AFTER PADO’S OATH, Mati continues to complain of pain, but she stops begging to die. In the evening she drinks duck broth seasoned with thyme.
“Fedo would be happy,” she says, giving me the empty bowl and making a face.
Thyme is one of Aunt Fedo’s favorite remedies. Mati hates the taste.
I spend the night doing a restless bed dance. I listen for Mati’s groans and Pado’s footsteps. But the house is quiet.
When I bring her breakfast, Mati says the pain is gone. She sits up in bed. “Thanks to Admat, your pado may not need a new wife.”
This is not very funny, but I can’t help smiling. She eats all her breakfast and sends me back to the kitchen for a plate of figs. I cover the distance in leaps. My toes hardly touch the floor.
Pado is having his breakfast in the eating room outside the kitchen. He is smiling, too, looking very satisfied with himself.
Nia serves him bread and cheese. Her expression is serious, as always.
“Mati seems better,” I tell her, unable to keep silent about the good news. Then I think of Pado’s oath. But Nia is safe, because she heard him swear it. Besides, a servant would never speak to Pado unless he spoke first.
Predictably, Nia says, “Thanks to Admat, sower of life, harvester of life.”
Pado answers with me, “As he wishes, so it will be.”
In the afternoon Mati goes to her loom in the roofed outer square of the courtyard. I’m thrilled, but now the three days of the oath begin.
If someone should congratulate Pado, whoever it is will have to die. The sacrifice is Admat’s due. If it isn’t carried out, his wrath will fall on Pado and Mati and me and even on my children and their children, down through the generations. Breaking an oath is a grave sin.
Pado could tell people about the oath and then there would be no congratulations. But telling would make the oath empty and would certainly call down Admat’s fury.
Doing Pado’s bidding, I instruct Nia to sit outside the house and inform anyone who comes that the family is not receiving guests. Even palace messengers are to be turned away. Nia is the right person for this job, I think. Her glum face is not welcoming.
But maybe she’ll close her eyes in prayer and a visitor will slip by her.
“Nia, you must be watchful,” I say.
“I will not fail in my duty.”
Together we carry a chair from the reception room and set it down in the street next to the door. I pick up the yellow sickness mat and take it inside, closing the door behind me. The mat warns people away, but leaving it down when everyone is healthy might cause Mati to suffer a relapse or make someone else sick.
I roll up the mat and place it under Admat’s reception room altar. All will be well. Admat loves his worshipers and we love him. His flame burns as bright in our hearts as on his altars.
The three days will melt quickly into the safe past. I rise on my toes, come down on my heels, spin on my left foot, spin on my right, raise my arms and smile, smile, smile, rejoicing in Mati’s recovery.
I’m keeping guard too. From the reception room I can hold off anyone who comes if Nia falls asleep or leaves her post.
If Aunt Fedo had been there when Pado swore the oath, She would protect us. But she’s still gone from Hyte and doesn’t even know that Mati was ill.
“Kezi!”
I follow my mati’s voice to the courtyard alcove. “Does your stomach hurt again?” I ask.
She is weaving. “I feel well. Keep me company.”
I sit at my rug loom. “Where is Pado?”
“Where would he be? In his counting room.” Mati’s rhythm with her shuttle is as swift and sure as ever.
The rug I’ve been working on is a marriage rug. I meant it as a gift for Belet, my mati’s brother’s daughter, whose wedding is this afternoon. In the rug a lion stands over a lioness, guarding her. Clusters of dates are strewn at the lioness’s side. The dates stand for children and wealth. The rug’s border is a river that has no end, for long life. All that remains to be knotted in is the top edge of the river. I’ve already knotted in my name.
Now there is no hurry, since we aren’t going to the wedding. Weaving will keep me here in the courtyard, but I want to have a reason to visit Nia.
Next to my loom is my basket of yarn, a chipped plate, a reed stylus, and a mound of clay in a bowl of water covered by a damp cloth. The clay is there in case I want to plan a change in my rug or design a new one.
With the plate on my lap, I scoop out a handful of clay and flatten it.
“My next rug will be of Admat’s altar in the reception room,” I tell Mati. I pick up the stylus and begin to draw. After a few minutes I stand. “I have to see the altar.” Mati knows that sometimes I must look at my subject so I can portray it accurately.
