Shadow and Betrayal

time that anyone has risen so far and failed so badly, Otah thought. The first time anyone so unsuited to the black robes had been given them. He remembered the cold, empty plain of snow he’d walked across the night Milah-kvo had promoted him. He could see now that his flight hadn’t been a sign of strength after all - only a presentiment of failure.
    ‘What did you do ?’ Ansha asked in the darkness.
    Otah saw the boy’s face again, saw the bloodied hand and the tears of humiliation running down the dirty cheeks. He had caused that pain, and he could not draw the line between the shame of having done it and the shame of being too weak to do it again. There was no way for him to explain that he couldn’t lead the boys to strength because in his heart, he was still one of them.
    ‘I wasn’t worthy of my robe,’ he said.
    Ansha didn’t speak again, and soon Otah heard the low, deep breath of sleep. The others were all tired from their day’s work. Otah had no reason to be tired after a day spent haunting the halls and rooms of the school with no duties and no purpose, wearing the black robe only because he had no other robes of his own.
    He waited in the darkness until even the embers deserted him and he was sure the others were deeply asleep. Then he rose, pulled on his robe, and walked quietly out into the corridor. It wasn’t far to the chilly rooms where the younger cohorts slept. Otah walked among the sleeping forms. Their bodies were so small, and the blankets so thin. Otah had been in the black for so little time, and had forgotten so much.
    The boy he was looking for was curled on a cot beside the great stone wall, his back to the room. Otah leaned over carefully and put a hand over the boy’s mouth to stifle a cry if he made one. He woke silently, though, his eyes blinking open. Otah watched until he saw recognition bloom.
    ‘Your hands are healing well?’ Otah whispered.
    The boy nodded.
    ‘Good. Now stay quiet. We don’t want to wake the others.’
    Otah drew his hand away, and the boy fell immediately into a pose of profound apology.
    ‘Otah-kvo, I have dishonored you and the school. I . . .’
    Otah gently folded the boy’s fingers closed.
    ‘You have nothing to blame yourself for,’ Otah said. ‘The mistake was mine. The price is mine.’
    ‘If I’d worked harder—’
    ‘It would have gained you nothing,’ Otah said. ‘Nothing.’
     
    The bronze doors boomed and swung open. The boys stood in their ranks holding poses of welcome as if they were so many statues. Otah, standing among the black robes, held his pose as well. He wondered what stories the cohorts of disowned children had been telling themselves about the visit: hopes of being returned to a lost family, or of being elevated to a poet. Dreams.
    The old man walked in. He seemed less steady than Otah remembered him. After the ceremonial greetings, he blessed them all in his thick, ruined whisper. Then he and the teachers retired, and the black robes - all but Otah - took charge of the cohorts that they would lead for the day. Otah returned to his room and sat, sick at heart, waiting for the summons he knew was coming. It wasn’t long.
    ‘Otah,’ Tahi-kvo said from the doorway. ‘Get some tea for the Dai-kvo. ’
    ‘But the ceremonial robe . . .’
    ‘Not required. Just tea.’
    Otah rose into a pose of submission. The time had come.
     
    The Dai-kvo sat silently, considering the fire in the grate. His hands, steepled before him, seemed smaller than Milah remembered them, the skin thinner and loose. His face showed the fatigue of his journey around the eyes and mouth, but when he caught Milah’s gaze and took a pose part query, part challenge, Milah thought there was something else as well. A hunger, or hope.
    ‘How are things back in the world?’ Milah asked. ‘We don’t hear much of the high cities here.’
    ‘Things are well enough,’ the Dai-kvo said. ‘And here? How are your boys?’
    ‘Well enough, most high.’
    ‘Really? Some nights I find I wonder.’
    Milah took a pose inviting the Dai-kvo to elaborate, but to no effect. The ancient eyes had turned once more to the flames. Milah let his hands drop to his lap.
    Tahi returned and took a pose of obedience and reverence before bending into his chair.
    ‘The boy is coming,’ Tahi said.
    The Dai-kvo took a pose of acknowledgment, but nothing more. Milah saw his own concern mirrored in Tahi. It seemed too long before the soft knock came at the door