A Betrayal in Winter (lpq-2) (43 page)

a child on her. She ... she wasn't real. That never happened."

Maati considered this, waiting for his heart to rise in anger or

shrivel, but it only beat in its customary rhythm. He wondered when it

had stopped mattering to him, the father of the boy he'd lost. Since the

last time he had spoken with Utah in the high stone cell, certainly, but

looking back, he couldn't put a moment to it. If the boy was his get or

Utah's, neither would bring him back. Neither would undo the years gone

by. And there were other things that he had that he might still lose, or

else save.

"I thought I was going to die," Otah said. "I thought it wouldn't matter

to me, and if it gave you some comfort, then ..."

"Let it go," Maati said. "If there's anything to be said about it, we

can say it later. There are other matters at hand."

"Have you found something, then?"

"I have a family name, I think. Certainly there's someone putting money

and influence behind the Vaunyogi."

"Likely the Galts," Otah said. "They've been making contracts bad enough

to look like bribes. We didn't know what influence they were buying."

"It could be this," Nlaati said. "Do you know why they'd do it?"

"No," Otah said. "But if you've proof that the Vaunyogi are behind the

murderers-"

"I don't," Maati said. "I have a suspicion, but nothing more than that.

Not yet. And if we don't uncover them quickly, they'll likely have Adrah

named Khai Machi and have the resources of the whole city to find you

and kill you for crimes that everyone outside this warehouse assumes you

guilty of."

They sat in silence for the space of three breaths.

"Well," Otah-kvo said, "it appears we have some work to do then. But at

least we've an idea where to look."

IN HER DREAM, II)AAN WAS AT A CELEBRATION. FIRE BURNED IN A RING ALL

around the pavilion, and she knew with the logic of dreams that the

flames were going to close, that the circle was growing smaller. They

were all going to burn. She tried to shout, tried to warn the dancers,

but she could only croak; no one heard her. 't'here was someone there

who could stop the thing from happening-a single man who was Cehmai and

Otah and her father all at once. She beat her way through the bodies,

trying to find him, but there were dogs in with the people. The flames

were too close already, and to keep themselves alive, the women were

throwing the animals into the fire. She woke to the screams and howls in

her mind and the silence in her chamber.

The night candle had failed. The chamber was dim, silvered by moonlight

beyond the dark web of the netting. The shutters along the wall were all

open, but no breath of air stirred. Idaan swallowed and shook her head,

willing the last wisps of nightmare into forgetfulness. She waited,

listening to her breath, until her mind was her own again. Even then she

was reluctant to sleep for fear of falling into the same dream. She

turned to Adrah, but the bed at her side was empty. He was gone.

"Adrah?"

"There was no answer.

Idaan wrapped herself with a thin blanket, pushed aside the netting and

stepped out of her bed-her new bed. Her marriage bed. The smooth stone

of the floor was cool against her bare feet. She walked through the

chambers of their apartments-hers and her husband'ssilently. She found

him sitting on a low couch, a bottle beside him. A thick earthenware

bowl on the floor stank of distilled wine. Or perhaps it was his breath.

"You aren't sleeping?" she asked.

"Neither arc you," he said. The slurred words were half accusation.

"I had a dream," she said. "It woke me."

Adrah lifted the bottle, drinking from its neck. She watched the

delicate shifting mechanism of his throat, the planes of his cheeks, his

eyes closed and as smooth as a man asleep. Her fingers twitched toward

him, moving to caress that familiar skin without consulting him on her

wishes. Coughing, he put down the wine, and the eyes opened. Whatever

beauty had been in him, however briefly, was gone now.

"You should go to him," Adrah said. Perversely, he sounded less drunk

now. Idaan took a pose of query. Adrah waved it away with the sloshing

bottle. "The poet boy. Cehmai. You should go to him. See if you can get

more information."

"You don't want me here?"

"No," Adrah said, pressing the bottle into her hand. As he rose and

staggered past her, Idaan felt the insult and the rejection and a

certain relief that she hadn't had to find an excuse to slip away.

