The Legacy of Gird (73 page)

"Not . . . completely." He folded his arms, and at her faint frown unfolded them. "This cloth is for the Hall, you say? For the High Lord's altar?"

She drew herself even more erect and almost sniffed. "Whatever you call it—we always called Esea the Sunlord, though I understand there has been some argument that the High Lord and the Sunlord are one and the same."

"Yes, lady." He wondered what Arranha would say about this. For a priest of the Sunlord he was amazingly tolerant of other peoples' beliefs, but he still held to his own.

"I could do nothing while the Hall was defiled. And of course the cloths used then could not be used again; I understood that. But now that the Hall is clean, these things must be done, and done properly. Few are left who understand that. You must not think it was easy."

"No, lady," Luap said automatically, his mind far astray. How was he going to explain her to Gird? How would Gird react?

"First," she said, as if he'd asked, as if he would be interested, "the wool must be shorn with silver shears, from a firstborn lamb having no spot of black or brown, neither lamb nor ewe. Washed in running water
only
, mind. And the shearer must wear white, as well. Then carded with a new pair of brushes, which must afterwards be burned on a fire of dry wood. Cedar is best. Then spun between dawn and dusk of one day, and woven between dawn and dusk of another, within one household. In my grandmother's day, she told me, the same hands must do both, and it was best done on the autumn Evener. But the priests said it was lawful for one to spin and another to weave, only it must be done in one household."

She gave Luap a sharp look, and he nodded to show he'd been paying attention. He wasn't sure he had fooled her, but she didn't challenge him. "It must be woven on a loom used for nothing else, the width exactly suited to the altar, for no cutting or folding of excess can be permitted. No woman in her time may come into the room while it is being woven, nor may touch it after; if she touches the loom while bleeding, the loom must be burned. Then while it is being embroidered, which must be the work of one only, it must be kept in a casing of purest white wool, and housed in cedarwood."

Luap nodded, tried to think of something to say, and asked about the one thing she hadn't mentioned. "And the color, lady? How must it be dyed?"

"Dyed!" She fairly bristled at him, and thrust the cloth toward his face, yanking it back when he reached out a hand. "It is not dyed, young man; that is fine stitchery." Now he could see that the blue background was not cloth, but embroidery. He had never seen anything like it.

"I'm sorry," he said, since she clearly expected an apology. "I don't think I've ever seen work that fine."

"Probably not." Then, after a final sniff, she gave him a melting smile. "Young man, you will not guess how long I've been working on this."

He had no idea of course, but a guess was clearly required. "A year? Two?"

She dimpled. How a woman her age had kept dimples he also had no idea, but they were surprisingly effective. "
Ten
years. You can't work on this all day, you know. No one could. I began when the king made that terrible mistake; I knew what would come of it. I tried to warn him, but . . ." She leaned forward, conspiratorial. "Would you believe, the king thought I was just a silly old woman! You may have been my mother's best friend, he said, but she only liked you because you were too stupid to play politics. Safely stupid, he said. You needn't think I'll listen to you, he said, you and your old-fashioned superstitions,
Well!
" Old anger flushed her cheeks, then faded as she pursed her lips and shook that silver hair. "When I got home, I told Eris here—" She waved a hand at the peasant woman. "I told her then, I said, 'You mark my words, dear, that hot-blooded fool is leading us straight into trouble! Though of course it didn't start
then
, but a long time before; these things always do. Young people are so rash."

A movement in the passage outside caught Luap's eye—Gird, headed downstairs on some errand, had paused to see what was going on. For someone his size, he could be remarkably quiet when he wished. From his expression, the old woman's rich clothing and aristocratic accent were having a predictable effect on his temper.
Go away,
Luap thought earnestly at Gird, knowing that was useless. Then
Be quiet
to the old lady—equally useless.

She went on. "And that very day, I began the work. My grandmother had always said, you never know when you'll need the gods' cloth, so it's wise to prepare beforehand. This wool had been sheared two years before that, carded and spun and woven just as the rituals say: not by my hands, for there are better spinners and weavers in my household, and I'm not so proud I'll let the god wear roughspun just to have my name on it. Ten years, young man, I've put in stitch by stitch, and stopped for nothing. The king even wondered why I came no more to court, sent ladies to see, and they found me embroidering harmlessly—or so the king took it." She fixed Luap with another of those startling stares. "I am not a fool, young man, whatever the king thought. But it does no good to meddle where no one listens, and my grandmother had told me once my wits were in my fingers, not my tongue."

