"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

to lay her sins before him and be forgiven. And he knew already. He knew

the truth or else guessed it, and he hadn't denounced her.

"I love you," he repeated, his voice softer than the sound of his hand

stroking her skin. "How did it start?"

"I don't know," she said. And then, a moment later, "When I was young, I