Shattered Pillars(6)

Only having done so did he seat himself beside Samarkar, with some fussing of old joints and drawing out of his striped kaftan to make room for his knees. For a moment, Temur was struck by the incongruity of it—the four of them, all sleep-mazed and half-dressed, their hair uncombed, preparing to sip tea. Ato Tesefahun raised his glass, and so did they all.

The tea was minty and sweet. It did a great deal to return Temur to calm wakefulness from his state of high alert.

No one spoke except for pleasantries until the first round of tea was drunk and the glasses refilled. Although their earlier conversation—nearly yesterday, now—had been marked by a stunning adherence to the social niceties and very little actual business, Temur was not yet accustomed to the stately procession of events demanded by Uthman polite custom. But on pain of being seen as a barbarian by his grandfather, he watched the old man’s hands and face and waited for his cues. He watched Samarkar too, with his peripheral vision, aware that her court manners were second to none.

Hsiung drank his tea in predictable silence.

Finally, Ato Tesefahun turned his glass around with his fingertips and looked from each of them to the next. His impression of quiet expectation emboldened Temur, but Samarkar must have been biding her time, because she spoke first. “Has anyone seen Hrahima, I wonder?”

That was Uthman politeness too, that indirectness.

Ato Tesefahun refilled the tea. “Who can keep a cat in at night?”

But he winked, leading Temur to understand that the Cho-tse scout might be on some mission for the old man. When Tesefahun smiled, his strong, worn teeth were revealed. They had bands of brown and amber color like tortoiseshell; Temur’s mother’s teeth had been similarly stained, and he had never seen it otherwise.

Temur shivered with unaccustomed nostalgia. To shake it off, he leaned into the table, his hands in his lap, the edge pressing his arms. Ato Tesefahun met his regard for a moment before looking away and nodding.

“Perhaps,” he said, “it is time to address the issue of the Nameless after all. Although I fear that at this point, it’s bound to ruin all our breakfasts.”

“One meal or another.” Samarkar looked drawn from their long journey, her bones showing too strongly through the fine flesh of her face. Temur wondered if he’d ever see her face round and plump as a ripe fruit. “That was not a Rahazeen spell.”

Ato Tesefahun, a wizard in his own right, though of a different tradition than Samarkar’s, shook his head. “No.”

“What was it?”

With uncharacteristic directness, he turned to Hsiung, who sat—hands folded—and gave them all a face as deceptionless as an egg.

“You have read from a book of Erem,” Ato Tesefahun said in the language of Song. “It is the reason you are going blind, Brother Hsiung, is it not?”

Hsiung’s air of relaxation seemed not all that different from his air of deliberate readiness—until one saw him shift states suddenly. He pulled his hands into his chest, steepling the fingers together. Slowly, twice, he nodded.

Samarkar began, “How did you know—” but Ato Tesefahun’s raised, tipped hand made her rein herself in.

He said, “Is it the reason you took a vow of silence?”

Again, the nod, although this time with a head tilt that Temur took to mean somewhat, but not exactly. It was accompanied by an incremental softening of Hsiung’s shoulders, as if he began to set down some load.

Temur wondered what—in a book—might lead to such a vow.

Ato Tesefahun poured tea again, and each of them drank it—even Hsiung, though Temur could see his hands shaking as he raised the glass to his mouth. He swallowed, or Temur presumed he did. In the lamplight, there was no chance of seeing that bull’s neck ripple.

“Was it the glass book?” asked Temur’s grandfather.

No, said Hsiung’s gesture.

“Not the Black Book of Erem?” said Ato Tesefahun.

Again, the headshake. Whatever the Black Book of Erem might be or might presage, Temur almost feared to know, because the relief that softened Ato Tesefahun’s face was powerfully unmistakable. “A minor text, then. That’s a small mercy.”

He poured more tea, sipped, and continued. “What we witnessed tonight was an effect of the rekindling of some deep magic of old Erem.”

Temur felt Samarkar sit straighter. “Danupati,” she said, her knuckles whitening, fingers pinkening as she knotted her hands together.

Ato Tesefahun tipped his head, suspicious as an old wolf. “Pray,” he said. “Continue.”

“We would have told you last night,” Samarkar said. “But—”