Gird moved into the room, and the old lady turned to him, regal and impervious to his dangerous bulk. He wore the same blue shirt and rough gray trousers he always wore, with old boots worn thin at the soles and sides. He stood a little stooped, looking exactly like the aging farmer he was.

"Yes?" she said, as if to an intrusive servant. Luap felt an instant's icy fear, but as usual Gird surprised him.

"Lady," he said, far more gently than her tone deserved from him. "You wanted to see the Marshal-General?"

"Yes, but this young man is helping me now." Almost dismissive, then she really focused on him. "Oh—
you
are the Marshal-General?"

Gird's eyes twinkled. "Yes, lady."

"I saw you, riding into the city that day." She beamed on him, to Luap's surprise. "I said to Eris then, that's no brigand chief, no matter what they say, even if he does sit that horse like a sack of meal." Gird looked at the peasant woman, who gave him the same look she'd given Luap. Gird nodded, and turned back to the lady. "Not that you could be expected to ride better," she went on, oblivious to the possibility that a man who had led a successful revolution might resent criticism of his horsemanship. "I daresay you had no opportunity to learn in childhood—"

"No, lady, I didn't." Gird's formidable rumble was tamed to a soft growl. "But you wished something of me?"

"This." She indicated the cloth on her lap. "Now that you've cleansed the Hall, the altar must be properly dressed. I've just this past day finished it. Your doorward would not allow me to dress the altar, and said it was your command—"

"So you came to me." Gird smiled at her; to Luap's surprise the old lady did not seem to mind his interruptions. Perhaps she was used to being interrupted, at least by men in command. "But we have a priest of Esea, lady, who said nothing to me about the need for such—" He gestured at the cloth.

"Who?" She seemed indignant at this, more than at Gird "What priest would fail in the proper courtesies?"

"Arranha," said Gird, obviously curious; surely she could not know the names of every priest in the old kingdom.

"
Arranha
 . . . is
he
still alive?" A red patch came out on either cheek. "I thought he had been exiled or executed or some such years ago."

"Ah . . . no." Gird rubbed his nose; Luap realized his own mouth had fallen open, and shut it. "You said you were in the city when it fell—when we arrived. Surely you came to the cleansing of the Hall?"

"No." Now she looked decidedly grumpy. "No, I did not. At my age, and in my—well—with all due respect, Marshal-General, for those few days the city was crowded with—with noise, and pushing and shoving, and the kinds of people, Marshal-General, that I never—well, I mean—"

"It was no place for a lady of your age and condition," Gird offered, twinkling again, after a quick glance at Eris, the peasant woman. "You're right, of course. Noisy, rough, even dangerous. I would hope your people had the sense to keep you well away from windows and doors, most of that time."

"In t'cellar, at the worst," said Eris, unexpectedly. "But the worst was over, time you come in, sir. Worst was the other lords' servants smashin' and lootin' even as the lords fled. Runnin' round sayin' such things as milady here shouldn't have to hear. Though it was crowded and noisy enough for a few hands of days. And when th' yeoman marshals sorted through, takin' count o' folks and things. But they didn't seek bribes, I'll say that much for 'em."

"They'd better not," said Gird, suddenly all Marshal-General. Even the old lady gaped; Luap, who had seen it often enough not to be surprised, enjoyed the reactions of others. He had never figured out what Gird did to change from farmer to ruler so swiftly, but no one ever mistook the change. "So," he went on, this time with everyone's attention, "you did not come to the Hall that day, and had not known Arranha was with us? You should know that I've known him for some years—he'll tell you in what tangle we met, if you wish. I knew he'd been exiled, and nearly killed, but for all that he's a priest of Esea, one of the few left alive these days."

"He's a fool," said the old lady, having recovered her composure. "He always was, with his questions into this and that and everything. Couldn't let a body alone, not any more than a bee will give a flower a moment's peace to enjoy the sun. Always 'But don't you think this' and 'Well then, don't you see that' until everyone was ready to throw up their hands and run off."

