tiny sliver of wisdom that told him that in the balance between the
world and a woman, either answer could be right.
"I'm sorry for all this, Cehmai. About Idaan. I know how hard this is
for you."
"She picked it. No one made her plot against her family."
"But you love her."
The young poet frowned now, then shrugged.
"Less now than I did two days ago," he said. "Ask again in a month. I'm
a poet, after all. There's only so much room in my life. Yes, I loved
her. I'll love someone else later. Likely someone that hasn't set
herself to kill off her relations."
"It's always like this," Stone-Made-Soft said. "Every one of them. The
first love always comes closest. I had hopes for this one. I really did."
"You'll live with the disappointment," Cehmai said.
"Yes," the andat said amiably. "There's always another first girl."
Maati laughed once, amused though it was also unbearably sad. The andat
shifted to look at him quizzically. Cehmai's hands took a pose of query.
Maati tried to find words to fit his thoughts, surprised by the sense of
peace that the prospect of his own failure brought him.
"You're who I was supposed to be, Cehmai-kvo, and you're much better at
it. I never did very well."
IDAAN LEANED FORWARD, HER HANDS ON THE RAIL. THE GALLERY BEHIND her was
full but restless, the air thick with the scent of their bodies and
perfumes. People shifted in their seats and spoke in low tones, prepared
for some new attack, and Idaan had noticed a great fashion for veils
that covered the heads and necks of men and women alike that tucked into
their robes like netting on a bed. The wasps had done their work, and
even if they were gone now, the feeling of uncertainty remained. She
took another deep breath and tried to play her role. She was the last
blood of her murdered father. She was the bride of Adrah Vaunyogi.
Looking down over the council, her part was to remind them of how
Adrah's marriage connected him to the old line of the Khaiem.
And yet she felt like nothing so much as an actor, put out to sing a
part on stage that she didn't have the range to voice. It had been so
recently that she'd stood here, inhabiting this space, owning the air
and the hall around her. Today, everything was the same-the families of
the utkhaiem arrayed at their tables, the leaves-in-wind whispering from
the galleries, the feeling of eyes turned toward her. But it wasn't
working. The air itself seemed different, and she couldn't begin to say why.
"The attack leveled against this council must not weaken us," Daaya, her
father now, half-shouted. His voice was hoarse and scratched. "We will
not be bullied! We will not be turned aside! When these vandals tried to
make mockery of the powers of the utkhaiem, we were preparing to
consider my son, the honorable Adrah Vaunyogi, as the proper man to take
the place of our lamented Khai. And to that matter we must return."
Applause filled the air, and Idaan smiled sweetly. She wondered how many
of the people now present had heard her cry out Cehmai's name in her
panic. Those that hadn't had no doubt heard it from other lips. She had
kept clear of the poet's house since then, but there hadn't been a