Adrah took a pose that offered sympathy, but she wasn't such a fool as
to believe it. She rose shakily to her feet. They did not stop her.
"I should go," she said. "I'll be expected at the palaces. I expect
there will be food and song until the sun comes up."
Daaya looked up. His smile was sickly, but Adrah took a pose of
reassurance and the old man looked away again.
"I'm trusting you, Idaan-kya," Adrah said. "To let you go. It's because
I trust you."
"It's because you can't lock me away without attracting attention. If I
vanish, people will wonder why, and my brother not the least. We can't
have that, can we? Everything must seem perfectly normal."
"It still might be wise, locking you away," Adrah said. He pretended to
be joking, but she could see the debate going on behind his eyes. For a
moment, her life spread out before her. The first wife of the Khai
Machi, looking into these eyes. She had loved him once. She had to
remember that. Idaan smiled, leaned forward, kissed his lips.
"I'm only sad," she said. "It will pass. I'll come and meet you
tomorrow. We can plan what needs to be done."
Outside, the revelry had spread. Garlands arched above the streets.
Choirs had assembled and their voices made the city chime like a struck
bell. Joy and relief were everywhere, except in her. For most of the
afternoon, she moved from feast to feast, celebration to
celebration-always careful not to be touched or bumped, afraid she might
break like a girl made from spun sugar. As the sun hovered three hands'
widths above the mountains to the west, she found the face she had been
longing for.
Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft were in a glade, sitting with a dozen
children of the utkhaiem. The little boys and girls were sitting on the
grass, grinding green into their silk robes with knees and elbows, while
three slaves performed with puppets and dolls. The players squealed and
whistled and sang, the puppets hopped and tumbled, beat one another, and
fled. The children laughed. Cehmai himself was stretched out like a
child, and two adventurous girls were sitting in Stone-MadeSoft's wide
lap, their arms around each other. The andat seemed mildly amused.
When Cehmai caught sight of her, he came over immediately. She smiled as
she had been doing all day, took a greeting pose that her hands had
shaped a hundred times since morning. He was the first one, she thought,
to see through pose and smile both.
"What's happened?" he asked, stepping close. His eyes were as dark as
Adrah's, but they were soft. They were young. There wasn't any hatred
there yet, or any pain. Or perhaps she only wished that was true. Her
smile faltered.
"Nothing," she said, and he took her hand. Here where they might be
seen-where the children at least were sure to see them-he took her hand
and she let him.
"What's happened?" he repeated, his voice lower and closer. She shook
her head.
"My father is going to die," she said, her voice breaking on the words,
her lips growing weak. "My father's going to die, and there's nothing I