had been present when the word came that Danat Machi waited at the
bridge for his father's permission to enter the city. She had gone down
behind the runner to watch the doors fly open and the celebration that
had been building spill out into the dark stone streets. They would have
sting as loud for Kaiin, if Danat had been dead.
While Danat's caravan slogged its way through the crowds, Idaan
retreated to the palaces. The panoply of the utkhaiem was hardly more
restrained than the common folk. Members of all the high families
appeared as if by chance outside the Third Palace's great hall.
Musicians and singers entertained with beautiful ballads of great
warriors returning home from the field, of time and life renewed in a
new generation. They were songs of the proper function of the world. It
was as if no one had known Biitrah or Kaiin, as if the wheel of the
world were not greased with her family's blood. Idaan watched with a
calm, pleasant expression while her soul twisted with disgust.
When Danat reached the long, broad yard and stepped down from his
litter, a cheer went up from all those present; even from her. Danat
raised his arms and smiled to them all, beaming like a child on Candles
Night. His gaze found her, and he strode through the crowd to her side.
Idaan raised her chin and took a pose of greeting. It was what she was
expected to do. He ignored it and picked her up in a great hug, swinging
her around as if she weighed nothing, and then placed her back on her
own feet.
"Sister," he said, smiling into her eyes. "I can't say how glad I am to
see you.
"Danat-kya," she said, and then failed.
"How are things with our father?"
The sorrow that was called for here was at least easier than the feigned
delight. She saw it echoed in Danat's eyes. So close to him, she could
see the angry red in the whites of his eyes, the pallor in his skin. He
was wearing paint, she realized. Rouge on his cheeks and lips and some
warm-toned powder to lend his skin the glow of health. Beneath it, he
was sallow. She wondered if he'd grown sick, and whether there was some
slow poison that might be blamed for his death.
"He has been looking forward to seeing you," she said.
"Yes. Yes, of course. And I hear that you're to become a Vaunyogi. I'm
pleased for you. Adrah's a good man."
"I love him," she said, surprised to find that in some dim way it was
still truth. "But how are you, brother? Are you ... are things well with
you?"
For a moment, Danat seemed about to answer. She thought she saw
something weaken in him, his mouth losing its smile, his eyes looking
into a darkness like the one she carried. In the end, he shook himself
and kissed her forehead, then turned again to the crowd and made his way
to the Khai's palace, greeting and rejoicing with everyone who crossed
his path. And it was only the beginning. Danat and their father would be
closeted away for a time, then the ritual welcome from the heads of the
families of the utkhaicm. And then festivities and celebrations, feasts
and dances and revelry in the streets and palaces and teahouses.