Gird grinned. "He did that to me, too. You know he took me to the gnomes?"

She sniffed. "That's exactly the sort of thing I'd expect. Gnomes! Trust Arranha to complicate matters: mix a peasant revolt with gnomes and both with religion." The flick of her hand down her lap dismissed Arranha's notions.

"Well, it worked. Although there were times, that winter, when I could happily have strangled your Arranha."

"He's not
ours
," the old lady said. "A law to himself, he is, and always has been. Although you—" She gave Gird a look up and down. "I expect you give him a few sleepless nights, and all the better."

"But my point," Gird said, now very gently, "is that Arranha is the only priest of Esea now in Fin Panir, serving his god within the High Lord's Hall, and he has not said anything about needing such cloths . . . although your years of labor should not be in vain, you must know that we are not such worshippers of Esea as your folk were."

"Even he—even he should realize—" Abruptly—Luap wondered if it were all genuine feeling, or a habit known to be effective with men in power—the old lady's eyes filled with tears that spilled down her cheeks. "Oh, sir—and I don't mind calling a peasant
sir
in such a case—I don't care what you call the god: Sun-lord, High Lord, Maker of Worlds, it doesn't matter. But he must be respected, whatever you call him, and I've made these . . ." A tear fell, almost on the cloth; when she saw it, her face paled, and she turned aside. "I must not—cry—on the cloth—"

Eris came forward, and offered her apron, on which the lady wiped her damp face. "She really believes, sir, that if the altar's not cared for, it'll come bad luck to everyone. It's no trick, sir, if that's what you're thinking."

The old lady's hands, dry now, fumbled at the cloth, to fold it away safely. She didn't look up; her shoulders trembled. Luap felt a pang of emotion he could not identify: pity? sorrow? mean amusement? Gird sighed, gustily, like his horse. Luap knew what he wanted to say; he had said it before.
You should have worshipped better gods
he had told more than one mageborn survivor who wanted enforced tithes to rebuild the Sunlord's lesser temples. Only Arranha's arguments had kept him from forbidding Esea's worship altogether, although Luap couldn't see how the god could be responsible for his worshippers' mistakes. What he could see were any number of ways to placate the old lady without causing trouble among Gird's followers. Give the cloths to Arranha, and let him use them once or twice . . . the old lady would not make the journey from her house too often, he was sure. Agree to use them, then not—only she would care, and she would not know.

But he knew as well that Gird would not take any of these easy ways out. He would refuse her utterly, or agree, and use the damn cloths, and leave Luap to explain it all. Or Luap and Arranha together, an even less likely combination. Luap squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could think of a deity who might be interested in this minor problem, and untangle it with no effort on his part.

"Luap," said Gird. Here it came, some impossible task. He opened his eyes, to find Gird's expression as uncompromising as ever in a crisis. One of those, then. "You will take this lady—may I have your name?"

"Dorhaniya, bi Kirlis-Sevith," said the old lady.

Eris spoke up again. "Lady Dorhaniya, as a widow, was entitled to revert to her mother's patronymic and her father's matronymic, sir. . . ." As if Gird really cared, but he smiled and went on.

"Luap will escort you, Lady Dorhaniya, to confer with Arranha. I presume there is some ritual . . . you do not merely lay the cloths on the altar yourself, at least not the first time."

"N-no." Her voice was shaky. "N-no. Properly—" Now it firmed; clearly the very thought of propriety and ritual gave her confidence. "Properly new cloths are dedicated by the priest . . . it's not . . . it's not a
long
ceremony," she said, as if fearing that might make a difference.

"I understand. Then you will need to speak to Arranha, tell him what you've done, and have him arrange it."

"Then you will—you give your permission?" She looked up, flushed, starry-eyed as any young girl at her first courting. Gird nodded, and her smile widened, almost childishly, the dimples showing again. "Oh,
thank
you, Marshal-General. Esea's light—no—" and the smile vanished. "If you don't honor Esea—"

"Lady," said Gird, as to a frightened child, as gently as Luap had ever heard him. "Lady, I honor all the gods but those who delight in cruelty; in your eyes, Esea's light is kindly. May Esea be what you see; you need give me no thanks, but your blessing I will take, and gladly."