It pleased them, perhaps, to know that this was true; there was gestured agreement.
“You will teach us,” said Niun, “the mu’ara of home-world.”
“Aye,” said Hlfl readily.
There was a lorfg silence.
“One part of the ritual that I know,” said Niun, “I do hot hear.”
Hlil bit his lip… a man of scars more than the setcfal, Hlil s’Sochil, rough-faced for a mri, who were slender and fine-boned. “Our Kath our Kath is frightened of this ” Hlil stopped short of tsi’mri, and glanced full at Duncan.
“Do you,” Niun asked in a hard voice, “wish to make a formal statement of this?”
“We are concerned,” Hlil said, glancing down.
“We.”
“Kel’anth,” said Hlil, scarcely audible, “it is your right, and his.”
“No,” Duncan said softly, but Niun affected not to hear; Niun looked about him, waiting.
“The Kath will make you welcome,” said one of the old kel’e’ein.
“The Kath will make you welcome,” others echoed then, and last of all, Hlil.
“So,” said Niun, and arose waited for Duncan, while others stayed seated, and Duncan sought any other point but the eyes that stared at them.
The dusei would have come. Niun forbade.
And the two of them went alone from kel-hall, and down the ramp. It was late, in the last part of the night. Duncan felt cold, and dreaded the meeting to which they went: the Kath, the women and the children of the House, and perhaps, he hoped, only ceremony, only ritual, in which he could remain silent and unnoticed.
They ascended kath-tower; the kath’anth met them at the ‘ door. Silently she led them within, where exhausted children sprawled on their mats and carpets, and some few of the older ones, male and female, sleepless hi the excitement of the night, stared at them from the shadows.
They came to a door in a narrow hall: “Go in,” the kath’anth said to Duncan; he did, and found it spread with carpets, and nothing more. The door closed; Niun and the kath’anth had left him there, in that dim chamber, lit with an oil lamp.
He settled then, in a corner, apprehensive at the first, and conscious finally that he was cold and sleepy, and that perhaps the kath’ein would abhor him and would not come at all. It was a bitter thought; but it was better than the trouble that he foresaw. He wished only to be let alone, and perhaps to sleep the night out, and not to be questioned after. And the door opened.
A blue-robe stepped inside, bearing a small tray of food and drink; the door closed without her effort, and she brought the offering knelt down to set it before him, and the cups rattled loudly on the tray. She wore no veil, not even on her mane; she was of about his years, and from what he could see of her downcast face in the lamplight, she was lovely.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, forced by a blink. “Were you made to come?” he asked.
“No, kel’en.” She lifted her face, and gentle as it was, there was stubborn pride in it. “It is my time, and I did not decline it.”
He thought of it, of trying to deal with her, and the coldness stayed in him. “It would be bitter. Would it offend the Kath if we only sat and talked?”
Golden eyes wandered his face, through a sheen of tears. The membrane flashed, clearing them. “Would it offend?” he asked again.
Pride. Mri honor. He saw the war in her eyes, suspecting offense, suspecting kindness. He had seen that wariness often enough in Niun’s eyes.
“No,” she agreed, smoothing her skirts; and after a moment she tilted her head and firmed her chin. “My son will call you father, all the same.” “I do not understand.”
She looked puzzled, as much as he. “I mean that I shall not make it public what you wish. My son’s name is Ka’aros, and he has five years. It is a courtesy, do you not understand?”.
“Are we permanent?”
She laughed outright despite herself, and her laugh was gentle and the sudden touch of her hand on his was pleasant “Kel’en, kel’en… no. My son has twenty-three fathers.” Her face grew sober again, and wistfully so. “I shall make you comfortable at least. Will you sleep, kel’en?”