away from me, Cehmai. I want you elsewhere. If you love me as much as
you claim, you'll respect that."
"But-"
"You'll respect it."
Cehmai had to think, had to pick the words as if they were stuck in mud.
The confusion and distress rang in his mind, but he could see what any
protests would bring. He had walked away from her, and she had followed.
Perhaps she would again. That was the only comfort here.
"I'll leave you," he said. "If it's what you want."
"It is. And remember this: Adrah Vaunyogi isn't your friend. Whatever he
says, whatever he does, you watch him. He will destroy you if he can."
"He can't," Cehmai said. "I'm the poet of Machi. The worst he can do to
me is take you, and that's already done."
That seemed to stop her. She softened again, but didn't move to him, or
away.
"Just be careful, Cehmai-kya. And go."
Cehmai's leaden hands took a pose of acceptance, but he did not move.
Idaan crossed her arms.
"You also have to be careful. Especially if Adrah wants to become Khai
Machi," Cehmai said. "It's the other thing I came for. The body they
found was false. Your brother Otah is alive."
He might have told her that the plague had come. Her face went pale and
empty. It was a moment before she seemed able to draw a breath.
"What ... ?" she said, then coughed and began again. "How do you know that?"
"If I tell you, will you still send inc away?"
Something washed through Idaan's expression-disappointment or depair or
sorrow. She took a pose that accepted a contract.
"Tell me everything," Idaan said.
Cehmai did.
Idaan walked through the halls, her hands clenched in fists. Her body
felt as if a storm were running through it, as if flood waters were
washing out her veins. She trembled with the need to do something, but
there was nothing to be done. She remembered seeing the superstitious
dread with which others had treated the name Otah Machi. She had found
it amusing, but she no longer knew why.
She had made Cehmai repeat himself until she was certain that she'd
understood what he was saying. It had taken all the pain and sorrow of
seeing him again and put it aside. Cehmai had meant to save her by it.
Adrah was in the kitchens, talking with his father's house master. She
took a pose of apology and extracted him, leading him to a private
chamber, pulling closed the shutters, and sliding home the door before
she spoke. Adrah sat in a low chair of pale wood and red velvet as she
paced. The words spilled out of her, one upon another as she repeated
the story Cehmai had told her. Even she could hear the tones of panic in
her voice.
"Fell me," she said as the news came to its end. ""Fell me it's not
true. Nell me you're sure he's dead."
"He's dead. It's a mistake. It has to be. No one knew when he'd he
leaving the city. No one could have rescued him."