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A late season snow had kept us in Edverzhemo, in the north of Thu-Evresar. The master of the caravan had assured us the weather would turn again soon enough, and we would not be trapped for long. Hanu had not gainsaid him; the Evressai Steppes were much drier, and he said he did not know the climate of the rest of Thu-Evresar well enough to tell if the caravaneers were correct.
We returned to the inn where we had been staying; we were lucky to have been caught here, rather than only once the caravan had gotten underway. I secured a room for another night and went upstairs to deposit our things, while Hanu went to get us something warm to drink.
I was brushing travel dust and flakes of snow off my overcoat when Hanu knocked. I stood to the side as he had taught me, rather than directly behind the door, and let him in.
"We may be stuck here for a few more days," Hanu said in the plural, handing me the bottle and cups he had brought so he could shake the snow out of his hair.
He had brought tea, not wine. "I can get something else," he said, when he noticed my look, "if thou wouldst rather—?"
"No, tea is fine," I said, setting it on the table. I poured for us as he came to sit. "And a few more days will not hurt. I would not put it past the othas'ala here to come up with more problems for me to handle."
The tea was a light, gingery aikanaro; not particularly to my taste, but a reasonable choice for this hour, and it was warm. We sat in silence for a minute, shaking off the lingering chill.
"Hast ever considered retiring? Or whatever it is that prelates do," Hanu asked when I refilled our cups.
I recapped the bottle, an ingenious little thing that kept the tea hot. "I am younger than thee," I said, somewhat incredulously.
"True," he allowed. "I have had my own cloud-fancies of what I might do when I am too old to follow the next interesting thread. Does not everyone?"
"Many do," I said, watching Hanu sip his tea. "Not everyone. One does not spurn a calling, especially a gods-given one, as long as the gods continue to call."
He placed his cup down. "Thou speakest as if thou expect'st not to be called, someday."
I shrugged uncomfortably, looking away. "Not all callings last."
"And so thou must consider thy future eventually." Hanu pushed his cup towards me, and I poured us both the last of the tea. He seemed to sense that I would not start, and so he asked, "What do most Witnesses for the Dead do when they get old?"
I stared past him for a moment, then down at my tea. The gaslights in the room guttered, poorly shielded from a passing breeze, then flared high. "There are no old Witnesses vel ama for the Dead," I said. "They—we—burn out. Our callings are like to candles; we are always burning, and at some point we run out of wick."
"Ah," Hanu said, in the voice of someone who had overturned a stone, expecting dirt, and found bones instead. It was a tone I was very familiar with. And yet he asked, "Knowest how long thou mightst have?"
"No."
"I see."
Another draft crept into the room. I watched the reflections of the gaslights in my tea, then took another sip. It had not gone cold, but part of me felt like ice.
"What wilt thou do, if the Archprelate no longer has reason to employ me?" I asked.
"Canst not assume the Archprelate will abandon thee," Hanu said. He flicked an ear, frowning into the middle distance. "But it is a fair question. I would find something, I suppose. Keep travelling. The Ethuveraz is very large, and I have not seen all of it." He looked at me. "Neither hast thou, I would wager."
I focused on the glaze of the cup, smooth against my hand. "Someday thou wilt be too old to travel."
"So wilt thee, and thou wilt still need something to do with thy days."
"I am not made for sitting still," I agreed ruefully.
"That is not thy only choice, is it?" Hanu's question was genuine. "There are always those looking for older soldiers to pass along their experience. Though perhaps fewer prelates die young, so there is not as much demand."
I thought of the many pilgrimages that I had undertaken, and others I had heard of. "Ulis's service is not safe, but not for the same reasons."
Hanu's ears twitched. "The more I learn about the prelacy, the more it concerns me," he said, a shade of dark humor in his voice. It lifted with his next words. "Othalo Tomasaran benefitted from thy teachings."
So others might? I stared at the gaslights again, as though I could see past the thin walls to the wind-driven snow outside. He did have a point. But I remembered how lost I had been over the weeks without my calling, the feeling of being laid open to the bone and yet numb as I bled out. Burning out was supposed to be slower than what the revethavar had done to me; a mortal injury, as opposed to a slow death. Both fell within Ulis's domain, as did loss and grief, but I had already proved myself incapable of dealing with this particular loss once.
