A Betrayal in Winter lpq-2

by Abraham Daniel

  or say. It would happen soon enough anyway.

  A servant brought him to one of the inner courtyards to wait. An apple

  tree stood open to the air, its fruits unpecked by birds. Still unripe.

  Cehmai sat on a low stone bench and watched the branches bob as sparrows

  landed and took wing. His mind was deeply unquiet. On the one hand, he

  had to see Idaan, had to speak with her at least if not hold her against

  him. On the other, he could not bring himself to love Adrah Vaunyogi

  only because she loved him. And the secret he held twisted in his

  breast. Otah Machi lived....

  "Cehmai-cha."

  Adrah was dressed in full mourning robes. His eyes were sunken and

  bloodshot, his movements sluggish. He looked like a man haunted. Cehmai

  wondered how much sleep Adrah had managed in these last days. He

  wondered how many of those late hours had been spent comforting Idaan.

  The image of Idaan, her body entwined with Adrah's, flashed in his mind

  and was pressed away. Cehmai took a pose of grect- i ng.

  "I'm pleased you've come," Adrah said. "You've considered what I said?"

  "Yes, Adrah-cha. I have. But I'm concerned for Idaan-cha. I'm told she's

  been by her apartments, but I haven't been able to find her. And now,

  with the mourning week almost gone ..

  "You've been looking for her, then?"

  "I wished to offer my condolences. And then, after our conversation, I

  thought it would he wise to consult her on the matter as well. If it

  were not her will to go on living in the palaces after all that's

  happened, I would feel uncomfortable lending my support to a cause that

  would require it."

  Adrah's eyes narrowed, and Cchmai felt a touch of heat in his checks. He

  coughed, looked down, and then, composed once again, raised his eyes to

  Adrah. He half expected to see rage there, but Adrah seemed pleased.

  Perhaps he was not so obvious as he felt. Adrah sat on the bench beside

  him, leaning in toward him as if they were intimate friends.

  "But if you could satisfy yourself that this is what she would wish,

  you're willing? You would back me for her sake?"

  "It's what would be best for the city," Cehmai said, trying to make it

  sound more like agreement than denial. "The sooner the question is

  resolved, the better we all are. And Idaan-cha would provide a sense of

  continuity, don't you think?"

  "Yes," Adrah said. "I think she would."

  They sat silent for a moment. The sense that Adrah knew or suspected

  something crept into Cehmai's throat, drawing it tight. Ile tried to

  calm himself; there was ultimately nothing Adrah could do to him. He was

  the poet of Machi, and the city itself rode on his shoulders and on

  Stone-Made-Soft. But Adrah was about to marry ldaan, and she loved him.

  "There was quite a bit Adrah might yet do to hurt her.

  "We're allies, then," Adrah said at last. "You and I. We've become allies."

  "I suppose we have. Provided Idaan-cha ..

  "She's here," Adrah said. "I'll take you to her. She's been here since

  her brother died. We thought it would be best if she were able to grieve

  in private. But if we need to break into her solitude now in order to

  assure her future for the rest of her life, I don't think there's any

  question what the right thing is to do."

  "I don't ... I don't mean to intrude."

  Adrah grinned and slapped him on the back. He rose as he spoke.

  "Never concern yourself with that, Cehmai-kya. You've come to our aid on

  an uncertain day. Think of us as your family now."

  "That's very kind," Cehmai said, but Adrah was already striding away,

  and he had to hurry to keep pace.

  He had never been so far into the halls and chambers that belonged to

  the Vaunyogi before. The dark stone passageways down which Cehmai was

  led seemed simpler than he had expected. The halls, more sparely

  furnished. Only the statuary-bronze likenesses of emperors and of the

  heads of the Vaunyogi-spoke of the wealth of a high family of the

  utkhaiem, and these were displayed in the halls and courtyards with such

  pride that they seemed more to point out the relative spareness of their

  surroundings than to distract from it. Diamonds set in brass.

  Adrah spoke little, but when he did, his voice and demeanor were

  pleasant enough. Cehmai felt himself watched, evaluated. There was some

  reason that Adrah was showing him these signs of a struggling family-the

  worn tapestry, the great ironwork candleholders filled with half a

  hundred candles of tallow instead of wax, the empty incense burners, the

  long stairway leading up to the higher floors that still showed the

  marks where cloth runners had once softened the stone corners and no

  longer did-but Cehmai couldn't quite fathom it. In another man, at

  another time, it would have been a humbling thing to show a poet through

  a compound like this, but Adrah seemed anything but humble. It might

  have been a challenge or a play for Cehmai's sympathy. Or it might have

  been a boast. My house has little, and still Idaan chose me.

