Shadow and Betrayal

as well have been a statue. Cehmai probed at the connection between them, at the part of him that was the binding of the andat, but Stone-Made-Soft was in retreat. It had never been so passive in all the years Cehmai had held it. The quiet was a blessing, though he didn’t understand it. He had enough to work through, and he was glad not to have his burden made any heavier.
    ‘I shouldn’t have been angry with Maati-kvo,’ Cehmai said. ‘I shouldn’t have confronted him like that.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘No. I should have gone back to the Master of Tides and told him what Maati-kvo had said. Instead, I promised him five days, and now three of them have passed and I can’t do anything but chew at the grass.’
    ‘You can break promises,’ the andat said. ‘It’s the definition, really. A promise is something that can be broken. If it can’t, it’s something else.’
    ‘You’re singularly unhelpful,’ Cehmai said. The andat nodded as if remembering something, and then was still again. Cehmai stood, went to the shutters, and opened them. The trees were still lush with summer - the green so deep and rich he could almost see the autumn starting to creep in at the edge. In winter, he could see the towers rising up to the sky through the bare branches. Now he only knew they were there. He turned to look at the path that led back to the palaces, then went to the door, opened it, and looked down it, willing someone to be there. Willing Idaan’s dark eyes to greet his own.
    ‘I don’t know what to do about Adrah Vaunyogi. I don’t know if I should back him or not.’
    ‘For something you consider singularly unhelpful, I seem to receive more than my share of your troubles.’
    ‘You aren’t real,’ Cehmai said. ‘You’re like talking to myself.’
    The andat seemed to weigh that for a moment, then took a pose that conceded the point. Cehmai looked out again, then closed the door.
    ‘I’m going to lose my mind if I stay here. I have to do something,’ he said. Stone-Made-Soft didn’t respond, so Cehmai tightened the straps of his boots, stood, and pulled his robes into place. ‘Stay here.’
    ‘All right.’
    Cehmai paused at the door, one foot already outside, and turned back.
    ‘Does nothing bother you?’ he asked the andat.
    ‘Being,’ Stone-Made-Soft suggested.
    The palaces were still draped with rags of mourning cloth, the dry, steady beat of the funeral drum and the low wailing dirges still the only music. Cehmai took poses of greeting to the utkhaiem whom he passed. At the burning, they had all worn pale mourning cloth. Now, as the week wore on, there were more colors in the robes - here a mix of pale cloth and yellow or blue, there a delicate red robe with a wide sash of mourning cloth. No one went without, but few followed the full custom. It reminded Cehmai of a snow lily, green under the white and budding, swelling, preparing to burst out into new life and growth, new conflict and struggle. The sense of sorrow was slipping from Machi, and the sense of opportunity was coming forth.
    He found he could not say whether that reassured or disgusted him. Perhaps both.
    Idaan was, of course, not at her chambers. The servants assured him that she had been by - she was in the city, she hadn’t truly vanished. Cehmai thanked them and continued on his way to the palace of the Vaunyogi. He didn’t allow himself to think too deeply about what he was going to do 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 greeting.
    ‘I’m pleased you’ve come,’ Adrah said. ‘You’ve