She took his hand in both of hers. For a moment, there was no sound but
the low murmur of the fire and the nearly inaudible sound of her palm
stroking the back of his hand. One of the threatened tears fell,
streaking her cheek black. He hadn't realized she wore kohl.
"You," he said softly, "are the most important poet there is. The most
important one there ever was."
"I'm just one woman," Eiah said. "I'm doing the best I can, but I'm
tired. And the world keeps getting darker around me. If I can't take
care of everything, at least let me take care of you."
"I will be fine," Maati said. "I'm not young anymore, but I'm a long way
from death. We'll finish your binding, and then if you want to haul me
to half the baths in the Empire, I'll submit."
Another tear marked her face. Maati took his sleeve and wiped her cheek dry.
"I'll be fine," he said. "I'll rest more if you like. I'll pretend my
bones are made of mud brick and glass. But you can't stop now to concern
yourself with me. Those people out there. They're the ones who need your
care. Not me."
"Let me go to Pathai," she said. "I can get teas there."
"No," Maati said. "I won't do that."
"Let me send Large Kae, then. I can't stand by and do nothing."
"All right," Maati said, holding up a placating hand. "All right. Let's
wait until morning, and we can talk to Large Kae. And perhaps you'll see
that I'm only tired and we can move past this."
She left in the end without being convinced. As darkness fell, Maati
found himself slipping into a soft despair. The world was quiet and
still and utterly unaware of him.
His son was dead. The people he had counted as his friends had become
his enemies, and he was among the most despised men in the world. Eiah
was wrong, of course. His health was fine. But someday, it would fail.
All men died, and most were forgotten. The few that the world remembered
were not always celebrated.
He lit the night candle by holding it to the fire, the wax hissing where
it dripped on the coals. He found his book and settled close to the fire
grate before opening the cover and considering the words.
I, Maati Vaupathai, am one of the two men remaining in the world who has
wielded the power of the andat.
Already, it was not true. There were three living poets now, and one of
them a woman. Between the time he had touched a pen to this page and
this moment, reading it in the early night, the world had moved on. He
wondered how much of the rest was already old, already the property of a
past that could never be regained. He read slowly, tracing the path his
own mind had taken. The candle lent the pages an orange glow, the ink
seeming to retreat into the pages, as if they were much larger and much
farther away. The fire warmed his ankles and turned strong, solid wood
into ashes softer than snow.
He was surprised to see the anger and bitterness in the book. There was
a thread, he thought, of hatred in these words. He didn't think he'd
meant it to be there, and yet sitting alone with his slowing blood, it
could not be denied. Hatred of Otah and the Galts, of course, but also