proffered pages, but didn’t look at them.
    ‘Of what?’
    ‘Time.’
    Tahi read the written words silently, then leaned against the wall with a sharp sigh.
    ‘It . . . it isn’t so bad as it could be,’ Tahi said.
    ‘No. Not yet. He will see the school again. Twice, perhaps.’
    ‘He shouldn’t come,’ Tahi snapped. ‘The visits are a formality. We know well enough which boys are ready. We can send them. He doesn’t have to—’
    Milah turned, interrupting him with a subtle pose that was a request for clarification and a mourning both. Tahi laughed bitterly and looked down.
    ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Still. I’d like the world better if we could carry a little of his weight for him. Even if it was only a short way.’
    Milah started to take a pose, but hesitated, stopped, only nodded.
    ‘Otah Machi?’ Tahi asked.
    ‘Maybe. We might have to call him for Otah. Not yet, though. The robes have hardly been on him. The others are still learning to accept him as an equal. Once he’s used to the power, then we’ll see. I won’t call the Dai-kvo until we’re certain.’
    ‘He’ll come next winter whether there’s a boy ready or not.’
    ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps he’ll die tonight. Or we will. No god made the world certain.’
    Tahi raised his hands in a pose of resignation.
     
    It was a warm night in late spring; the scent of green seemed to permeate the world. Otah and his friends sprawled on the hillside east of the school. Milah-kvo sat with them, still talking, still telling stories though their