The palaces were deserted, the empty paths dreamlike in their own way.

Idaan let herself imagine that she had woken into a new, different

world. As she slept, everyone had vanished, and she was walking now

alone through an empty city. Or she had died in her sleep and the gods

had put her here, into a world with nothing but herself and darkness. If

they had meant it for punishment, they had misjudged.

The bottle was below a quarter when she stepped under the canopy of

sculpted oaks. She had expected the poet's house to he dark as well, but

as she advanced, she caught glimpses of candle glow, more light than a

single night candle could account for. Something like hope surged in

her, and she slowly walked forward. The shutters and door were open, the

lanterns within all lit. But the wide, still figure on the steps wasn't

him. Idaan hesitated. The andat raised its hand in greeting and motioned

her closer.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't come," Stone-Made-Soft said in its

distant, rumbling voice.

"I hadn't intended to," Idaan said. "You had no call to expect me."

"If you say so," it agreed, amiably. "Come inside. He's been waiting to

see you for days."

Going up the steps felt like walking downhill, the pull to be there and

see him was more powerful than weight. The andat stood and followed her

in, closing the door behind her and then proceeding around the room,

fastening the shutters and snuffing the flames. Idaan looked around the

room, but there were only the two of them.

"It's late. He's in the back," the andat said and pinched out another

small light. "You should go to him."

"I don't want to disturb him."

"He'd want you to."

She didn't move. The spirit tilted its broad head and smiled.

"He said he loves me," Idaan said. "When I saw him last, he said that he

loved me."

"I know."

"Is it true?"

The smile broadened. Its teeth were white as marble and perfectly

regular. She noticed for the first time that it had no canines-every

tooth was even and square as the one beside it. For a moment, the

inhuman mouth disturbed her.

"Why are you asking me?"

"You know him," she said. "You are him."

"True on both counts," Stone-Made-Soft said. "But I'm not credited as

being the most honest source. I'm his creature, after all. And all dogs

hate the leash, however well they pretend otherwise."

"You've never lied to me."

The andat looked startled, then chuckled with a sound like a boulder

rolling downhill.

"No," it said. "I haven't, have I? And I won't start now. Yes, Cehmai-

kya has fallen in love with you. He's Young. His passions are still a

large part of what he is. In forty years, he won't burn so hot. It's the

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

that the night around them was perfectly dark, that she was curled in on

herself with her head in his lap, and that her body was tired to the

bone. She felt as if she'd swum for a day. She found Cehmai's hand and

laced her fingers with his, wondering where dawn was. It seemed the

night had already lasted for years. Surely there would be light soon.

"You feel better?" he asked, and she nodded her reply, trusting him to

feel the movement against his flesh.

"Do you want to tell me what it is?" he asked.

Idaan felt her throat go tighter for a moment. He must have felt some

change in her body, because he raised her hand to his lips. His mouth

was so soft and so warm.

"I do," she said. "I want to. But I'm afraid."

"Of me?"

"Of what I would say."

There was something in his expression. Not a hardening, not a pulling

away, but a change. It was as if she'd confirmed something.

"There's nothing you can say that will hurt me," Cehmai said. "Not if

it's true. It's the Vaunyogi, isn't it? It's Adrah."

"I can't, love. Please don't talk about it."

But he only ran his free hand over her arm, the sound of skin against

skin loud in the night's silence. When he spoke again, Cehmai's voice

was gentle, but urgent.

"It's about your father and your brothers, isn't it?"

Idaan swallowed, trying to loosen her throat. She didn't answer, not

even with a movement, but Cehmai's soft, beautiful voice pressed on.

"Otah Machi didn't kill them, did he?"

The air went thin as a mountaintop's. Idaan couldn't catch her breath.

Cehmai's fingers pressed hers gently. He leaned forward and kissed her

temple.

"It's all right," he said. "Tell me."

"I can't," she said.

"I love you, Idaan-kya. And I will protect you, whatever happens."

Idaan closed her eyes, even in the darkness. Her heart seemed on the

edge of bursting she wanted it so badly to he true. She wanted so badly