way it's been with all of them."
"I don't want him hurt," she said.
"Then stay."
"I'm not sure that would save him pain. Not in the long term."
The andat went still a moment, then shrugged.
"Then go," it said. "But when he finds you've gone, he'll chew his own
guts out over it. There's been nothing he's wanted more than for you to
come here, to him. Coming this close, talking to me, and leaving? It'd
hardly make him feel better about things."
Idaan looked at her feet. The sandals weren't laced well. She'd done the
thing in darkness, and the wine had, perhaps, had more effect on her
than she'd thought. She shook her head as she had when shaking off the
dreams.
"He doesn't have to know I came."
"Late for that," the andat said and put out another candle. "He woke up
as soon as we started talking."
"Idaan-kya?" his voice came from behind her.
Cehmai stood in the corridor that led hack to his bedchamber. His hair
was tousled by sleep. His feet were bare. Idaan caught her breath,
seeing him here in the dim light of candles. He was beautiful. He was
innocent and powerful, and she loved him more than anyone in the world.
"Cehmai."
"Only Cehmai?" he asked, stepping into the room. He looked hurt and
hopeful both. She had no right to feel this young. She had no right to
feel afraid or thrilled.
"Cehmai-kya," she whispered. "I had to see you."
"I'm glad of it. But ... but you aren't, are you? Glad to see me, I mean.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she said, and the sorrow rose up
in her like a flood. "It's my wedding night, Cehmai-kya. I was married
today, and I couldn't go a whole night in that bed."
Her voice broke. She closed her eyes against the tears, but they simply
came, rolling down her cheeks as fast as raindrops. She heard him move
toward her, and between wanting to step into his arms and wanting to
run, she stood Unmoving, feeling herself tremble.
He didn't speak. She was standing alone and apart, the sorrow and guilt
heating her like storm waves, and then his arms folded her into him. His
skin smelled dark and musky and male. He didn't kiss her, he didn't try
to open her robes. He only held her there as if he had never wanted
anything more. She put her arms around him and held on as though he was
a branch hanging over a precipice. She heard herself sob, and it sounded
like violence.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I want it back. I
want it all back. I'm so sorry."
"What, love? What do you want back?"
"All of it," she wailed, and the blackness and despair and rage and
sorrow rose tip, taking her in its teeth and shaking her. Cehmai held
her close, murmured soft words to her, stroked her hair and her face.
When she sank to the ground, he sank with her.
She couldn't say how long it was before the crying passed. She only knew