and tilted her head.

"You look sad," she said. "Are you sad, "Tani?"

"No, love," Otah said. "Not sad. Only frightened."

"About going back to the city?"

"About being discovered," he said. And a moment later, "About what I'm

going to have to say to Maati."

Cehmai sat hack on a cushion, his hack aching and his mind askew.

Stone-Made-Soft sat beside him, its stillness unbroken even by breath.

At the front of the temple, on a dais where the witnesses could see her,

sat Idaan. Her eyes were cast down, her robe the vibrant rose and blue

of a new bride. The distance between them seemed longer than the space

within the walls, as if a year's journey had been fit into the empty air.

The crowd was not as great as the occasion deserved: women and the

second sons of the utkhaiem. Elsewhere, the council was meeting, and

those who had a place in it were there. Given the choice of spectacle,

many others would choose the men, their speeches and arguments, the

debates and politics and subtle drama, to the simple marrying off of an

orphan girl of the best lineage and the least influence to the son of a

good, solid family.

Cehmai stared at her, willing the kohl-dark eyes to look up, the painted

lips to smile at him. Cymbals chimed, and the priests dressed in gold

and silver robes with the symbols of order and chaos embroidered in

black began their chanting procession. "Their voices blended and rose

until the temple walls themselves seemed to ring with the melody. Cehmai

plucked at the cushion. He couldn't watch, and he couldn't look away.

One priest-an old man with a bare head and a thin white beard-stopped

behind Idaan in the place that her father or brother should have taken.

The high priest stood at the hack of the dais, lifted his hands slowly,

palms out to the temple, and, with an embracing gesture, seemed to

encompass them all. When he spoke, it was in the language of the Old

Empire, syllables known to no one on the cushions besides himself.

Eyan to nyot baa, don salaa khai dan rnnsalaa.

The will of the gods has always been that woman shall act as servant to man.

An old tongue for an old thought. Cehmai let the words that followed

it-the ancient ritual known more by its rhythm than its significancewash

over him. He closed his eyes and told himself he was not drowning. He

focused on his breath, smoothing its ragged edges until he regained the

appearance of calm. Ike watched the sorrow and the anger and the

jealousy writhe inside him as if they were afflicting someone else.

When he opened his eyes, the andat had shifted, its gaze on him and

expressionless. Cehmai felt the storm on the back of his mind shift, as

if taking stock of the confusion in his heart, testing him for weakness.

Cehmai waited, prepared for Stone-Made-Soft to press, for the struggle

to engulf him. He almost longed for it.

But the andat seemed to feel that anticipation, because it pulled back.

The pressure lessened, and Stone-Made-Soft smiled its idiot, empty

smile, and turned back to the ceremony. Adrah was standing now, a long

cord looped in his hand. The priest asked him the ritual questions, and

Adrah spoke the ritual answers. His face seemed drawn, his shoulders too

square, his movements too careful. Celunai thought he seemed exhausted.

The priest who stood behind ldaan spoke for her family in their absence,

and the end of the cord, cut and knotted, passed from Adrah to the

priest and then to Idaan's hand. The rituals would continue for some

time, Cehmai knew, but as soon as the cord was accepted, the binding was

done. Idaan Machi had entered the house of the Vaunyogi and only Adrah's

death would cast her back into the ghost arms of her dead family. Those

two were wed, and he had no right to the pain the thought caused him. He

had no right to it.

He rose and walked silently to the wide stone archway and out of the

temple. If Idaan looked up at his departure, he didn't notice.

The sun wasn't halfway through its arc, and a fresh wind from the north

was blowing the forge smoke away. I ligh, thin clouds scudded past,

giving the illusion that the great stone towers were slowly, endlessly

toppling. Cehmai walked the temple grounds, Stone-Made-Soft a pace

behind him. "There were few others there-a woman in rich robes sitting

alone by a fountain, her face a mask of grief; a round-faced man with

rings glittering on his fingers reading a scroll; an apprentice priest

raking the gravel paths smooth with a long metal rake. And at the edge

of the grounds, where temple became palace, a familiar shape in brown

poet's robes. Cchmai hesitated, then slowly walked to him, the andat

close by and trailing him like a shadow.

"I hadn't expected to see you here, Maati-kvo."

"No, but I expected you," the older poet said. "I've been at the council

all morning. I needed some time away. May I walk with you?"

"If you like. I don't know that I'm going anywhere in particular."

"Not marching with the wedding party? I thought it was traditional for

the celebrants to make an appearance in the city with the new couple.

Let the city look over the pair and see who's allied themselves with the

families. I assume that's what all the flowers and decorations out there

are for."

"There will he enough without me."

Cehmai turned north, the wind blowing gently into his face, drawing his

robes out behind him as if he were walking through water. A slave girl

was standing beside the path singing an old love song, her high, sweet

voice carrying like a flute's. Cehmai felt Maati-kvo's attention, but

wasn't sure what to make of it. He felt as examined as the corpse on the

physician's table. At length, he spoke to break the silence.

"How is it?"

"The council? Like a very long, very awkward dinner party. I imagine it

will deteriorate. The only interesting thing is that a number of houses

are calling for Vaunyogi to take the chair."

"Interesting," Cehmai said. "I knew Adrah-cha was thinking of it, but I

wouldn't have thought his father had the money to sway many people."

"I wouldn't have either. But there are powers besides money."

The comment seemed to hang in the air.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Maati-kvo."

"Symbols have weight. The wedding coming as it does might sway the

sentimental. Or perhaps Vaunyogi has advocates we aren't aware of."

"Such as?"

Maati stopped. They had reached a wide courtyard, rich with the scent of

cropped summer grass. The andat halted as well, its broad head tilted in