On the third day, Eiah had parted with the company, rejoining them on
the fifth with a cloth sack of genuinely unpleasant herbs. Maati
suffered a cup of the bitter tea twice daily. He let his pulses be
measured against one another, his breath smelled, his fingertips
squeezed, the color of his eyes considered and noted. It embarrassed him.
The curious thing was that, despite all his fears and Eiah's attentions,
he felt fine. If his breath was short, it was no shorter than it had
been for years. He tired just when he'd always tired, but now six sets
of eyes shifted to him every time he grunted. He dismissed the anxiety
when he saw it in the others, however closely he felt it himself.
He would have expected the two feelings to balance each other: the
dismissive self-consciousness at any concern over him and the
presentiment of his death. He did not understand how he could be
possessed by both of them at the same time, and yet he was. It was like
there were two minds within him, two Maati Vaupathais, each with his own
thoughts and concerns, and no compromise between them was required.
For the most part, Maati could ignore this small failure to be at one
with himself. Each morning, he rose with the others, ate whatever
rubbery eggs or day-old meat the waykeeper had to offer, choked down
Eiah's tea, and went on as usual. The autumn through which they passed
was crisp and fragrant of new earth and rotting leaves. The snow that
had plagued the school had also visited the foothills and shallow passes
that divided the western plains of Pathai from the river valleys of the
east, but it was rarely more than three fingers deep. In many places,
the sun was still strong enough to banish the pale mourning colors to
the shadows.
With rumors that Otah himself had taken up the hunt, they kept a balance
between the smaller, less-traveled roads and those that were wider and
better maintained. So far from the great cities, the ports and trading
posts, there were no foreign faces to be seen. None of the handful of
adventurous Westlands women had made their way here to try for a Khaiate
husband and a better life. There was no better life to be had here. The
lack of children, of babies, gave the towns a sense of tolerating a slow
plague. It was only the world. It no longer troubled Maati. This was
another journey in a life that seemed to be woven of distance. Apart
from the overattentiveness of his traveling companions, there was no
reason to reflect on his mortality; he had no cause to consider that
these small chores and pleasantries of the road might be among his last.
It was only days later, at the halfway point between the school and the
river Qiit, that without intending it, Eiah called the question.
They had stopped at a wayhouse at the side of a broad lake. A wide
wooden deck stood out over the water, the wind pulling small waves to
lap at its pilings. A flock of cranes floated and called to one another
at the far shore. Maati sat on a three-legged stool, his traveling cloak
still wrapping his shoulders. He looked out on the shifting water, the
gray-green trees, the hazy white sky. He heard Eiah behind him, her
voice coming from the main building as if it were coming from a
different world. When she came out, he heard her footsteps and the
leather physician's satchel bumping against her hip. She stopped just