A Betrayal in Winter (lpq-2) by Daniel Abraham

shook his head, smiling more to himself than his audience.
     
    "That's good. She was always unpredictable. Age has calmed her, I think.
    There was a time she would study outrages the way most girls study face
    paints and sandals. Always sneaking puppies into court or stealing
    dresses she fancied from her little friends. She relied on me to keep
    her safe, however far she flew," he said, smiling fondly. "A mischievous
    girl, my daughter, but good-hearted. I'm proud of her."
     
    Then he sobered.
     
    "I am proud of all my children. It's why I am not of one mind on this,"
    the Khai said. "You would think that I should be, but I am not. With
    every day that the search continues, the truce holds, and Kaiin and
    Danat still live. I've known since I was old enough to know anything
    that if I took this chair, my sons would kill each other. It wasn't so
    hard before I knew them, when they were only the idea of sons. But then
    they were Biitrah and Kaiin and Danat. And I don't want any of them to die."
     
    "But tradition, most high. If they did not-"
     
    "I know why they must," the Khai said. "I was only wishing. It's
    something dying men do, I'm told. Sit with their regrets. It's likely
    that which kills us as much as the sickness. I sometimes wish that this
    had all happened years ago. That they had slaughtered each other in
    their childhood. Then I might have at least one of them by me now. I had
    not wanted to die alone."
     
    "You are not alone, most high. The whole court . .
     
    Maati broke off. The Khai Machi took a pose accepting correction, but
    the amusement in his eyes and the angle of his shoulders made a sarcasm
    of it. Maati nodded, accepting the old man's point.
     
    "I can't say which of them I would have wanted to live, though," the
    Khai said, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. "I love them all. Very
    dearly. I cannot tell you how deeply I miss Biitrah."
     
    "Had you known him, you would have loved Otah as well."
     
    "You think so? Certainly you knew him better than I. I can't think he
    would have thought well of me," the Khai said. Then, "Did you go back?
    After you took your robes? Did you go to see you parents?"
     
    "My father was very old when I went to the school," Maati said. "He died
    before I completed my training. We did not know each other."
     
    "So you have never had a family."
     
    "I have, most high," Maati said, fighting to keep the tightness in his
    chest from changing the tone of his voice. "A lover and a son. I had a
    family once."
     
    "But no longer. They died?"
     
    "They live. Only not with me."
     
    The Khai considered him, bloodshot eyes blinking slowly. With his thin,
    wrinkled skin, he reminded Maati of a very old turtle or else a very
    young bird. The Khai's gaze softened, his brows tilting in understanding
    and sorrow.
     
    "It is never easy for fathers," the Khai said. "Perhaps if the world had
    needed less from us."
     
    Maati waited a long moment until he trusted his voice.
     
    "Perhaps, most high."
     
    The Khai exhaled a breath of gray, his gaze trapped by the smoke.
     
    "It isn't the world I knew when I was young," the old man said.
    "Everything changed when Saraykeht fell."
     
    "The Khai Saraykeht has a poet," Maati said. "He has the power of the
    andat."
     
    "It took the Dai-kvo eight years and six failed bindings," the Khai
    said. "And every time word came of another failure, I could see it in
    the faces of the court. The utkhaiem may put on proud faces, but I've
    seen the fear that swims under that ice. And you were there. You said so
    in the audience when I greeted you."
     
    "Yes, most high."
     
    "But you didn't say everything you knew," the Khai said. "Did you?"
     
    The yellowed eyes fixed on Maati. The intelligence in them was
    unnerving. Maati felt himself squirming, and wondering what had happened
    to the melancholy dying man he'd been speaking with only moments before.
     
    "I ... that is ..."
     
    "There were rumors that the poet's death was more than an angry