"You don't, Idaan-kya," Hiami said. "And just now I don't either. But I
will try to. I will try to love things the way he did."
They sat a while longer, speaking of things less treacherous. In the
end, they parted as if it were just another absence before them, as if
there would be another meeting on another day. A more appropriate
farewell would have ended with them both in tears again.
The leave-taking ceremony before the Khai was more formal, but the
emptiness of it kept it from unbalancing her composure. He sent her back
to her family with gifts and letters of gratitude, and assured her that
she would always have a place in his heart so long as it beat. Only when
he enjoined her not to think ill of her fallen husband for his weakness
did her sorrow threaten to shift to rage, but she held it down. They
were only words, spoken at all such events. They were no more about
Biitrah than the protestations of loyalty she now recited were about
this hollow-hearted man in his black lacquer seat.
After the ceremony, she went around the palaces, conducting more
personal farewells with the people whom she'd come to know and care for
in Nlachi, and just as dark fell, she even slipped out into the streets
of the city to press a few lengths of silver or small jewelry into the
hands of a select few friends who were not of the utkhaiem. There were
tears and insincere promises to follow her or to one day bring her hack.
Hiam] accepted all these little sorrows with perfect grace. Little
sorrows were, after all, only little.
She lay sleepless that last night in the bed that had seen all her
nights since she had first come to the north, that had borne the doubled
weight of her and her husband, witnessed the birth of their children and
her present mourning, and she tried to think kindly of the bed, the
palace, the city and its people. She set her teeth against her tears and
tried to love the world. In the morning, she would take a flatboat down
the 'Fidat, slaves and servants to carry her things, and leave behind
forever the bed of the Second Palace where people did everything but die
gently and old in their sleep.
Maati took a pose that requested clarification. In another context, it
would have risked annoying the messenger, but this time the servant of
the Dai-kvo seemed to be expecting a certain level of disbelief. Without
hesitation, he repeated his words.
"The Dai-kvo requests Maati Vaupathai come immediately to his private
chambers."
It was widely understood in the shining village of the Dai-kvo that
Maati Vaupathai was, if not a failure, certainly an embarrassment. Over
the years he had spent in the writing rooms and lecture halls, walking
the broad, clean streets, and huddled with others around the kilns of
the firekeepers, Maati had grown used to the fact that he would never be
entirely accepted by those who surrounded him; it had been eight years
since the Dai-kvo had deigned to speak to him directly. Maati closed the
brown leather book he had been studying and slipped it into his sleeve.
He took a pose that accepted the message and announced his readiness.
The white-robed messenger turned smartly and led the way.
The village that was home to the [)a]-kvo and the poets was always