"Was it too harsh, do you think?"
Kiyan pushed the netting aside and sat next to him, her hand seeking his.
"If Sinja-eha's that delicate, he's in the wrong line of work," she
said. "He may think you're wrong, but if you'd turned back because he
told you to, you'd have lost part of his respect. You did fine, love.
Better than fine. I think you've made Amiit a very happy man."
"How so?"
"You've become the Khai Machi. Oh, I know, it's not done yet, but out
there just then? You weren't speaking like a junior courier or an east
islands fisherman."
Otah sighed. Her face was calm and smooth. He brought her hand to his
lips and kissed her wrist.
"I suppose not," he said. "I didn't want this, you know. The wayhouse
would have been enough."
"I'm sure the gods will take that into consideration," she said.
"They're usually so good about giving us the lives we expect."
Otah chuckled. Kiyan let herself be pulled down slowly, until she lay
beside him, her body against his own. Otah's hand strayed to her belly,
caressing the tiny life growing inside her. Kiyan raised her eyebrows
and tilted her head.
"You look sad," she said. "Are you sad, "Tani?"
"No, love," Otah said. "Not sad. Only frightened."
"About going back to the city?"
"About being discovered," he said. And a moment later, "About what I'm
going to have to say to Maati."
Cehmai sat hack on a cushion, his hack aching and his mind askew.
Stone-Made-Soft sat beside him, its stillness unbroken even by breath.
At the front of the temple, on a dais where the witnesses could see her,
sat Idaan. Her eyes were cast down, her robe the vibrant rose and blue
of a new bride. The distance between them seemed longer than the space
within the walls, as if a year's journey had been fit into the empty air.
The crowd was not as great as the occasion deserved: women and the
second sons of the utkhaiem. Elsewhere, the council was meeting, and
those who had a place in it were there. Given the choice of spectacle,
many others would choose the men, their speeches and arguments, the
debates and politics and subtle drama, to the simple marrying off of an
orphan girl of the best lineage and the least influence to the son of a
good, solid family.
Cehmai stared at her, willing the kohl-dark eyes to look up, the painted
lips to smile at him. Cymbals chimed, and the priests dressed in gold
and silver robes with the symbols of order and chaos embroidered in
black began their chanting procession. "Their voices blended and rose
until the temple walls themselves seemed to ring with the melody. Cehmai
plucked at the cushion. He couldn't watch, and he couldn't look away.
One priest-an old man with a bare head and a thin white beard-stopped
behind Idaan in the place that her father or brother should have taken.
The high priest stood at the hack of the dais, lifted his hands slowly,
palms out to the temple, and, with an embracing gesture, seemed to
encompass them all. When he spoke, it was in the language of the Old