  They stopped at last at a wide door-dark wood inlaid with bone and black

  stone. Adrah knocked, and when a servant girl opened the door a

  fraction, he pressed his way in, gesturing Cehmai to follow. They were

  summer quarters with wide arched windows, the shutters open to the air.

  Silk banners with the yellow and gray of the Vaunyogi bellied and

  fluttered in the breeze, as graceful as dancers. A desk stood at one

  wall, a brick of ink and a metal pen sitting on it, ready should anyone

  wish to use them. This room smelled of cedar and sandalwood. And sitting

  in one of the sills, her feet out over the void, Idaan. Cehmai breathed

  in deep, and let the air slide out slowly, taking with it a tension he'd

  only half known he carried. She turned, looking at them over her

  shoulder. Her face was unpainted, but she was just as lovely as she had

  ever been. The bare, unadorned skin reminded Cehmai of the soft curve of

  her mouth when she slept and the slow, languorous way she stretched when

  she was on the verge of waking.

  He took a pose of formal greeting. There was perhaps a moment's

  surprise, and then she pulled her legs back into the room. Her

  expression asked the question.

  "Cehmai-kya wished to speak with you, love," Adrah said.

  "I am always pleased to meet with the servant of the I)ai-kvo," Idaan

  said. Her smile was formal and calm, and gave away nothing. Cehmai hoped

  that he had not been wrong to come, but feared that her pleasant words

  might cover anger.

  "Forgive me," he said. "I hadn't meant to intrude. Only I had hoped to

  find you at your own quarters, and these last few days ..."

  Something in her demeanor softened slightly, as if she had heard the

  deeper layer of his apology-I hurl to see yore, and there was no other

  wayand accepted it. Idaan returned his formal greeting, then sauntered

  to the desk and sat, her hands folded on her knees, her gaze cast down

  in what would have been proper form for a girl of the utkhaiem before a

  poet. From her, it was a bitter joke. Adrah coughed. Cehmai glanced at

  him and realized the man tho
ught she was being rude.

  "I had hoped to offer my sympathies before this, Idaan-cha," Cehmai said.

  "Your congratulations, too, I hope," Idaan said. "I am to be married

  once the mourning week has passed."

  Cehmai felt his heart go tighter, but only smiled and nodded.

  "Congratulations as well," he said.

  "Cehmai-kya and I have been talking," Adrah said. "About the city and

  the succession."

  Idaan seemed almost to wake at the words. Her body didn't move, but her

  attention sharpened. When she spoke, her voice had lost a slowness

  Cehmai had hardly known was there.

  "Is that so? And what conclusions have you fine gentlemen reached?"

  "Cehmai-kya agrees with me that the longer the struggle among the

  utkhaiem, the worse for the city. It would be better if it were done

  quickly. That's the most important thing."

  "I see," Idaan said. I let gaze, dark as skies at midnight, shifted to

  Cehmai. She moved to brush her hair back from her brow, though Cehmai

  saw no stray lock there. "Then I suppose he would be wise to back

  whichever house has the strongest claim. If he has decided to back

  anyone. The I)ai-kvo has been scrupulous about removing himself from

  these things."

  "A man may voice an opinion," Adrah said, an edge in his voice, "without

  shouting on street corners."

  "And what opinion would you voice, Cehmai-cha?"

  Cehmai stood silent, his breath deep and fast. With every impotent

  thread of his will, he wished Adrah away. His hands were drawn toward

  Idaan, and he felt himself lean toward her like a reed in the wind. And

  yet her lover's eyes were on him, holding him back as effectively as chains.

  "Whatever opinion you should choose," he said.

  Idaan smiled, but there was more in her face than pleasure. Her jaw

  shifted forward, her eyes brightened. There was rage beneath her calm,

  and Cehmai felt it in his belly like an illness. The silence stretched

  out for three long breaths, four, five....

  "Love," Adrah said in a voice without affection. "I know our good

  fortune at this unexpected ally is overwhelming, but-"

  "I didn't want to take any action until I spoke to you," Cehmai said.

  "That's why I had Adrah-cha bring me here. I hope I haven't given offense."

  "Of course not, Cehmai-cha," she said. "But if you can't take my

  husband's word for my mind, whose could you trust? Who could know me

  better than he?"

  "I would still prefer to discuss it with you," Cehmai said, packing as

  much meaning into the words as he could without sounding forced. "It

  will have some influence over the shape your life takes, and I wouldn't

  wish to guess wrong."

  A spark of amusement flashed in her eyes, and she took a pose of

  gratitude before turning to Adrah.

  "Leave us, then."

  "Leave you ..."

  "Certainly he can't expect a woman to speak her mind openly with her

  husband floating above her like a hunting hawk. If Cehmai-cha is to

  trust what I say, he must see that I'm free to do my own will, ne?"

