The two Mates supped on rabbit, cheese and white bread. While his fingers – ungloved, as was allowed while eating – deftly stripped the flesh from the small sharp bones and conveyed the succulent morsels to his lips, Gallan thought of this permissible touch; his thinking was quiet and withdrawn, no louder than a hum, and yet he soon felt Raddia’s words, uttered softly as ever, cutting into it.
It is safe, she said, because the meat is dead, and thus devoid of Substance.
And yet it nourishes us and our own Substance, Gallan replied. The same way grass nourishes the rabbit we’re consuming.
His Mate fell silent, hastening to empty her plate, and Gallan’s eyes, teasing, strayed to her face, making Raddia wince.
Please avert your gaze, she said curtly. You’re making me old.
Gallan obeyed, though still grinning with mischief. What’s the harm? he said. Don’t you want to be a Maker eventually?
Raddia stopped eating for a moment, hang her head and drew a deep, troubled breath. Certainly I do – becoming a Maker is my life’s sole purpose.
And then they both thought of their Surfacing Rite: sitting in the Sacred River and waiting, observed by all of Lurien while their Substances struggled to blend; what if they didn’t? What if, as they had witnessed a few reddenings ago, their hearts growing cold with dread like those of the luckless Mates, nothing emerged?
Better to think about the food, safe in its deadness.