She nods.
When I get there, I open the street door. Nia is awake, watching Hyte pass by.
“I thought I heard . . .” I say. “I thought . . .”
“No one has come.”
Once I am back at my loom, my eyes linger on the wool in my basket. Some shades blend into their neighbors. Others glow against them. I love bright blue next to violet—morning dancing with twilight.
I take up my clay. Half an hour passes.
“Mati . . . I have to look into the reception room again.”
“Go.”
Nia is annoyed with me. “I know my business, little Mistress. You needn’t supervise me.”
I retreat. I draw for a quarter hour, then push back my chair. This time I’ll see that Pado is safe.
But Mati sees through me too. “Stay. As Admat wishes, so it will be.”
“As he wishes, so it will be.” I set aside my clay and work on the marriage rug, hoping that weaving will cast its usual spell over me.
Soon the peace of a craftswoman enters me, and I feel the pleasure of Mati’s company. I become absorbed in designing my pattern and moving my fingers. Mati doesn’t knot, because she makes cloth. I knot, because I make rugs, but we are both weaving. Knotting is weaving too.
Knot. Cut with my weaver’s knife. Knot. Cut. Knot. Cut. Count as I go. Change colors. Finish my row. Pass my weft through and pack it down. Begin again.
Mati stretches. “Kezi . . .” She lifts a layer off a pile of cloth at her side to reveal a blue woolen tunic, appliquéd along the bottom with bands of purple wool. The fringes on the purple sash are eight inches long, strung with amber beads. I’m surprised I didn’t see her sewing it.
“Do you like it?” She holds it up.
“It’s beautiful.” I’ve never seen such a pretty tunic. Mati will look wonderful in it. I’d love to try it on. I’m taller than she is, but it would fit me too.
“It’s for the wedding,” Mati says.
“We can’t go!”
“Your pado and I will stay at home, but you may go. A servant will accompany you. Here. Put it on.”
“It’s for me?”
“For you.”
I take it and hold it on my knees. “Oh!” Mati must have beaten the cloth a thousand times to make it this soft.
She pats my lap through the tunic. “I’m thankful to be alive today.”
I lean across my new tunic and hug her.
“Go. Try it on and show me how you look.”
I drape the tunic carefully over my arm. Mati hangs the sash around my shoulders. I start for my bedroom. When I pass the kitchen, I hear servants chatting as they prepare dinner.
My thoughts turn to the wedding. Until yesterday I’d thought of little else. Belet is marrying my uncle Damki, Pado’s youngest brother, a widower fourteen years her senior. Everyone agrees it is an excellent match. Belet’s pado doles out spices to all the families in Hyte. Uncle Damki is handsome. He owns as much land as Pado, and he is almost as kindhearted.
Still, if Belet survives bearing children, she will surely outlive Uncle Damki by many lonely years. Aunt Fedo had a much older husband, who died before I was born, and she is alone except for us. She doesn’t let us see her sadness, but I know she’s sad sometimes.
I want a husband near my own age. My thoughts go to Elon. I’ve seen him many times in the palace processionals and outside the temple. He’s tall and I’m tall. His hair curls naturally, and he’s unlikely ever to need a wig.
Of course, I don’t know him well. I don’t know any young men well, but I have asked a few questions of my friends. One knows someone who knows someone who is his relative, and I have collected a little information.
Elon’s parents died when he was a boy. His uncle’s house, where Elon lives, is twelve streets away from ours. I’ve walked there to look. The house also has a red wooden door set into the street wall. A reception room probably lies behind the door, and beyond it a shaded interior courtyard and branching rooms, rugs scattered here and there.
The uncle, who has no sons of his own, has a palace position, like Pado. He buys wooden furniture from the traders who come to Hyte, because few trees surround our city.
Somehow Aunt Fedo knows about Elon. “My owl eyes,” she said once, “have seen you wriggle at him.”
“I don’t!” I was furious. “Aunt Fedo, I never wriggled!”
Pado has said nothing yet, but no girl with wealthy parents reaches sixteen unmarried. Before the end of this year I’ll be a wife.
As Admat wishes, so it will be, I think. I enter my bedroom.