Then I thought, too, about how Ulis might have his eye on me.
"Thara?"
I flicked my ears, brushing it off for now. I hadn't considered the possibility that I might not burn out. The idea felt clear but sharp, like an unguarded flame, too bright to look at straight on. I would have to meditate on it.
"Just a thought," I said, close enough to I am fine that I winced. In reality, I felt unsteady, unbalanced.
"Thou art as bad a liar as I am," he said, but his hand closed around mine on the cup, lessening the sting. The scar from the dragon bone on my palm was slightly numb, an odd contrast between the lingering warmth of the tea and the heat of Hanu's hand. My other hand wore at the surface of the table, with an itch that had become familiar in recent months.
Hanu leaned back, letting go of me as he did. I could not help but feel bereft at the loss.
(Maybe it was not so much an itch as a yearning; a thirst that tea did nothing to slake.)
Hanu got up, moving about our room. I paid little mind to what he was doing. One of the longer prayers to Ulis ran through my mind unbidden, and I let it take me, losing myself in the rhythm and the feeling of the cup against my hand, the wooden slats of the chair against my back, the floorboards under my feet.
I startled when Hanu placed a hand on my shoulder. He smiled at me as he sat on the bed.
The smile grew, albeit with a hint of ruefulness at the edges, when I did not move. "That was an invitation, Thara," he said. He glanced aside. "I spent so long in the Anmur'theileian. I forget not everywhere has the same…"
The itch burned.
It was late, and the door was locked, I reasoned; we were, perhaps, as safe as we ever could be. Which was not very safe at all, but if I only did things on the basis of safety I could never have followed my calling. The worst had already happened with Evru. Perhaps there was still farther to fall, but on this cold and windy evening I was not sure I cared about that fall as much as I ought.
(I had the favor of the Archprelate, and the Emperor himself, even if I dared not to presume upon them as much as they, to my unending confusion, might wish I did.)
I stood. "Culture?" I suggested.
"Yes, that is a good word," Hanu said. I took a step towards him. "We were so isolated there, and very self-reliant. There were many relationships of convenience. And more than that."
It had the air of a confession, leavened with the straightforwardness I had come to expect from him.
I sat on the bed. Hanu's arms closed around me, lying us down so that my face was close to his chest, and something in me relaxed, that I had not even known how tight and tense I had been. Something in Hanu relaxed, too, to have me in his arms. One hand found its way to my hair, coming free from its braid, and started helping it along.
Pins clinked to the bedside table. After I had lost count, Hanu asked, "What was the thought that so discomfited thee?"
"Nothing I wish to speak of." I heard how that sounded, and hurriedly caught his arm as he shifted. "Not right now, I mean. It is… I have to think on it."
Hanu accepted that. I let go of his arm, and he dropped the pin he had been holding in the pile with the others. His hand found its way back to my hair, scratched behind my ear, and I could not help the noise I made.
"Thou art like the cats thou dotest upon," Hanu said, laughter buried in his voice. Another noise came out of the back of my throat. "Wouldst deny it?"
My face burned. "I do not dote," I said, choosing the easier path.
"Hmm. Couldst keep a cat someday if thou wert to settle down."
"I feel as if thou art trying to convince me."
"No, but it is good to consider thy options."
Hanu stroked up the nape of my neck, smoothing the fine hairs there, and I lost any further response I might have made. My hand found his waist, and without my input my thumb started rubbing circles over his shirt. The relentless itch was slowly turning into a simmering warmth, centered on the places where we touched.
We might have laid there longer but for the knock at the door.
"Othala?" A hurried voice called. "Something has happened."
I allowed myself a moment of weakness, letting my hand tighten on Hanu, before opening my eyes and getting up.
"Thy hair," Hanu said, as he reached for his own coat and shoes. I touched it, realizing as he had that I could not go out with it unbound.
"Here." He gestured to the edge of the bed. I sat to lace my boots as he put my hair back in a serviceable braid. The pins stayed on the side table; hopefully we would not be out long enough for it to matter. Hanu tied the braid off, tucking a stray wisp behind my ear. His hand lingered for a moment.
I touched his hand, and for a fleeting moment I wondered where else this evening might have gone.
"Thank thee," I said, and stood up. Hanu preceded me to the door. He glanced at me, hand on the knob, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile.
I could not help but smile back.