They discussed the betrothal, and how they had been too late.
“Then the Methi should have that news,” concluded t’Tefur, and his narrow eyes shifted toward a room with a solid door. “It is empty. Hold him there until I have carried her that news.”
They did so. Kurt sat on a hard chair by the barred slit of a window and so avoided the looks that pierced his back, giving them no excuse to repeat their treatment of him.
At last t’Tefur came back to say that the Methi would see him.
She would see him alone. T’Tefur protested with a violently angry look, but Djan stared back at him in such a way that t’Tefur bowed finally and left the room.
Then she turned that same angry look on Kurt.
“Entering the temple precincts was a mistake,” she said. “If you had entered the temple itself I don’t know if I could have saved you.”
“I had that idea,” he said.
“Who told you that you had the freedom to make contracts in Nephane, marrying that nemet?”
“I wasn’t told I didn’t. Nor was Elas told, or they wouldn’t have allowed it. They are loyal to you. And they were not treated well, Djan.”
“Not the least among the problems you’ve created for
me, this disrespect of Elas.” She walked over to the far side of the room, put back a panel that revealed a terrace walled with glass. It was night. They had a view of all the sea. She gazed out, leaving him watching her back, and she stayed that way for a long time. He thought he was the subject of her thoughts, he and Elas.
At last she turned and faced him. “Well,” she said, “for Elas’ inconvenience, I’m sorry. I shall send them word that you’re safe. You haven’t had dinner yet, have you?”
Appetite was the furthest thing from his mind. His stomach was both empty and racked with pain, and with an outright fear that her sudden shift in manner did nothing to ease. “You,” he said, “frightened the wits out of my fiancee, made me a spectacle in the streets of Nephane, and all I particularly care about is-”
“I think,” said Djan in a tone of finality, “that we had better save the talk. / am going to have dinner. If you want to argue the point, Shan can find you some secure room where you can think matters over. But you will leave the Afen-if you leave the Afen-when I please to send you out.”
And she called a girl named Pai, who received her orders with a deep bow.
“She,” said Djan when the girl had gone, “is chan to the Afen. I inherited her, it seems. She is very loyal and very silent, both virtues. Her family served the last methi, a hundred years ago. Before that, Pai’s family was still chan to methis, even before the human occupation and during it. There is nothing in Nephane that does not have roots, except the two of us. Forget your temper, my friend. I lost mine. I rarely do that. I am sorry.”
“Then we will have out whatever you want to say and I will go back to Elas.”
“I would think so,” she agreed quietly, ignoring his anger. “Come out here. Sit down. I am too tired to stand up to argue with you.”
He came, shrugging off his apprehensions. The terrace was dark. She left it so and sat on the window ledge, watching the sea far below. It was indeed a spectacular view of Nephane, its lights winding down the crag below, the high dark rock a shadow against the moon. The moonlit surface of the sea was cut by the wake of a single ship heading out.
“If I were sensible,” said Djan as he joined her and sat down on the ledge facing her, “if I were at all sensible I’d have you taken out and dropped about halfway. Unfortunately I decided against it. I wonder still what you would do in my place.”
He had wondered that himself. “I would think of the same things that have occurred to you,” he said.