Ever Read Free

are more than useful. Her subjects are common things—a thistle, three pebbles, a scorpion—made uncommon by her artistry. My favorite is the thistle rug. The flower’s spines turn it into a miniature sun, and the hairs on the leaves are an army of silver arrows. Her name in the top bordertwists cleverly in and out of a leafy vine.
    Kezi’s aunt Fedo stops by often to lean on her cane and gossip while her sister and niece work. Even Senat joins them now and then. I want to be in the room too. I long to be in Kezi’s presence when she dances across the courtyard and when she fingers her goat’s-wool thread, choosing a color.
    I even wish I could join the family’s morning and evening prayers. The mood is serene in the reception room when Senat recites from the holy text of Admat, the god of Hyte. Senat looks to the side of the altar flame, never directly at it. Merem holds her daughter’s hand. Kezi sways as if she is longing to dance the prayer. A few servants fidget. The servant Nia, most devout of all, prostrates herself.
    Curious, I read the holy text, which astounds me. Admat is believed to be everywhere at once and to be invisible to the living, visible only in Wadir, the land of the dead.
    No Akkan god is invisible, and none of us can be in more than one spot at the same time. I wonder how Admat can be everywhere. Is he in my sandal? Or is he my sandal itself? Why would a god bother to be a sandal? Does he wear shoes or sandals himself, invisible ones?
    Admat is supposed to know everything, and yet, according to the sacred text, mortals keep surprising him by disobeying his commands. He’s forever getting angry at them or forgiving them.
    I consider a trip to Akka to ask Ursag, the god of wisdom, about Admat. I want to know if Ursag has ever met Admat or heard reports of him from anyone who has. Chiefly I want to know if there is an Admat at all.
    But I don’t leave. My god’s vision isn’t farsighted enough to see Hyte from Akka, and I don’t want to miss even a day of watching.
    Nonetheless, when something happens, I’m asleep under a tamarind tree. When I awaken, Merem is ill. I jump up, my body straining southward. If I could cure her, I would fly to her bedside on my fast wind, but I have no power over disease.

4

    KEZI
    M Y BONES HUM WITH FEAR. Mati didn’t rise from her bed this morning. Pado and I are with her. She’s shivering with fever and sweating at the same time. She presses one hand into her belly.
    Pado paces, which frightens me almost as much as Mati’s fever. He’s always the calm one. An hour ago he sent for an asupu—a physician. Asupus are called when there isn’t much hope.
    Admat, the one, the all, pity my pado and me. Let Mati stay with us a little longer. As you wish, so it will be.
    There is no sign from Admat. The altar flame is steady. My prayer pulses through my mind, under my other thoughts.
    Mati licks her chapped lips. A pitcher of water and a cup rest on a low bronze table next to the bed. The pitcher isn’t heavy, but my arm trembles as I pour. I kneel and hold the cup to Mati’s lips.
    She is trembling more than I am. Although she puts her hand on mine to guide the cup, water sloshes on the floor. She takes a sip or two, then waves me away.
    â€œI don’t want to die, Senat. No, I do. I wish I could die. Even the pain hurts, pain on top of pain.” She’s shakingso hard, her voice rumbles like a cart on broken bricks.
    â€œHush, Merem,” Pado says. “You make it worse.”
    Beads of sweat stand out on her forehead.
    â€œIf only it weren’t so hot in here,” I say.
    Instantly I feel a whisper of a breeze. Startled, I look at the altar flame, which flutters. Does this mean Admat will help us?
    Pado sits on the bed and dries Mati’s face with his own sweat cloth.
    â€œWhen I die . . .” She stops to catch her breath. “. . . take a new wife.