Shadow and Betrayal

  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 Dai-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 had to see you, and there was no other way - and 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 thought 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. Her 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 Dai-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,’ Cehmai 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. So 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. Idaan crossed her arms.

  ‘You also have to be careful. Especially if Adrah wants to become Khai Machi,’ Cehmai said. ‘It’s the other thing I came for. The body they found was false. Your brother Otah is alive.’

  He might have told her that the plague had come. Her face went pale and empty. It was a moment before she seemed able to draw a breath.

  ‘What . . .?’ she said, then coughed and began again. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘If I tell you, will you still send me away?’

  Something washed through Idaan’s expression - disappointment or depair or sorrow. She took a pose that accepted a contract.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ Idaan said.

  Cehmai did.

  11

  Idaan walked through the halls, her hands clenched in fists. Her body felt as if a storm were running through it, as if flood waters were washing out her veins. She trembled with the need to do something, but there was nothing to be done. She remembered seeing the superstitious dread with which others had treated the name Otah Machi. She had found it amusing, but she no longer knew why.

  She had made Cehmai repeat himself until she was certain that she’d understood what he was saying. It had taken all the pain and sorrow of seeing him again and put it aside. Cehmai had meant to save her by it.

  Adrah was in the kitchens, talking with his father’s house master. She took a pose of apology and extracted him, leading him to a private chamber, pulling closed the shutters, and sliding home the door before she spoke. Adrah sat in a low chair of pale wood and red velvet as she paced. The words spilled out of her, one upon another as she repeated the story Cehmai had told her. Even she could hear the tones of panic in her voice.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said as the news came to its end. ‘Tell me it’s not true. Tell me you’re sure he’s dead.’

  ‘He’s dead. It’s a mistake. It has to be. No one knew when he’d be leaving the city. No one could have rescued him.’

  ‘Tell me that you know!’

  Adrah scowled.

  ‘How would I do that? We hired men to free him, take him away, and kill him. They took him away, and his body floated back down the river. But I wasn’t there, I didn’t strangle him myself. I can’t keep these men from knowing who’s paid their fee and also be there to hold their hands, Idaan. You know that.’

  Idaan put her hands to her mouth. Her fingers were shaking. It was a dream. It was a sick dream, and she would wake from it. She would wake up, and none of it would have been true.

  ‘He’s used us,’ she said. ‘Otah’s used us to do his work.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look at it! We’ve done everything for him. We’ve killed them all. Even . . . even my father. We’ve done everything he would have needed to do. He knew. He knew from the start. He’s planned for everything we’ve done.’

  Adrah made an impatient sound at the back of his throat.

  ‘You’re imagining things,’ he said. ‘He can’t have known what we were doing, or how we would do it. He isn’t a god, and he isn’t a ghost.’

  ‘You’re sure of that, are you? We’ve fallen into his trap, Adrah! It’s a trap!’

  ‘It is a rumor started by Cehmai Tyan. Or maybe it’s Maati Vaupathai who’s set you a trap. He could suspect us and say these things to make us panic. Or Cehmai could.’

  ‘He wouldn’t do that,’ Idaan said. ‘Cehmai wouldn’t do that to - to us.’

  ‘To you, you mean,’ Adrah said, pulling the words out slow and bitter.

  Idaan stopped her pacing and took a pose of query, her gaze locked on Adrah’s. As much challenge as question. Adrah leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.

  ‘He’s your lover, isn’t he?’ Adrah said. ‘This limp story about wanting to offer condolences and being willing to back my claim only if he could see you, could speak with you. And you sending me away like I was a puppy you’d finished playing with. Do you think I’m dim, Idaan?’

  Her throat closed, and she coughed to loosen it, only the cough didn’t end. It became laughter, and it shook her the way a dog might shake a rat. It was nothing about mirth, everything about violence. Adrah’s face went red, and then white.

  ‘This?’ Idaan finally managed to stammer. ‘This is what we’re going to argue about?’

  ‘Is there something else you’d prefer?’

  ‘You’re about to live a life filled with women who aren’t me. You and your father must have a list drawn up of allies we can make by taking their daughters for wives. You have no right to accuse me of anything.’

  ‘That was your choice,’ he said. ‘We agreed when we started this . . . this landslide. It would be the two of us, together, no matter if we won this or lost.’

  ‘And how long would that have lasted after you took my father’s place?’ she asked. ‘Who would I appeal to when you broke your word?’

  Adrah rose to his feet, stepping toward her. His hand open flat, pointed toward her like a knife.

  ‘That isn’t fair to me. You never gave me the chance to fail you. You assumed it and went on to punish me as though it had happened.’

  ‘I’m not wrong, Adrah. You know I’m not wrong.’

  ‘There’s a price for doing what you say, do you know that? I loved you more than I loved anything. My father, my mother, my sisters, anything or anyone. I did all of this because it was what you wanted.’

  ‘And not for any gain of your own? How selfless. Becoming Khai Machi must be such a chore for you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have had me if my ambition didn’t match yours,’ Adrah said. ‘What I’ve become, I’ve become for you.’

  ‘That isn’t fair,’ Idaan said.

  Adrah whooped and turned in a wide circle, like a child playing before an invisible audience.

  ‘Fair! When did this become about fair? When someone finally asked you to take some responsibility? You made the plans, love. This is yours, Idaan! All of it’s yours, and you won’t blame me that you’ve got to live with it!’

  He was breathing fast now, as if he’d been running, but she could see in his shoulders and the corners of his mouth that the rage was failing. He dropped his arms and looked at her. His breath slowed. His face relaxed. They stood in silence, considering each other for what felt like half a hand. There was no anger now and no sorrow. He only looked tired and lost, very young and very old at once. He looked the way she felt. It was as if the air they both breathed had changed. He was the one to look away and break the silence.


  ‘You know, love, you never said Cehmai wasn’t your lover.’

  ‘He is,’ Idaan said, then shrugged. The battle was over. They were both too thin now for any more damage to matter. ‘He has been for a few weeks.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Because he wasn’t part of all this. Because he was clean.’