Eyan to nyot baa, don salaa khai dan rnnsalaa.
The will of the gods has always been that woman shall act as servant to man.
An old tongue for an old thought. Cehmai let the words that followed
it-the ancient ritual known more by its rhythm than its significancewash
over him. He closed his eyes and told himself he was not drowning. He
focused on his breath, smoothing its ragged edges until he regained the
appearance of calm. Ike watched the sorrow and the anger and the
jealousy writhe inside him as if they were afflicting someone else.
When he opened his eyes, the andat had shifted, its gaze on him and
expressionless. Cehmai felt the storm on the back of his mind shift, as
if taking stock of the confusion in his heart, testing him for weakness.
Cehmai waited, prepared for Stone-Made-Soft to press, for the struggle
to engulf him. He almost longed for it.
But the andat seemed to feel that anticipation, because it pulled back.
The pressure lessened, and Stone-Made-Soft smiled its idiot, empty
smile, and turned back to the ceremony. Adrah was standing now, a long
cord looped in his hand. The priest asked him the ritual questions, and
Adrah spoke the ritual answers. His face seemed drawn, his shoulders too
square, his movements too careful. Celunai thought he seemed exhausted.
The priest who stood behind ldaan spoke for her family in their absence,
and the end of the cord, cut and knotted, passed from Adrah to the
priest and then to Idaan's hand. The rituals would continue for some
time, Cehmai knew, but as soon as the cord was accepted, the binding was
done. Idaan Machi had entered the house of the Vaunyogi and only Adrah's
death would cast her back into the ghost arms of her dead family. Those
two were wed, and he had no right to the pain the thought caused him. He
had no right to it.
He rose and walked silently to the wide stone archway and out of the
temple. If Idaan looked up at his departure, he didn't notice.
The sun wasn't halfway through its arc, and a fresh wind from the north
was blowing the forge smoke away. I ligh, thin clouds scudded past,
giving the illusion that the great stone towers were slowly, endlessly
toppling. Cehmai walked the temple grounds, Stone-Made-Soft a pace
behind him. "There were few others there-a woman in rich robes sitting
alone by a fountain, her face a mask of grief; a round-faced man with
rings glittering on his fingers reading a scroll; an apprentice priest
raking the gravel paths smooth with a long metal rake. And at the edge
of the grounds, where temple became palace, a familiar shape in brown
poet's robes. Cchmai hesitated, then slowly walked to him, the andat
close by and trailing him like a shadow.
"I hadn't expected to see you here, Maati-kvo."
"No, but I expected you," the older poet said. "I've been at the council
all morning. I needed some time away. May I walk with you?"
"If you like. I don't know that I'm going anywhere in particular."
"Not marching with the wedding party? I thought it was traditional for
the celebrants to make an appearance in the city with the new couple.
Let the city look over the pair and see who's allied themselves with the
families. I assume that's what all the flowers and decorations out there
are for."