"Kiyan-kya..."
"No. No kya. No sweet. No my lone. None of that. You have to leave my
house and you can't ever come back or tell anyone who you are or who I
am or that we knew each other once. Igo you understand that?"
"I understand that you're angry with me," Otah said, leaning toward her.
"You have a right to be. But you don't know how carefully I have had to
guard this."
Kiyan tilted her head, like a fox that's heard a strange noise, then
laughed once.
"You think I'm upset you didn't tell me? You think I'm upset because you
had a secret and you didn't spill it the first time we shared a bed?
Irani, this may surprise you, but I have secrets a thousand times less
important than that, and I've kept them a hundred times better."
`But you want me to leave?
"Of course I want you to leave. Are you dim? Do you know what happened
to the men who guarded your eldest brother? They're dead. Do you recall
what happened when the Khai Yalakeht's sons turned on each other six
years back? 't'here were a dozen corpses before that was through, and
only two of them were related to the Khai. Now look around you. How do
you expect me to protect my house? How can I protect Old Mani? And think
before you speak, because if you tell me that you'll be strong and manly
and protect me, I swear by all the gods I'll turn you in myself."
"No one will find out," Otah said.
She closed her eyes. A tear broke free, tracing a bright line down her
cheek. When he leaned close, reaching out to wipe it away, she slapped
his hand before it touched her.
"I would almost be willing to take that chance, if it were only me. Not
quite, but nearly. It isn't, though. It's everyone and everything I've
worked for."
"Kiyan-kya, together we could ..."
"Do nothing. Together we could do nothing, because you are leaving now.
And odd as it sounds, I do understand. Why you concealed what you did,
why you told inc now. And I hope ghosts haunt you and chew out your eyes
at night. I hope all the gods there are damn you for making me love you
and then doing this to me. Now get out. If you're here in half a hand's
time, I will call for the guard."
Outside the window, a flutter of wings and then the fluting melody of a
songbird. The constant distant sound of the river. The scent of pine.
"Do you believe me?" she asked. "That I'll call the guard on you if you
stay?"
"I do," he said.
"Then go."
"I love you."
"I know you do, 'Tani-kya. Go."
House Siyanti had quarters in the city for its people-small rooms hardly
large enough for a cot and a brazier, but the blankets were thick and
soft, and the kitchens sold meals at half the price a cart on the street
would. When the rain came that night, Otah lay in the glow of the coals
and listened to patter of water against leaves mix with the voices from