  "It might be best," Cchmai agreed, trying to make his voice

  conciliatory. "If it wouldn't disturb you, Adrah-kya?"

  Adrah smiled without even the echo of pleasure.

  "Of course," he said. "I've arrangements to see to. The wedding is

  almost upon us, you know. There's so much to do, and with the mourning

  week ... I do regret that the Khai did not live long enough to see this

  day come."

  Adrah shook his head, then took a pose of farewell and retreated,

  closing the door behind him. When they were alone, Idaan's face shifted,

  naked venom in her stare.

  "I'm sorry," Cehmai began, but Idaan cut him off.

  "Not here. Gods only know how many servants he's set to listening. Come

  with me."

  Idaan took him by the arm and led him through the door Adrah had used,

  then down a long corridor, and up a flight of winding stairs. Cehmai

  felt the warmth of her hand on his arm, and it felt like relief. She was

  here, she was well, she was with him. The world could be falling to

  pieces, and her presence would make it bearable.

  She led him through a high hall and out to an open garden that looked

  down over the city. There were six or seven floors between them and the

  streets below. Idaan Leaned against the rail and looked down, then back

  at him.

  "So he's gotten to you, has he?" she asked, her voice gray as ashes.

  "No one's gotten to me. If Adrah had wanted me to bray like a mule and

  paint my face like a whore's before he'd take me to you, I'd have been a

  stranger sight than this."

  And, almost as if it was against her will, Idaan laughed. Not long, and

  not deep, hardly more than a faint smile and a fast exhalation, but it

  was there. Cehmai stepped in and pulled her body to his. He felt her

  start to push him back, hesitate, and then her cheek was pressed to his,

  her hair filling his breath with its scent. He couldn't say if the tears

  between them were hers or his or both.

  "Why?" he whispered. "Why did you go? Why didn't you come to me?"

  "I couldn't," she said. "There was ... there's too much."

  "I love you, Idaan. I didn't say it before because it wasn't true, but

  it is now. I love you. Please let me help."

  Now she did push him away, holding one arm out before her to keep him at

  a distance and wiping her eyes with the sleeve of the other.

  "Don't," she said. "Don't say that. You ... you don't love me, Cehmai.

  You don't love me, and I do not love you."

  "Then why are we weeping?" he asked, not moving to dry his own cheek.

  "Because we're young and stupid," she said, her voice catching. "Because

  we think we can forget what happens to things that I care for."

  "And what's that?"

  "I kill them," she said, her voice soft and choking. "I cut them or I

  poison them or I turn them into something wrong. I won't do that to you.

  You can't be part of this, because I won't do that to you."

  Cehmai didn't step toward her. Instead, he pulled back, walked to the

  edge of the garden and looked out over the city. The scent of flowers

  and forge-smoke mixed. "You're right, Idaan-kya. You won't do that. Not

  to me. You couldn't if you tried."

  "Please," she said, and her voice was near him. She had followed. "You

  have to forget me. Forget what happened. It was ..."

  "Wrong?"

  For a breath, he waited.

  "No," she said. "Not wrong. But it was dangerous. I'm being married in a

  few days time. Because I choose to be. And it won't be you on the other

  end of the cord."

  "Do you want me to support Adrah for the Khai's chair?"

  "No. I want you to have nothing to do with any of this. Go home. Find

  someone else. Find someone better."

  "I can love you from whatever distance you wish-"

  "Oh shut up," Idaan snapped. "Just stop. Stop being the noble little boy

  who's going to suffer in silence. Stop pretending that your love of me

  started in anything more gallant than opening my robes. I don't need

  you. And if I want you ... well, there are a hundred other things I want

  and I can't have them either. S
o just go."

  He turned, surprised, but her face was stony, the tears and tenderness

  gone as if they'd never been.

  "What are you trying to protect me from?" he asked.

  "The answer to that question, among other things," she said. "I want you

  away from me, Cehmai. I want you elsewhere. If you love me as much as

  you claim, you'll respect that."

  "But-"

  "You'll respect it."

  Cehmai had to think, had to pick the words as if they were stuck in mud.

  The confusion and distress rang in his mind, but he could see what any

  protests would bring. He had walked away from her, and she had followed.

  Perhaps she would again. That was the only comfort here.

  "I'll leave you," he said. "If it's what you want."

  "It is. And remember this: Adrah Vaunyogi isn't your friend. Whatever he

  says, whatever he does, you watch him. He will destroy you if he can."

  "He can't," Cehmai said. "I'm the poet of Machi. The worst he can do to

  me is take you, and that's already done."

  That seemed to stop her. She softened again, but didn't move to him, or

  away.

  "Just be careful, Cehmai-kya. And go."

  Cehmai's leaden hands took a pose of acceptance, but he did not move.