shield against the feelings of loneliness and isolation that I had to contend with now that I had less work to keep me busy. He no longer beat me and he repaid my co-operation and growing Tehkohn skills with gentleness and attention. He was remaking me more thoroughly than had the artisans before him. And I was letting him do it, and letting myself be tied to him far more tightly than I should have. Even Tahneh could see that.
“You must be careful,” she said to me as we sat together in her apartment on the fleecy skin of a huge leaf eater. There was a low wooden stand before her like the easel a Missionary woman I had known used to hold canvas when she painted. Near Tahneh were the several polished-stone jugs that held her paints. There was a tray of brushes. There was a jug of something—not water—that she used to clean the brushes. There was a stack of thick, heavy, very white Tehkohn paper made from a plant that grew near the river. And there was Tahneh, drawing thin, angular Kohn characters with one brush after another. We were alone in the apartment. “Be careful,” she repeated. “It is only a liaison you have with him.”
I turned to frown at her.
“Keep your anger,” she said. “I mean only that you would not be the first to be hurt simply because a liaison ended as it must end.” She read me almost as well as Diut did.
“I know… that it must.”
“It is always hard for a woman to leave him. It was hard for me.”
I looked at her curiously, wondering how it must have been for her, loving a man who could have been her son. But the Kohn seemed to have no prejudices against such things. “It will be hard,” I said. “But I know I cannot hold him—though you could have, surely.”
“Now?” she asked, gesturing toward her spotted body.
“Even now, perhaps. But before the spots came, surely.”
“No.”
I frowned, not believing her, but not wanting to say so.
“He is still young, Alanna. He may yet find the woman who can give him children. Not that his childlessness is the fault of the women he has known. But he still hopes.”
“You mean… you mean he can’t…?”
“He is Hao. The blue often brings sorrow as well as power. I tried for as long as there was any hope to find a man who could give me a child. So often, Hao come out of the air, born to judges—not even high judges. But my father and both Diut’s parents were Hao. Diut and I both grew up certain that we too would produce children. It is hard to see that dream die.”
I said nothing for several seconds. Then finally, “I wondered why he had no wife.”
Tahneh’s blue yellowed to green. ‘ It is a capricious thing. No Hao ever knows for sure until the time comes to take a mate, until several mates have been taken without result.’
“I see.”
“See too that he is near to giving up. And he cares deeply for you, Alanna. I think your strangeness pleases him more than he would say. Part from him without trouble when he asks it, and he will call you back after a little time.”
“As with you?”
“With me it was different. You know that.”
“… yes.” I faced her squarely. ‘Did he tell you to advise me?”
“I’m not subject to his orders, Alanna. He does not tell me what to say.” Her blue glowed softly as she spoke. “I advise you because you need advice—and because I can see that he cares for you, and you for him. Sometimes I can see your anger when he looks at me. You can never take my place with him, but if you follow my advice, you can build a place for yourself. And also…” She stopped.
“What?”
“You can save yourself from Kehyo’s mistake.”
I sat still, watching her, knowing that I was close to finding out what Diut had refused to tell me. “What mistake?”
“He has told you nothing of her, even after last night?”
I glanced down, did not answer. Tahneh had not been present at the gathering the night before. But the Tehkohn dwelling was similar in at least one way to the Mission colony. There were no secrets.
Tahneh nickered iridescent for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. “She was his first mate, Alanna. She is the daughter of his mother’s brother. His mother came out of the air and she had a brother who was a judge.”
“Cousins!” I said startled. “He said nothing even of that.”
“They grew up together,” said Tahneh. “It is often done that way when there are cousins of similar age. They are placed with the same nonfighter second-parents so that when their time comes, they know each other well. There is no fear of rejection or ridicule. But Kehyo tied herself too tightly to him that first time. They came together once more later, but after that, Kehyo had a child by one of her judge mates, now her husband, Kahlahtkai. Sometimes I wonder if she has ever forgiven Kahlahtkai for that.
“Most often, she is reasonable and deserving of her high position. Diut has gambled much on her in war. But she is not content with her husband. She cannot seem to rid herself of the idea that she might have had a child by Diut if she had had one more liaison with him. Sometimes she seeks to frighten or humiliate Diut’s mates. She has been quiet recently, belatedly taking pleasure in her two older children, and perhaps maturing a little. Also, Diut has beaten her twice over this. Until last night, I thought she had given it up, but perhaps your differences incite her.”
“Will she challenge?”
